The Secret Garden Show Ch. 01

They could hardly be more different.

Eva Goméz, the nerd girl from Tijuana, is a successful ICT entrepreneur

Magdalene von Furstenberg, the aristocratic historian, is pursuing a brilliant academic career.

Sarah Jackson, the financial genius, is an appreciated columnist for the Wall Street Journal.

All three have attained their success by kicking many males' asses. Maybe too many.

Now, they have been recruited as the protagonists of a daring TV series, where the Truman Show meets The History of O. But when they start sharing their private life--and their sexual fantasies--with their booming audience, they understand that the Secret Garden Project is more than a just TV show. Much more.

THE SECRET GARDEN SHOW

Chapter One. Casting Eva.

INVITATION

"The Unicorn Club. Really?"

My husband nods, repeating the phrase as if he was trying to convince himself.

"The Unicorn Club. This evening."

He is smiling, that special smile I have not seen for a very long time.

An invitation from the Unicorn Club. The exclusive club of multi-millionaires. A men-only club. Officially, it is not. They say that women are admitted, even welcome. They must. Gender equality and all that crap. But all the women who had dared to submit a membership request had been rejected, making lame excuses. They don't like women who submit requests. I guess they just want women that submit. Submissive women. Don't count me in.

Yet, that smile is there, so I suppose there is more to this invitation than he is telling me. Indeed, there should be more. Our small firms are growing fast, but they are a far cry from becoming Unicorns--the informal but coveted award given to startups when they reach the value of one billion bucks. So, the invitation comes out of the blue.

Why have they invited us? Does Greg know more than he tells me? Time to investigate. "So, what is the occasion?"

"Ah uh... it is called the Roissy Contest."

"The Roissy Contest. I see." But I don't. "It looks like a French thing. A wine contest?"

We are both fond of French wines after that holiday in Europe, long ago. When we had time for vacations. "Uh, no, not really. It is a beauty contest..."

I raise an eyebrow. "A beauty contest..."

"...featuring trophy wives." He completes, with an effort, monitoring my reaction.

Time to fake indignation. "Trophy wives? Do I resemble a trophy wife, Greg?"

"No." Wrong answer. I just smile and sashay away.

"Yes." Better. I turn back, swinging my hips.

"Fuck yes!" Much better.

He gets closer and grabs me by my waist, whispering into my ears like he always does when he needs a favor. "Babe..." He can still be irresistible when he grabs me like this, his three-day beard gently caressing my neck, his muscular arms moving up, just below my breasts. I savor the feeling. This doesn't happen often enough, these times. For an instant, the shy girl who used to hide his body under oversize sweaters and baggy pants feels like a true trophy wife.

But I know I don't qualify. Greg doesn't see me as the trophy wife I sometimes want to be, because there is an elephant in our bedroom. The Earning Before Taxes of my firm--the ICT start-up I founded just after my Ph.D., three years ago--has just surpassed that of Greg's company--McGregor & McGregor Construction LLC--a family firm founded by his father some fifty years ago. Greg still can't understand the success of Metaverse Femme Production Inc., and how I can make real money out of virtual worlds. But the figures in my Income Statement are clear enough. I am now the biggest bread-earner in our household.

The alpha dog. The alpha bitch actually, but it doesn't sound the same. Gendered language.

He congratulated me on my achievement, but he didn't like it. Men like to be top dogs. Especially men managing old-fashioned companies. Especially Greg. So, our sexual life is suffering. Our professional endeavors have overwhelmed us and dried up his sexual creativity. We don't have time for sex. Lacking time, we used to have sex in our offices. Not anymore. What if we get caught in embarrassing situations by our employees? I usually giggle when he says so, offering my sexy smile "Oh I'd like to get caught by your handsome foreman, Malcolm, the Black man with the big cock" and he usually fakes indignation. "And how do you know Malcolm has a big cock?" Actually, I don't know--Malcolm is a married man, fond of his family--but I just smile suggestively, prompting his semi-ironic answer. "You bitch!" He smiles, but I see he holds a small doubt, and I love that. Every white woman is into Black men, at various levels, ranging from mild to mad. My present level is mild. Sure, I'd like to ascertain if the legend surrounding the archetypical Black man--namely, the size of his cock--has any experimental support. But it is not going to happen. I am a traditional wife, and irony is the only way I can express my growing frustration in our sex-deprived marriage.

Besides, there is that disturbing gut feeling. His secretary, Amanda, the blond bimbo. Her excessive kindness to me. Mrs. McGregor here, Mrs. McGregor there.

"Please, don't call me Mrs. McGregor, Amanda. My name is Ms. Eva Cortéz. Doctor Eva Cortéz. I have married the pale highlander by chance. Just to ascertain if Scotsmen go pantyless under their ridiculous kilts. Love struck me down before I even realized the risk. But look at me, Amanda dear. Do I resemble a woman of Scottish descent? My great grand grandfather was a Spanish Marqués who fell in love with an Aztec Princess."

Amanda nods pensively, batting her long eyelashes. "Sure, Mrs. McGregor."

I roll my eyes at the remembrance. Amanda's best part appears to be on the outside of her skull, not inside. Indeed, Amanda's hair would be good to make top-class hygrometers, but what's under her luscious hair confirms most of the jokes on blondes.

And now, his long evening at the office. I found a strand of blond hair on the lapel of his blue jacket. I have measured it. It matches. Maybe I am just too suspicious. And maybe, just maybe, I need to be wary. I may be a nerd, but I am not blind. Maybe, Amanda is not as dumb as she looks. Maybe his brain is just different from mine: like specialized firmware, it is focused on one single task. Seducing handsome alphas. The alpha dog in their organizations. My husband.

In any case, I don't want to fight a rearguard battle. In the end, the disgruntled wife is always the loser. And--since I am already earning more than he does--a divorce would not be a nice project, would it? I don't want to see any lawyers. I don't want to fight him in court. I love him. I want his love back. I want his lust back.

And now, that naughty-driven smile is back, the one that appeared on his face when proposing indecent ideas.

BDSM: "Why don't we try a little bondage, babe?" "What a headache!"

Wife-swapping: "Why don't we go to the Swinger Club, babe?" "It's cold outside."

Threesomes: "A threesome wouldn't count as a betrayal, what do you think, babe?" "What is a threesome?"

Good Girl has turned down all the indecent proposals and they have dried up. And now, a brand-new one, a golden opportunity, out of the blue. Hallelujah! Shut up, Good Girl!

Greg is whispering into my ear as he grabs my waist, a promising hardness down there. He explains that Quentin Razor--the secluded CEO of Quentin Quantum Computing, a prominent member of the Unicorn Club, and probably the only one whose firm is a real Unicorn, the other being just multi-millionaires--will attend the Roissy Contest himself. He announced that his firm will build its new headquarters soon, and how great would it be to get a contract for the new project? It could boost Greg's construction company, just in dire times, when inflation is on the rise and mortgages are expensive and the real estate market is suffering.

And maybe you can surpass my EBC eh, Greg? Your little wife's earnings. Making you again the top dog of the family. Isn't that so, Greg? Just a beauty context among trophy wives?

I rate myself as a feminist, but I have never been against beauty contests.

I am a sex-positive feminist.

In theory, at least.

So, let's see if I can switch to practice.

Roissy Contest it is.

CONTEST

The backstage is already alive with chat and giggles and laughter when I enter. Greg leaves me in front of the forbidden door: men are not admitted. But a lot of men are already in there. A boy--barely twenty, in a black shirt, black trousers, black shoes-- greets me "I am your personal assistant, Ma'am" John, Dresser reads its badge. What is a Dresser?

We contestants smile sisterly smiles at each other. Some of my catwalk buddies look vaguely familiar, but there is no time for proper introductions before our first pass on the runway. In front of the jury--someone whispers. The jury? I wonder if Doctor Quentin Razor is there. Or the city mayor. Or my former fiancée, now a rich man and a Senator, who is rumored to be invited to the Unicorn Club on certain occasions. And Greg, of course.

So there I am, strangely excited, trying to remember the scant advice I got so long ago when I once--just once--modeled for a local tailor auctioning unsold dresses, raising money for the parish charity. Nerd girls don't model. The only runway I know is that of a small airport: I am a glider pilot. I was, as I have no more time to fly, and my license has expired.

A floral mix of perfume whirls in the air as my colleagues--each helped by her personal Dresser--discard their clothes waiting for their 'Roissy' dress--whatever it could be--in their underwear. Actually, in lingerie. No Walmart cotton knickers here. Black and red silk. Jean Yu or Carine Gilton or Agent Provocateur. I recognize the thongs and bras from my Glamour readings, back when I decided to approach the seduction theme with the same approach I dedicated to any new subject I wanted to learn. Intensive studies. But I never saw these designer lingerie 'live' before. A classy lady I may have met at a social occasion waves at me, and I wave back automatically. She looks perfectly at ease in her bra and knicker set, so I decide to play along. I quickly discard my Little Black Dress (classy, knee-length, demurely sexy) and--in my Victoria's Secret plain bra and panty set--I join the sisterly chat. Technical-looking salon chairs are distributed around the periphery of the big room in front of mirrors of various sizes. The ladies are chatting animatedly around two long clothing racks, marked 'Classic Roissy Gowns' and 'Modern Roissy Dresses'. I am instantly captivated by the 'modern' series. They are simple but striking party dresses, their minimalist line, and basic colors emphasizing the luxurious fabrics and classy details. They share the same language: a gifted fashion designer must have created all of them. Coming from a blinding spotlight like an eagle on a dive, a tall man approaches me, looks at my body with a critical eye, then picks the same dress I would have chosen. "This is for you, Doctor." The spotlight blinds me and I can't look at his face, but I get a whiff of his scent--woody, aromatic, savage-- before he hurries away.

The lady I had recognized has found his dress, a classic gown, and asks for my opinion, as a tailor assistant adjusts the tight corset emphasizing her large décolleté. Actually, emphasizing her ample breasts, which are completely exposed by half-cups. The tailor assistant even brushes her nipples before draping a see-through voile over them. "How do you like this, dear?"

I blush as I automatically respond, "You look gorgeous." And she does. Gorgeous, albeit indecent.

I shake my head, slightly in shock. I quickly check my modern Roissy dress, no half-cups there. Instead, there is a silk corsage. Transparent. So, they expect us to parade almost topless in front of the male audience.

Worse than topless. Fully dressed in a designer dress, see-through corsages emphasizing our breasts much more than if we were wearing only bikini bottoms at the beach.

What do they think I am? A stripper? Good Girl takes charge, and I am about to give the dress back to the dresser who is following me like a puppy and forfeit the competition for good.

Then I recognize her. The woman flaunting her vast bosom in the Roissy gown. She CEO of HM Interfaces. An entrepreneur I met at the ICT Global Innovation Conference. She had given a keynote speech there. She is in great shape, but she is older than me. Must be over forty. What is she doing here in that indecent gown? But she must sense my intentions, because she gets closer and whispers in my ears," Please stay, Eva." And when I turn toward her, she presses her lips on mine.

Not just a sisterly kiss. A rather passionate kiss. And--without too much thinking--I respond. As the kiss breaks off, she winks at me as her Dresser leads her away. Her number is blinking, and her turn on the runway is next.

I feel confused, but my husband Greg brought me here, after all, and he is probably sitting in the jury leering at the almost-topless classy women as he lobbies to become Quentin Quantum Computing's new contractor.

Another contestant smiles encouragingly at me. Already topless, with a fluid elegant motion she slips her panties down her legs. Deep breath, then, riding the sisterly wave, I do the same I guess temporary nakedness is normal in fashion shows' backstages. And I am not technically naked, because I am still wearing high heels, self-sustaining stockings (all black), gold earrings, and a gold necklace that looks nice against my dark skin tone.

My young dresser nods in approval--is there a slight bulge on his crotch?--and helps me try my dress on. Roissy dresses--like tango dresses--are designed to be worn pantyless--he tells me. Last check on the full-body mirror. My breasts are exposed, true, but there is a layer of sheer silk-chiffon over them, making my nipples just visible as bouncing dark circles.

Another young man (badge: James, Makeup Artist) makes a few minor modifications to my face, then nods (go!), and someone else (Badge: Show Director) gives me the real 'go', like a shooter signaling to a fighter pilot his aircraft is ready to be launched toward the cruel sea.

Catapulted out there! I lift my foot and kick off the walk-- and everything changes. My Exhibitionist Self takes control, silencing Good Girl. The world looks eerie--the dazzling white runway in front, the spotlight following my steps, murmuring shadows looking at me from heels level. Unexpectedly, I feel at ease. I sashay forward, stop at the right place, rest my hands on my waist, smile, pirouette, smile a different smile, and walk back, swinging my hips, until I reach the haven on the other side. My Dresser is waiting there. He is the younger of the men, there is a hierarchy here. But where is the top dog? I sigh, unaware of his silent presence. He is waiting for me just there. I recognize his woody scent: he is the one who chose the dress for me. And now, I remember his face on the cover of Time magazine. Zahir. World-class Fashion Designer. He looks pleased by my short performance. "Are you a professional model, Ma'am?". Under his minimalist attire, the man hides the physique of a Mandinka warrior. And when I shake my head no he makes a note in his small notebook "Then you are a natural, Ms. Eva Cortéz." He reads again, "Doctor Eva Cortéz" he corrects himself, and he earns my grateful smile, which he demonstrates to appreciate via an unusual courtsy. Then he kisses my hand, very properly, without touching it, like a Prussian officer. "Zahir Jackson, Tailor." Tailor. Such a delicious understatement. "Pleased to meet you..." I just smile shily, disproportionately pleased by their approval. But he is already welcoming the next girl and my Dresser is again on me.

I am relaxing as the President completes her second pass on the sidewalk and appears from the other side. And I almost hear Good Girl gasp. The President's gown is open in front, almost to her waist, leaving her lower belly in the open. Natural bush, the same color of her hair. She winks at me, looking perfectly at ease in her open Roissy gown. Which, by the way, looks perfect. Enlightenment: Roissy dresses are designed to be opened in front, on demand, showing our pussies to the world. Thanks to Zahir's magic, they look gorgeous both closed and open.

Too late to back off. My turn is next. The make-up artist adds a couple of last-minute touches to my face, my young dresser touches my nipples through the sheer silk to make them erect (not so necessary since they already are) and I am out there in the cold. In the hot. On the catwalk for the second pass. My Roissy dress is properly closed, but I imagine I am supposed to make good use of its peculiar features. They are animatedly discussing something, but when the spotlight focuses on me their chat subsides in anticipation. I am temporarily blinded, but I focus on the runway. The anonymous men are just unimportant shadows. Like my first scuba back roll, this is a quick entry into an eerie, unknown universe. But I feel much more at ease here than underwater. Maybe I am truly a natural. I can feel several men's gazes checking my breasts as they bounce slightly at each step, the chiffon deliciously brushing my nipples and keeping them alive. I sashay forward--one foot exactly in front of the other--stop, rest my hands on my waist, pirouette, and turn back. I feel some heat down there, possibly prompted by the jury's multiple gazes on my backside, like Archimedes' heat reflectors. Thank God, the Roissy dress doesn't catch fire like the Roman triremes' sails. Should I show my pussy to these leering men? No way. My show ends here. Just then, I hear a woman giggling.

Amanda.

She is on the jury.

My brain gets in fast motion. Amanda. She should be here to flaunt her pussy in this indecent dress, not me. Her business dresses always too short, her décolletés too low for her big tits, her blond hair always perfect. The perfect office slut. I wonder how much time she spends at the hairdresser. And how much Greg pays her! Too bad his profits are dwindling. She buys her vulgar dresses at Zara's, but hairdressers are expensive.

Amanda here? And who in the heck invited her? Quentin Razor the secluded billionaire? I don't think so. Maybe she is not as dumb as I thought. But there is not too much time to elaborate. The Show Director hurries there for me, and he informs me that the jury wants my Roissy dress open on both sides on another pass, because I am one of the finalists. "Both sides?" "Sure, front, and back." Of course. Front and back.

If I agree, of course.

Do I agree?

Do I?

Now, calm down, Eva. You are an accomplished businesswoman. Able to make important decisions. Quick and effective decisions. Just then, I hear that giggle again. And I decide. Now, is this a challenge? Now, Mr. Gregory McGregor, dear husband, let's see who is more daring, me or Hygrometer Lady.

I agree.

Mandinka Chief is there and whispers something into my assistant's ear before hurrying away.

The boy smiles broadly. There is a secret weapon of sorts, he says. A jewel. A gift for the best performers, one I can try on here, on the catwalk. A privilege. A rare feat. He can help me wear it.

I tie up Good Girl as I nod yes. But she is still vocal, so I also gag her.

I concentrate on the task, and --presto--with another back roll I am again there on the runway, a natural scuba diver underwater now, feeling wonderful in her native element. With an aggressive edge, prompted by the giggling lady. I flounce back and forth like a female tiger, flaunting my bikini wax to the jury--minus the bikini--then my backside. I stretch like a feline, then I bend over--not too much: I am a lady after all. But enough to be rewarded with a low-pitched but distinctive 'aah'.