The Secret Garden Show Ch. 01

He seems to consider the question seriously. "Initially, we believe, about one million. But we expect the growth will be exponential."

I try not to play surprised, but it is difficult. Now I am seriously flattered. He checks the small creases my smile usually shows as he explains they are offering me one of the main roles in a movie. I can't believe that. He places the contract summary in front of me, ready and printed in record time. He is serious and focused. I am embarrassed to turn him down. "Sir Stephen, I am grateful for the gifts and the invitation and the vacation, and I had fun performing, but I am not interested in becoming an actress. Especially, not a porn actress, albeit softcore." Good Girl has survived the shock and approves the statement.

Sir Stephen raises his eyebrow. "Doctor, we are not doing porn. And we are not casting actresses."

I roll my eyes. I don't want to offend the man, so I soften my tone, "Besides, I am a busy entrepreneur. I wouldn't have time for your project. Sorry for that."

He looks at me intently, undeterred. An embarrassing moment. Have they brought me all the way to New Europe just for this? I shuffle through the contract summary draft, just to show I am seriously considering it before turning the proposal down.

And I see the figures. "That's impossible. Your contract drafter made an error."

At my firm, I'd fire on the spot a professional who doesn't double-check the numbers. The amount doesn't make any sense. Six figures. As an entrepreneur, I know something about wages, albeit the movie industry is not my turf. He is right, this is not porn. There is no money in porn these days. But it could not be erotica either. It is at least ten times what they pay a new actress, even in a protagonist role, in a legitimate Hollywood movie. A clerical error, and an unforgivable one in a contract proposal.

Sir Stephen is smiling the Cheshire Cat's smile. "As you see, it is not an error, Doctor."

I look again at the figure. And I see. The amount is exactly that of my denied loan request.

TANSTAAFL

TANSTAAFL. There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. The mantra echoes in my mind as I seek the trap. Because this looks exactly like a free meal. Sir Stephen gave me a few hours to reconsider the offer, so I have sent the contract draft to Helene, my Chief Financial Officer, and I just need to wait and relax and meditate.

Back at my hôtel de charme, I discover that free meals do exist, if only in the physical sense. An impeccable waiter serves a delicious one on the terrace of my room, in a black bikini and see-through cover-up, both La Perla, courtesy of the Secret Garden Entertainment Group. Alone, because Sir Stephen has excused himself: pressing affairs. He oversees the development of New Europe. The resort is not open to the public right now, it is under beta-test, with a skeleton staff and a few guests, aka beta-testers. Being beta-testers in ICT could be annoying, but I just love to be a beta tester here.

The impeccable waiter serves me as if I were a queen and looks at me as if I were a harlot. Good Girl still in shock, I enjoy both.

I try to concentrate on the proposal, recalling what Sir Stephen told me.

"We don't hire actresses. Spectators are sick and tired of unbelievable heroes and heroines doing extraordinary things in movies. But they are also tired of ordinary people doing nothing special in reality shows. They want ordinary people to do extraordinary things as they live their normal lives. But we are casting special ordinary people. Like you, Doctor. The nerd girl from Tijuana turned successful entrepreneur. Great TV shows are based on less interesting characters. And you are a real person And what is more extraordinary than sexual fantasies interpreted by real persons in their everyday life?"

So, this is the proposal. Think the Truman Show meets The Story of O, says Sir Stephen. I don't buy the grand idea, but I can see his point. I can't believe I had performed indecently in public, either. Two times.

All the same, something is not adding up well here. The McDeere syndrome

On the beach, I see a couple jogging in the distance moving away from me. Odd thing, he is dressed in stylish tight pants and a performance shirt, she looks naked. A curvaceous blonde, with long hair. Amanda?

But they are running away, and all blondes look alike to me. I can't understand why men are so attracted to them. Maybe, it is just the remembrance of my college years at the University of Southern California, San Diego. The dark-skinned, dark-haired girl from Tijuana living on a scholarship.

Just then, preventing my mood from getting from bad to worse Helene the financial wizard phones back.

She has not found any legal or financial trap in the contract draft. She does not hide her surprise at my unexpected skill, the nerd girl from Tijuana turned financial genius. She wants to check the draft again and propose a few minor changes, and she needs a few hours, so in the late afternoon--after swimming and basking in the sun and being admired by the young waiter who keeps bringing me delicious drinks I don't even need to order--I am back in Sir Stephen's office, amiably talking as we wait for the final green light from my office.

"You see, Doctor, sexual fantasies are not originated by culture. They are evolutionary traits, dating back to millions of years ago. They are hard-wired in our ancient brains. Your creative performance of today was performed again and again, since ten million years Before Present, at least."

Ha! Does he believe I am so ignorant? I studied this in high school. He says 'Before Present' like an archeologist, but I am sure he is confused. "Ten million years. That's an impressive estimate, Sir Stephen. How can you be so accurate? Humans did not exist ten million years ago."

"True. But cats did exist. Ten million years Before Present is the accepted origin of the Felidae family."

Cats! The Pussycat Gym logo. He gives me a new gold Pussycat Gym plastic card--valid anywhere, anytime--my name etched on it. I did exactly what the coquettish feline does in the gym logo, minus the tail, plus the corset and heels, and some cultural minor addenda like the silver buttplug. And the card was already there on the Tugendhat Chair. By chance? I wonder who ambushed whom. Quite properly, the Cheshire Cat's smile is back on Sir Stephen's face.

Just then, my phone vibrates. The revised contract is on its way.

Sir Stephen immediately accepts the new conditions.

TANSTAAFL. The ominous acronym echoes in my mind. Where is the trap? I should be wary, ask for more time, and consider it more carefully.

But I believe in gut feelings.

And now, even more, in pussy feelings.

And I sign it.

O

The boutique hotel is inspired by the protagonist of a masterpiece of European literature. Exploring the room while I am waiting for Greg, I have found a copy of Histoire d'O in lieu of the Bible in a drawer. I already knew the title, but I never read it. Good Girls don't read Erotica. But I don't feel such a good girl today, so I read the first page. And I am grabbed. I don't identify myself as the heroine in the least. O is a beautiful and intelligent girl who loves a mediocre young man so much that she accepts to submit totally to his dirty friends' desires. Unbelievable. But the story of the story of O is even more unbelievable. The critics believed it had been written by a man, because at the time--not in Victorian times or in Saudi Arabia, but in the middle of the twentieth century in self-called civilized Europe--women were not supposed to have sexual fantasies. The arrogance of Patriarchy. To me, it is clear it was written by a woman. Among other telling details, here is where the Roissy Dress concept comes from, with plenty of petty sartorial technical details only a woman could have known. And other details are provided for other BDSM paraphernalia. A tech-minded girl, I am fascinated. As expected I find some nice replicas of the accessories in the drawer.

When Greg arrives, I am still reading, and still wearing the La Perla see-through cover-up over my bikini.

He is jubilant. He tells me about the contract he is about to sign. They are planning the building of a castle, a tourist attraction called Chateau Roissy. If he makes a connection with the Roissy Contest, he doesn't show it. I am puzzled, So, I decide not to break my great news to him until the contractual advance is confirmed by my bank--the wire transfer of a significant sum usually takes a day or two. Business talk completed, after a delightful dinner by the sea, Greg says he is quite tired and needs to check some figures before hitting the sack. Not my plan. It is against my Good Girl rules to initiate sex. Men are supposed to have that privilege. But they can be inspired. And after Mr. Vidal's treatment, I really need to be laid.

Nonchalantly, I parade back and forth in front of my husband. Greg takes notice. I have quickly become an expert in dropping panties in high heels, so I just do that. I make a few more moves in front of him, showing off my hairstyled pussy--and the silver buttplug. His eyes bulge and his jaw drops. It looks like he truly was not there at my last pass in front of the Roissy Contest jury. He gets naked in fifteen seconds, sharp, his tiredness forgotten, his cock already on the good path.

I grab one of the leather restraints I had hidden under my pillow and try it on his wrist. Surprisingly, it fits. Reversing the story of O, I connect it with one of the strategically located carabiners I have discovered by the bed header. "Hey!" he protests, "What are you doing, Eva?" "Shut up, you miserable Scottish slave, if you don't to be flogged on your big cock, here." I have no intention of ruining his big magic wand, but I touch it, and it reacts. "I am Domina Eve Antonina, daughter of Emperor Adrian, your Mistress."

His smile broadens as he surrenders the other wrist. Men have sexual fantasies, too, and they usually don't confess them to their wives. "Yes, Mistress." I tie him to the bed, "My father built a wall to keep you salvages out of our civilized empire, eighty miles long. He saved the best specimens he captured for his triumph in Rome, and I asked him to give me the one with the biggest cock to me. And here you are." He is mesmerized by my transformation, so I twist his velvety balls, gently "Thank you, Mistress." I twist a bit more. "Thank you, Domina Eva Antonina." I stand up on the bed over his hips, legs spread, one foot on the right side, one foot on the left. He looks up at me, his gaze jumping from my face to my tits to my shining pussy, and his breath accelerates. Danger. He can last very long, but he is slipping out of control. So, I also blindfold him. I straddle his hips, sliding him in, slowly, cautiously, as if I was handling a loaded gun.

Just then, my phone cell vibrates. I try to ignore it, but it is set to connect automatically to certain phone numbers. The female bank manager confirms that the money is there, the whole sum. In record time. She congratulates me, she is in awe. She recognizes the sum as the same as that her bank has denied me this morning, and this evening I have got what I need. I am surprising several people today. Myself included.

Now, I am officially one of the protagonists of the new TV Series, The Secret Garden Show. I get even more excited because I guess I'll start performing rather soon.

I just don't know how soon.

Thirty seconds after the confirmation, as I stay still, my husband's Stonehange shaft into me, looking at us through the big mirror over the bed header, the room door opens silently, and the faceless Black man enters.

His face in the shadow, his body illuminated by moonlight, he just stands there, his arms folded, his cock an exact copy of that in my fantasy--confirming the prejudice every white woman wants to check. A Mandinka version of Priapus, a primeval deity of prolificacy.

I stay still. Then I start moving, slowly. I don't want to ruin the magic. I guess there could be a whole troupe filming somewhere--the big window toward the sea is open. And I don't care.

As sexual fantasies go, mine usually ended with the Black man just there, prompting my vocal orgasm with his very presence. Confirming the tradition, it happens again. Greg manages not to join. "Scot slave, I'll call you Cunedda, because you are at the service of your mistress' cunt. Now, you have demonstrated that your cock is not just big, but also durable, which is even better. You have deserved the right to see your Mistress in her blazing nakedness."

Mr. Zahir Jackson, tailor, slides silently out, and I unblind my husband, and set him free.

What happens next is quite confusing, but should have been good, because the next morning--Greg already on his survey--I am aching in all the right places.

After a great breakfast served on the sea terrace by the handsome waiter serving me as if I was a goddess while looking at me as if I was a harlot--only later I realized I was wearing just the see-through cover-up--I decide to go to the gym.

A Pussycat Gym duffel bag is there, provided by the boutique hotel, whose guests are supposed to travel light. My feline alter-ego smiles at me from the gyn logo, her tail forever high and I smile back. Inside, signature Sriratchca yoga pants and see-through tank tops. For the short walk to the gym, I select a sporty-chic look, an oversize jersey also featuring the Pussycat Gym logo and a wrap skirt to go with my jogging shoes. Light makeup, lapis lazuli earrings, and a few drops of Number Five, and I am on my way. As I trot along the seashore, I hear another jogger behind, running faster. A man. I let him overtake me. The soft ponytail jumps up and down as he runs. He stops by a drinking fountain, smiling broadly.

"Always a pleasure, Doctor."

"I didn't think a man as busy as you had time for jogging. Sir Stephen." But his physique demonstrated the opposite.

" Well, I took a little extra time for fitness today. Celebrating. Your performances are already good enough for the complete pilot episode. Truth beats fiction. We bet on you, and we are pleased."

He leers at me, as cocksure as usual. I blush, but I am flattered. But I would like to score a conversation point with this man. "We? You are managing everything here, and you look perfectly able to make decisions on your own. But you told me you are a mere vice president. Who is the President?"

A point-blank question, its rudeness conspicuous in the eyes of an Englishman. But it produces the desired effect. For the first time since I met him, Sir Stephen is caught off guard. "Doctor Cortèz, you may not believe me, but I don't know."

The Secret Garden Show. End of Chapter One.