Changing Room Conversations

Seb: Mum, I'll wait for you at the reception lounge. I've a few cell phone messages to clear.

Briony: Please stay. There is a draw curtain. And I do value your opinion. Your dad gives me feedback. But, I would like the perspective of a young man with a discerning fresh eye.

Me: As always, I'm at your beck and call. Buzz me whenever.

***

I am back in my office.

Strains of drawing of curtain. Then footfall.

Briony: What do you think?

Seb: This one-piece suits you to a T.

Briony: What do you like most?

Seb: I like the high cut. The way it sits way above your hip bone. Makes your legs look really long and lithe.

Briony: More?

Seb: Turn around, mum.

Briony: And?

Seb: The little pattern detail in the centre of your bottom creates a bubble butt illusion. Not that you need any help. But, the accentuating effect is a very sexy woman's tail.

Briony: You approve?

Seb: Do I look in despair?

Briony: I see a Cheshire cat.

Seb: This suit is so you. Gwyneth reads you like a poetry book. You were a competitive swimmer. You're a competitive career woman. The suit showcases your sensual athleticism. Vital yet soft and womanly, bordering on erotic.

Briony: Erotic huh?

Seb: Fringe of...

Briony: Seb, take off your shirt and pants. I want to see how we look like together in our swimsuits.

Seb: Here...

Briony: Draw back the curtain fully. I like the dizzy sensation of the 360 degree mirror.

Whirring sound.

Briony: We pose a little for a lark. With the mirrors, we can see every way we look. It's almost surreal.

Seb: You're enjoying this.

Briony: You're old enough to indulge in a little adult cabal.

Footfalls

Briony: Hold me here.

Seb: Like so?

Briony: More assertively. I won't bite.

Little sounds of small movements. Soft gratifying musical sighs. Mews.

Briony: I wish we've a camera.

Seb: I can use my cell phone camera. Or, better yet, shoot a short video.

Briony: We can send the video to your dad. That will be his ration feed of jollies for the week.

Seb: To dad?

Briony: He is a visual animal. Like you.

Seb: Hmmm... Alright, mum. Stand there. I'll shoot you.

Briony: Us

Seb: Huh?

Briony: As in us, in a we'fie.

Seb: This is for dad?

Briony: Yes

Seb: All set to roll!

Sounds of a flurry of movements.

Seb: You sure about this, mum?

Briony: Mum-son bonding...

***

Seb: Shall we go on to your other suit?

Briony: Yes, the bandeau bikini.

A whirring run of curtain.

Briony: No need...

A whirring run of curtain again.

Briony: You get into your yellow one too, to match mine.

Rustling of textile.

Briony: Fill it up. Do you need help?

Seb: Something visual this time?

Briony: I'll change into the bandeau now.

Rustling of textile. Light footfall thuds.

Briony: You looking for something?

Seb: No. Just looking.

Briony: And?

Seb: Classic tear drop with a little hint of east-west orientation. Lovely!

Briony: Hmmm... you seem well schooled in this.

Seb (scholarly): I study and catalogue them.

Briony: Your top-3 likes.

Seb: Firstly, like the previous suit, I love the high cut. It so accentuates your mile-long legs, your hips, and...

Briony: And?

Seb: The centre front seam of the bottom, and its tautness, accentuate your... err...

Briony: My mons?

Seb: Err... yes. Very erotic.

Briony: Hmm...

Seb: But mum, you need to do some housekeeping. The pencil shading at the edges.

Briony: And the rest?

Seb: The bottom highlights your arse nicely. Each orb has its own identity and personality. In contrast to the blubber mass of many women of your age. And the high-waist cut gives delicious peeks.

Briony: Your third like?

Seb: The strapless bandeau, and its dainty design lends you a sense of vulnerability. The centre twist of the bandeau accentuates your cleavage. So too your light dusting of freckles at your cleavage. One word: alluring.

Briony: Setup your cell phone video.

Seb: Do you want to do a little housekeeping first?

Briony: Please get the scissors, electric trimmer, lotion and wet wipes from the drawer for me.

Seb: Here

Briony: I'd better not mess up the garment. I will sit at the chaise lounge.

Footfall thuds.

Briony: Seb, help me here.

Seb: Like so?

Snip, snip, snip.

Soft whirring.

Briony: More. Wisps here. A little more. Yes.

Seb: There! Pristine! Mum, you can pass off as a schoolgirl.

Briony: So you're quite acquainted with schoolgirls, huh?

Seb: Hmmm... I smell the Mediterranean.

Briony: Seb!

Click

Click

Click

Seb: Mum, are you sure about this?

Briony: We can do some culling, and photo and video editing, before we send the files to dad.

Seb: Oh?

Briony: Let's enjoy this moment.

***

Briony buzzes me. We conclude our business.

As they leave, Briony pivots back and just smiles at me, as if we have a secret. I look at Briony, taking notice of her in a way that I have not before.

She knows.

As I know.

An unstated bond.

***

Chapter 4

Olivia (and Oliver)

Olivia's ringtone. Idyllically musical. Lord Courtenay's niece who ekes out an existence in Nice. She paints and writes a bit. People who live charmed lives and say awfully clever things.

Me: Hello Olivia!

Olivia: Hello Gwyneth!

Me: Congratulations, Olivia! I read in "High Life" that you're getting married in June.

Olivia: Yes, the cat is out of the bag. Which is the reason for this call.

Me: How may I help?

Olivia: I'm out of fresh underwear. I do so want to give Dick a surprise treat on our wedding night. Knickers to get him into a twist.

Me: Do you've anything in mind for such a special occasion?

Olivia: Just these three. First, I adore black. I think you already know this.

Me: A perfect choice for your porcelain complexion.

Olivia: Second, although this is primarily about me, I would like something sexy for Dick to wear, for a lark. This is to be a surprise for him.

Me: You're so considerate. A good idea!

Olivia (kittenishly): Finally, just so you know, Dick and I plan to undertake some romantic activity in the garments, if you know what I mean. A lark, you see.

Me: A wedding night is so special. You are making me remember mine now. I completely understand.

Olivia: Oh! And, I'll hand-deliver the wedding invitation to you when we meet.

Me: Thank you for your invitation. I'll be honoured to attend your wedding.

Olivia: I'm flying to London on Monday. I've reserved Tuesday for family. Oliver is down from Cambridge. Would Wednesday 10am work for you?

Me: I have an appointment, but I'll clear the decks for you.

Olivia: Thank you.

Me: Is anyone coming with you? I will prepare drinks and such.

Olivia: No

Me: I look forward to our meeting.

Olivia: Can't wait! Bye!

***

Who is Richard Devereux?

I google. Yes, this must be he. A hunk, no less. I size him up. Doubtless, Olivia will have a joyous wedding night.

Olivia, aristocracy since forever, with respectable but waning wealth. Asset seemingly rich, cash poor. Wealth sustenance - buy, sell, flip.

Dick, obscene new money by competent savvy professional trade. A Cambridge toff to boot. Cash rich, asset not so much, but mounting up nicely, thank you. Wealth generation. Business is a quixotic combination of building a legacy and going to war.

Olivia and Dick. Par for the sociological course. Jane Austen's England today. Are we captive on a carousel of time?

***

Wednesday.

I meet and greet Olivia. A surprise! Her brother, Oliver, or Ollie as she calls him fondly, is with her. O and O, a term of endearment, as their family calls them since young.

We exchange the custom pleasantries.

O and O have decided to spend the day together. It has been a good ten months since they spent quality time together. Olivia in Nice. Oliver cloistered at Cambridge. That is why Oliver is accompanying his sis.

Oliver and Dick are both in Cambridge. Old bean blood mates. It is Oliver who introduced his sister to Dick. A collegial trinity.

Olivia has a wild, reckless beauty that is easy to identify, but hard to define precisely. Dark haired. Tall, lithe.

Oliver is a sort of male equivalent of his sister. A kind of wild, irreverent, insouciant demeanour, just short of scruffy. He has the smoky grey eyes of his sibling. Tall, good-looking. A curious ethnic ambiguity. Germanic with a delicious dash of Latin mystique in places. A curious blend of ruthless machinery and laidback profligacy. Wherever he moves, a frisson, a little bolt of electricity afflicting males and females alike, seem to follow him.

Counterintuitively, his social disposition is out of character with his looks. He is low-key and self-effacing. A slippery elusiveness about him that is hard to pin down.

The siblings are a collective object of fascination that is hard to account for precisely.

Olivia: Oh, Gwyneth, before I forget, this is my wedding invitation. I hope to see you there.

Me: Thank you for the invitation. I look forward to it. I'm going to dress my finest, eat like a pig and drink like a fish.

***

Oliver: Sis, I'll wait for you in the reception lounge. I've some messages to clear on my cell phone.

Me: Oliver, you may accompany Olivia in the client lounge. There is a curtain for changing. I've also served champagne and munchies for two there.

We proceed to the client lounge. Olivia has been here before. Oliver is stunned by the mirrored panorama. His eyes dart round the lounge looking for the curtain, but not finding it. He appears pleasantly piqued.

Oliver sits on the armchair. Olivia, the chaise lounge.

Although the siblings appear open, casual and breezy, I do not wish to risk embarrassing Olivia. Discretion is the better part of valour. I lift the garments box from the table, and turn to face her. I present the box so that only she can view the contents.

Me: Olivia, we discussed earlier. These are my recommendations.

Olivia's eyes sparkle. Then, a self-satisfying impish smirk. Oliver witnesses all this with mirthful male casual interest.

Olivia (purring): Perfect! Just perfect!

Me: I'll leave you to your own devices. Enjoy the champagne. Take all the time you need. Buzz me whenever.

***

I retreat to my office.

A whirring sound. The run of curtain.

I hear rustling of textile. That must be Olivia changing. I hear bubble-popping clicks. Oliver on his cell phone.

A whirring sound. The run of curtain.

A piercing wolf whistle of the highest shrill.

Oliver: Oh my god! Is this really you, Liv?

Olivia: You like, bro dearest?

Oliver: Do I like foie gras paired with Château d'Yquem?

Olivia: Hmm...

Oliver: Love the ensemble. Lovely sheer black embroidered peek-a-boo top. High-cut panty accentuating your legs and bracket of womanly hips. Garter belt and stockings.

Silence

Oliver: Move your right hand to your side.

Olivia: I'd better not.

Oliver: But why?

Olivia: It's... errr...

Oliver: What?

Olivia: An open design.

Oliver: Huh?

Olivia: Crotchless

A rising male breath.

Olivia: Do you approve?

Oliver: Not of your hand there.

Olivia: Be serious!

Oliver: Meet me halfway?

Silence

Oliver: That's better! You're blushing very prettily.

Olivia: Your appraisal?

Oliver: I like your top. You've perked up some since we last shared baths at, was it, eight?

Olivia: How so?

Oliver: Pert B's hang on your willowy form. Delicate, and yet imparting a heft sense of weight and mass.

Olivia: And?

Oliver: I'm a leg man. An aficionado. Yours are lovely, Liv. Long. Unblemished. Toned yet silky.

There is enthusiastic relish in Oliver's tone.

Olivia: More?

Oliver: You're enjoying this, aren't you?

Olivia: As are you. Dick and you have the same wicked tastes. Your insights are valuable. Tell me more?

Oliver laughs. A peal that resonates around the confines of the room.

Oliver (earnestly): Turn sideways.

Silence

Oliver: You can move your right hand away now.

Silence

Oliver: Your top, curving through your hips, arcing to your buttocks, trace an enticing S-shape. Nicely proportioned.

Silence

Oliver: Turn around.

A male gasp.

Oliver: Delightful derrière encased in sheer black lace. So well-formed. Alluring definition. And yet, none of the crass inflated bubble butts of porn princesses.

Silence

Oliver: Outwardly, it's all very flattering. Size and colour are just right. Sophisticated and provocative.

Olivia: What are you getting at, bro?

Oliver: Seduction requires body movement. Let's see if the lingerie hugs your body when you move.

Footfall thuds. Rustling.

Oliver: Put on your heels.

Footfall thuds.

Oliver: Swing your hips to the left.

Footfall thuds.

Oliver: Stick out your chest a little.

Olivia: Hmmm...

Oliver: Move your hands to gently trace the outline of your breasts.

Sigh

Oliver: Place your hand on your thighs. Bend forward. Shake your arse.

Heavy male breath.

Oliver: Better than top flight models in the rag trade magazines.

Olivia: You're an inveterate liar. But, do carry on.

Oliver: You remember I would watch your ballet practice in our schooldays? Bring us back a bit. Show me some ballet moves.

Olivia: A pirouette.

Oliver: Impossibly perfect!

Applause

Olivia: I'll use the table as a barre.

Applause

Olivia: Finale. I stand, one foot crossed over the other, then leap away. A jete.

Oliver: Spectacular!

Applause

Oliver: You're stunning. Dick is a lucky sod. I've deep regret introducing you to him.

Olivia: Silly! But, nice affirmation.

Oliver: You've a pretty pristine fanny.

Olivia: Oh my god! You're a devious one! Tricking me to pose, and all that ballet nostalgia trip drip. I've clean forgotten about my open panty!

Oliver: Don't worry. Didn't see much.

Olivia: What do you mean?

Oliver: Here's the thing. A crotchless panty raises expectations of lurid flower petals, peeking out of lace. Perhaps we're socially conditioned by popular erotica.

Olivia: And?

Oliver: You look like a teen. A wicked combination. Innocent pubescence and sheer adult erotic lingerie.

Olivia: Hmmm...

Oliver: What's with the crotchless, garter belt, stockings ensemble?

Olivia: Hmmm... This is awkward. In the kinky zone.

Oliver: We're all adults here.

Olivia: Dick and I like to get intimate in these garments.

Oliver: These?

Olivia: There's one for Dick too.

Oliver: Oh! I didn't know Gwyneth sells male garments too. Can I see it?

Snapping open of box.

Oliver: Hmmm... I see... Wicked! Perfectly decadent! I like the leather-rim opening. Know that it's not elastic. Maybe designed to grip the manhood to heighten the intensity.

Olivia: Oh dear! Do you think it fits Dick?

Oliver: From my locker room oblique observations, he is about my size.

Olivia (sheepishly): Can you try it on? Just so that I can be sure.

Oliver: Are you really sure about this?

Olivia: I want my wedding night to be perfect.

Oliver: Oh! The things I do for my baby sis.

Olivia: Ummm... no, don't bother. You've seen me. It's only fair you return the favour. And I want to see how it's put on. It would be erotic if I slip it on Dick.

Oliver: Ooh! The indignities I endure for my sis!

Rustling

Oliver: Why don't you do it, so that you'll know how. A dress rehearsal.

Olivia: Oh?

Silence

Olivia: Maybe I should prep you a little, to test the fit properly?

Rustling

Olivia: Are you quite there?

Oliver: A little more...

Rustling. Gasping. Whimpering.

Oliver: OK. No more.

Rustling

Oliver: Careful...

Olivia: It fits. You made it through the leather-rim opening. Are you comfy?

Oliver: A little tension at the base of my shaft.

Olivia: I think that is in the design of the opening. To heighten the male experience.

Oliver: Yes. A happy edgy tension.

Olivia: Let me work you a bit to see if you're still OK. Just to be sure. I wouldn't want Dick to pass out on account of strangulation.

Oliver: Yes, it wouldn't do if Dick has a fit over his fit!

Giggles

Oliver: Why don't we do a sort of simulation, a dry run, to test both garments at the same time?

Olivia: What?

Oliver: You do want a silky smooth wedding night, don't you?

Olivia: Hmmm... It'll be incest. And my wedding is just less than a month away.

Oliver: It'll just be simulation.

Olivia: Hmmm...

Oliver: I'll sit on the chaise lounge.

Silence

Oliver: Face me, Liv. Hands on my shoulder. Legs on either side.

Heavy male and female breaths.

Oliver: Lower yourself just so that we are in contact.

Soft sounds of fabric grinding fabric.

Oliver: The opening on your panty is not big. We've to align a little.

Rustling

Oliver: Let me reach below a bit, so that I can locate you.

Olivia: Oh! You're touching me there!

Moans

Olivia: Ollie, we mustn't. We can't. We...

Moans

Olivia: Oh! Oh!

Moans

Olivia: I'm almost there... don't stop.

Mewing

***

Chapter 5

A Surprise Client

Alden's ringtone.

Me: Hello son!

Alden: Hello mum!

Me: This is pleasantly unseasonal. To what do I owe the honour of this call from my filial offspring?

Alden: Mum, I need your help in getting a surprise lingerie gift for Emma. Our first wedding anniversary. I want it to be memorable.

Me: Happy to help.

Alden: This evening? Half six?

Me: My last client appointment is at four. I close at six. Half six is fine. I'll wait up for you. The shop shutters will be closed. Call me to let you in.

Alden: I really appreciate this, mum. See you!

***

Alden is his usual precise self. Precisely thirty minutes late.

Alden: Sorry mum! The meeting overran. Brutal day at the office.

Me: Tell me son, what decadence do you've stewing in your murky mind?

Alden: Is this how you engage your customers?

Me: Firstly, I don't have customers. I've Clients. Secondly, you're not a Client. Nor customer.

Alden (in jest): I feel so privileged to be top of the food chain.

Me: Don't be. It wasn't meant as a compliment.

Lots of laughs.

Me: Do you've anything in mind?

Alden: None. I thought I'll leave it to you, the expert, to conceptualise it all.

Me: Give me some insights on your celebration plan, so that I can calibrate the sensory fit.

Alden: Stayover at a resort. Nice dinner. Chill at piano bar. Go back to the room. In-room jacuzzi frolic. Energetic intimacy. Maybe boudoir photo and video shoot if our moods are willing, for a lark, and for posterity.

Me: Sounds like a plan! Give me fifteen minutes to work this out.

Alden: Cool! Take your time, mum. I've a ton of cell phone messages to clear.

Me: Make yourself comfy at the client lounge. The air-con circulation is better there after business hours.

***

Me: I've selected these two garments. First, a black string bikini for Emma to strut her charms at the resort beach.

Alden: Nice

Me: Second, a bustier, panty and stockings ensemble. The sizing is based on Emma's last visit here.

I open the garments box for Alden to examine the goods. His eyes sparkle a little at first look. But the reaction is less than effusive. I am a little disappointed. Why have I ignited high enthusiasm in my clients, and only managed to draw lukewarm interest from my own son? Have I unconsciously lowered my professional standard because he is family, not client?

Me: You're a little quiet and less than enthusiastic. They don't appeal to you?

Alden: Oh no, mum! They're sexy. Just that I can't visualise them on Emma. We men are quite clueless in matters of apparel until we see them on skin.

Me: Would you like to arrange for Emma to come for a fit-out on another evening?

Alden: That'd be the practical thing to do. But, I do wish to surprise her with these gifts.