The Secret Garden Show Ch. 01

Back to the safety of backstage, and of my Little Black Dress, and my Victoria's Secret matching bra and panty set underneath, I join the excited group of sister contestants discussing excitedly the show we mounted together. A bunch of high-school girls who have discovered their first erotic novel--and had magically entered the story as protagonists, for real.

The cell phone vibrates in my purse. Greg. No, he will not be able to join the party the Unicorn Club is offering tonight. Tonight, he wants to prepare the preliminary building proposal. Early tomorrow he will be at McGregor & McGregor Constructions, to refine it before emailing it to QQComputing. Would I mind (babe) if he took the car and got back home alone? Alone, Greg? Alone? Really? But of course, I don't mind. I'll call a cab. Or someone will take me. The latter looks more likely, I reckon. So I tell him I'll take part in the party, hoping it will not be too boring.

I don't tell him it is of course a Roissy party, all the women shall wear a Roissy dress.

GIFT

"Your prize has arrived." Greg brings the parcel to me, then waits for me to open it.

"Prize? What prize?"

He pulls a face. "Roissy Contest."

Sunday morning, a week after, and the Roissy Contest memory is just a warm, wet memory. The cocktail party was a predictable anticlimax. We were wearing our Roissy Dresses, and the men--elegant and interesting and handsome--were supposed to ask any of us to show the features of the garment. But they did it shyly, never to me. I probably scared them off. Males of social species are brave when in a group--a pack of wolves, a hunt party of Neanderthals, a beauty-contest jury of Sapienses--but easily scared as individuals. Especially by intelligent women. The nerd girl curse.

So, the party was a non-sequitur, followed by a week of mad work at my firm, supervising the development group by day, preparing a business plan by night. Metaverse Femme Production faces its most critical phase since I found it, a critical step every successful start-up needs to face. Our revenues are growing, but we need to finance both production and expansion. And I want to open a new business line. Making software is still a craftsman (and at my firm, craftswoman) affair. I need to hire new people and buy new equipment and rent a larger office. For the first time, I need a loan. So, I sent the business plan to my bank and I have arranged a meeting with the Branch Manager. I have been a very good customer of his bank. I never needed a loan before, and they made good profits on my deposits. The business plan is sound. Metaverses are booming. My new project is the future.

In times of rising inflation, the bank is making a lot of money and investing part of it in posh offices for its bureaucrats, like the one in which the branch manager proudly welcomed me. Smiling, the bald man told me that my business plan was nice, but my firm did not meet the requirements the bank required. At the same time, he gave me a dirty all-over, suggesting that there were ways that could make him reconsider the request, maybe even convince his superiors that my business plan has hidden merits. I was tempted to barge out, slamming the door behind me. But I am an entrepreneur, after all. Used to make clever decisions, fast. So, I smiled at him suggestively as I stood, making a few steps back to the sofa where I grabbed a pillow, then sashaying toward his side of the big desk where I dropped the pillow to the floor on his left. He rotated his leather chair sideways, his legs spreading slightly and his leery smile broadening. I kneeled in front of his beer paunch, my hands behind my back as I heard proficient blowjobbers do. They need just their mouth for their art and--since they keep their arms behind their back--men like to believe they are handcuffed. He unzipped, reaching blindly for his cock--his paunch blocked his vision--eventually finding it somewhere. I was not sure how to start exactly, but in critical moments inspiration helps me. "Mr. Smith..." Ah. Mr. Smith.

"Mr. Smith, that sounds like a really good deal." I stood up, and his smile vanished. "But I think I got a better one. How about I give you the finger" and I made the unladylike gesture "and you give me back my money, so I can bring my business to another bank?"

"Ms. Cortéz, you disappoint me." At least, he was familiar with classic movies. Still smiling, I grabbed the thick cable connecting his new forty-inch display--too big for bank applications, but necessary for porn--to his computer. Understanding my intentions, he tried to jump up, but the pillow was on his way, so he landed on the floor on his paunch, limbs spread like a bearskin, just before the display got over the edge. "Ooops. Sorry for that, Mr. Smith." As an ICT entrepreneur, I was saddened by the destruction of such a beautiful piece of hardware, but deep inside I just loved the crashing sound.

The same day I transferred all the firm's funds to another bank, one whose branch manager was a woman.

"Eva. Are you still there? Your prize..." Greg is looking at me smiling that smile. And this is great news.

I have half-heard several conversations with Amanda this week, but they have always looked legitimate. She is his secretary, and they are preparing urgent proposals, so I hope this is what they have done during his long evenings at his office when I was writing my business plan for the bank. So maybe the affair is over. Or maybe it has never started. Wishful thinking? I don't know for sure, in any case, I guess that echoes of my great performance at the contest have reached Greg's ears, and his attitude toward me has subtly changed. He regrets not having witnessed my last round, but just then he was discussing business with a major real estate developer. Mortgages hibernating at home, they are investing in tourist resorts abroad, and McGregor & McGregor Construction could become one of the contractors. It looks like some major ICT corporations want to diversify their investments, they need to invest the big bucks they are doing in virtual worlds, and they are doing that in the physical one. Bricks and mortar.

Of course--says Greg. He likes to drag me into our traditional feud on virtual versus physical, but I am not into the argument this morning. Besides my financial problem, I am not sure how I feel about Greg missing my performance on the catwalk. Am I relieved that he has not seen me flaunting my best assets in the Roissy dress, or am I disappointed he has not? In any case, the echo had proved enough. Our sex life looks on the brink of an improvement. I just repeat, "Roissy Contest" touching casually his boxers, and he reacts grabbing me. Sunday morning sex. Great sex, almost as great as before. I even make a dirty joke about Amanda's big tits, and he says he wants them small and shapely, looking at me from below. Was Amanda truly there on jury duties? Maybe I was wrong. A blond younger woman nears your husband in a context where he is the top dog, and you become paranoid. I straddle his hips, moving back and forth. The position that makes me in control of his hardness, deep inside me. And the one that allows me to fantasize. A naked Black man entering the room behind me. Completed by the fantasy that brings me on the brink every single time. The fantasy I will never confess to my husband. The faceless Black man glorious fantasy.

Still half-naked after a shower, we unwrap the parcel together. A cardboard box is inside, looking expensive and custom-made, the kind of box used for high couture dresses. Inside, a new Roissy dress, a letter, and a smaller leather box.

Unexpectedly, the letter is addressed to both of us. Greg is pleased. He reads it, beaming. "You made it happen, babe."

It is an invitation. From the Secret Garden Entertainment Group. Whatever it could be, it is welcome.

I suspect what the leather box could hide, so I snatch it before Greg notices it, hiding it under the pillow.

Only later, feeling guilty, I open it.

Shining and cool and smooth, there is the forbidden jewel.

HOLIDAY

Which was the prize? The dress? The jewel? The short vacation?

At first, Greg was mildly annoyed because he didn't find the airline tickets in the letter. The last time we received such an important invitation--to a great marriage--they enclosed first-class tickets with the invitation card. Instead, the Secret Garden Entertainment Group sends us a limousine. Approaching the airport, it looks like the driver doesn't know the way to Departures. But he knows better: he drives us to the General Aviation Terminal. There, a shiny Learjet is waiting for us. The uniformed flight assistant explains that flying private saves the annoying helicopter ride from the nearest civil airport to the tourist resort project, which happens to be somewhere in the Caribbean.

I know better. They make us fly private because they want to signal to us that they are serious, and they don't lack money. Significant message, for two entrepreneurs. But there, just one of us will play entrepreneur.

Greg will survey the construction site.

I have been invited to an audition.

But I see it as just instrumental for the vacation at sea. I deserve it. At Metaverse Femme Production, my development team can proceed without me for a couple of days, and there is nothing I can do while I am waiting for the new bank to approve the loan. So, Eva, better to relax. First day: great food, beach, sex, swimming pool. Repeat.

Early the next day, a jeep pulls Greg away toward the construction site; much later, leaving the time needed for a proper breakfast and another repeat--sex not included--a self-driven Tesla Roadster picks me up. I am savoring my deserved vacation when the emergency email requires my immediate attention. A communication from the bank manager. She is so sorry, her sisterly feeling was that my business plan was sound, but sisterly feelings are not the guarantees her bank requires. Shit. She looks sincere and truly sorry, so I thank her telling her I have a great plan B. I am lying. I don't know what to do now. Automatically, I google again the new bank online, and--according to the public organizational chart--her boss is a man. Surprise. Men all the way up to the CEO, with some women randomly scattered here and there, frequent and good-looking in the lower positions, rare and terrifying in their hideous pantsuits up on the pecking ladder. None at top levels. Every female manager has a male boss. The Bank Patriarchy. I wonder if they have a committee that was informed of my performance with the sleazy branch manager. Then I shake my head. Eva, don't be paranoid. In any case, this three days' vacation is even more needed.

Meanwhile, a handsome boy is respectfully opening the car door.

A tall man is waiting for me in his impressive office, looking impeccable in a grey suit, in front of a floor-to-ceiling window open toward the garden. Short beard, strong chin, straight nose, grey piercing eyes, unexpected long hair gathered in a soft ponytail emphasizing a creative edge, he could well be the President of the firm managing the place. But he is not. Standing beside his big crystal desk, he addresses me in a posh British accent:

"My name is Stephen. Stephen Knight. They call me Sir Stephen. I am a vice president of the Secret Garden Entertainment Group, in charge of the Secret Garden Show Project. I really wanted to meet you." Very gentlemanly, he kisses my hand without touching it with his lips. "Welcome to the Secret Garden, Doctor." he makes an ample gesture embracing both the inside and the outside, an invitation of sorts.

"Thank you, Sir Stephen." Accepting the invitation, I glide across the open space on my high heels, as if the audition has already started. I know it is. I am acquainted with boring job interviews, and I guess the audition shall be no exception. But in the end, he will take the decision, so I want to make an extraordinary impression, cut the crap short, and enjoy one more day at sea. I don't know how to do that yet, but I believe in inspiration.

Sashaying, I reach a curved wall on the other side of the office, I swing smoothly around smiling an admired smile at him. The admiration is real. I must admit I am impressed. I don't like minimalism too much, but I could make an exception for his office. The curved wall holding possibly a flight of stairs--unusual in an office--is made of mahogany and onyx. The sleekness of steel and glass is counterbalanced by the warm tones of wood and marble. Luxury is seldom accompanied by elegance and sophistication, but here it is.

"The fascination of this is in harmonious contrast. And the same can be said of you, Doctor."

Like most men, he is impressed by my high cheekbones and dark skin complemented by green eyes and tallness. I have heard better compliments, but it is always a pleasure to get one from handsome alpha men.

"Thank you, Sir Stephen."

"I heard you are the descendant of an Aztec Princess and a Spanish Marqués, is that true, Doctor Cortéz" They have done their homework digging into my whereabouts. Even more than their homework in fact. This is a private joke.

"Oh, this is just a legend, Sir. A family legend." I don't tell him I concocted the legend myself on behalf of Amanda "It looks like I am of mixed European and Native Mexican origins, but it is unlikely that my ancestor was Marqués Hernan Cortéz. It is more likely that he was an unknown Conquistador, probably a Spanish criminal who raped a poor indigenous girl--not a princess. But he was a good man, for sure, He probably killed just her husband, father, mother, and a few brothers, children included. Better stay on the safe side, you never know with savages. But I am the living demonstration that he didn't kill her. Maybe she just enslaved her. But since Aztec princesses were often sacrificed to Huitzilopochtli the sun God hoping He would save them from the European invaders--which he failed to do anyway--she was probably better off in the countryside with her Spanish criminal."

He seems to appreciate the historic digression I make as I sashay back toward him, admiring an intricate logo on the floor. He gestures toward a low armchair. "Please, have a seat." White leather and stainless steel, the armchait is a masterpiece itself. I have seen it somewhere. He answers to my unspoken question. "It is called a Tugendhat chair, designed by the same architect who designed the Villa. My office is an adapted replica of the Villa Tugendhat's living room. It is part of our plan for the touristic development of this island. We have renamed it New Europe."

"New Europe." Not such a creative name, but he looks proud of it, so I can't tell him I don't like it. "I like it. The old Europe has done enough damage since the times of the Conquistadores, so we need a new one."

"Well, ours is just a tourist resort project, But yes, all we are building is inspired by the masterpieces of European culture and civilization."

Again, he gestures toward the floor-to-wall window open toward the garden. An Italian garden. Small teams of workers are visible here and there. Italian gardens are geometrical, but plants are not, so they require constant maintenance.

I am still standing behind the chair, where someone--maybe the lady who was here for a previous audition--has left a plastic card. The same I have seen in our hotel room, for the access to the hotel gym. The Pussycat Gym. I like the gym logo, a coquettish feline pet with her curly tail kept high. Sir Stephen looks at me again and frowns. He has noticed I am not wearing the Roissy dress. I guess he fully expected a repeat of my indecent performance at the audition, but today I have other programs. Being predictable is never a good idea when you want to impress somebody. Better do something different, something unexpected. So, I am wearing instead a demure Lanvin dress. White silk, the long-draped skirt resembling a Greek Kithon, one bare shoulder the only hint at nakedness. Good Girl has approved. Sir Stephen doesn't look impressed. But he knows how to impress me.

He pushes a small button, and the whole window--actually a sliding sheet of plate glass--descends into the basement. The island is somewhere in the Caribbean, but the climate is Mediterranean. The fresh smell of pruned roses enters the office. Two gardeners are working on a rose hedge. They stop and look toward me, the older one leaning to his spade, the younger just staring. In his twenties, he has curly blond hair and an angelic face. Except for the green overalls, he could have just stepped out of a Renaissance Church Tryptic.

Just then, inspiration strikes.

Ambushing Sir Stephen--and Good Girl--I bend over slightly on the chair back, one hand on my hip, the other on the shoulder knot. The gardeners have already pruned the nearest rose hedge, eliminating all the dead branches and faded roses, and are walking away. But young men are hard-wired to get attracted by women's moves. By certain women's moves. So, the angelic young man looks back at me, then steps closer, his gaze affixed on my ass. Keeping up a professional appearance, he unnecessarily cuts off a long rose stem with her garden shears.

Smiling at him as I wiggle my butt, I untie the shoulder knot, the white dress slides to the floor, and I step out of it. I am wearing a white cup-less corset, an old-fashioned piece of top-class lingerie. The corset squeezes my waistline as it sharply emphasizes my bust, pushing my small breasts up and eliminating even the slight, incipient sagging I had recently noticed. Leaving me bottomless, as per the Roissy dress code. I bend over more, my backside illuminated by the sun entering the open window.

I am wearing the jewel. The silver buttplug. Buttplugs are non such an indecent thing these days. I remember reading an article on Glamour, when I had time to read it. But I guess the young gardener has never seen one live.

The flat end of the jewel catches a sunray, and I am able to aim the reflex at him. Dazzled by the flash of light coming from just over my shining pussy, he drops his garden shears. I have literally flashed him. The shears clatter on the ground, and he just stays there, frozen, his mouth agape like a singing Cherub, the red rose in his hand.

Sashaying through the open wall I reach him and kiss him on his mouth. He offers me the rose.

A lone ladybug appears on the velvety petals, spreads its elytra--as ladybugs do--and flies away.

CONTRACT

A few minutes later, I am again at Sir Stephen's desk, by the crystal vase Sir Stephen's secretary has kindly provided, my red rose in it. Outside, the gardeners are leaving. The cherub turns back and smiles shyly, waving. I wave back, and his smile broadens. Laughing, his older companion cuffs the youngster on the back of his head, but he doesn't feel it.

Sir Stephen looks at me in awe. "Doctor, you are a gifted..."

"...exhibitionist?"

He nods, "That would be a minimalist job description, but yes. You are exceedingly talented, and we want to offer you a position in our cast." Mission accomplished. I am not interested. Day at sea ahead. But I enjoy the conversation with the alpha man. "Really? Why? Because I am creative in flaunting my pussy to men? Do you want me to do that for other strangers?" I am just mocking him, having some fun. "Becoming a stripper at my age is not part of my life plan. Besides, I hear that strippers are often requested to provide, hmm, additional services, and I am a Good Girl deeply inside. I am flattered by your offer, but thanks no."

He looks mildly offended but is still smiling, so I continue, "There were maybe a dozen people on the Roissy Contest jury. Adding the two gardeners and you the grand total would be fifteen spectators. I couldn't deny that performing for a real audience would add to the thrill. How big will it be?" I guess they are building classy night clubs, and I can't deny that stripping in front of a hundred strangers would be exciting, even arousing.