“Back for more?” he asked, smiling that smile at her.
“You do piercings, too,” she said, a statement, not a question.
He nodded, standing.
She tapped the glass case with her nail, indicating a pierced latex model of the female labia. A bright gold post went through the clitoral hood, one bead resting firmly against the clitoris itself. Her smile threatened to crack her face. “I want that one.”
He grinned. “Good choice. How about Tuesday?”
“No,” she said. “Now.”
Memorandum
N.T. Morley
Notice of Disciplinary Action
To: Audrey Chivas, Executive Assistant
From: Tabitha Kelly, Office Manager
Date: 1 September
Re: Violation of Office Dress Code
cc: All Staff
It has been brought to my attention, Miss Chivas, that you have violated our office dress code on numerous occasions since being hired by the firm on 10 August. When you accepted employment at our firm you read and signed a copy of our office policies and procedures document, including our office dress code on page 14. Nonetheless, you have continued to violate our dress code.
I have listed the documented violations below; each was brought to my attention by a senior partner in the firm.
1) On 11 August, your skirt was measured by Mr Armando Stern to be eight inches above the knee. On that day, you also wore pumps with four-inch heels, a clear violation of article 8 of our office dress code. A first-level warning was issued.
2) On 12 August, your silk slacks were sufficiently snug that Mr Stern was able to see your panty lines, and his comments on their visibility met with, by Mr Stern’s report (and as I witnessed first-hand), a careless dismissal of Mr Stern’s concern. That is wholly unacceptable. Furthermore, on that day your leopard-print brassiere was quite visible through the tasteless lemon-yellow top you wore. Again, this behavior is unacceptable.
3) On 15 August, your skirt was, as estimated by Mr Spankett, six inches above the knee. Miss Chivas, I would like to point out that such a skirt is decent by perhaps four inches. I was out sick with bunions that day, but I have a reliable report from Mr Stern, Miss Beck in Accounting, and George, our Federal Express delivery person. In addition, Mr Spankett was kind enough to provide a Polaroid he took that day, and I am appalled. I have enclosed said Polaroid here. Coupled with the four-inch heels you wore that day, not to mention the blatant display of what could only have been a push-up brassiere underneath your rather filmy blouse, this outfit presented a wholly unprofessional picture of our firm. A second-level warning was issued at this point.
4) On 22 August, your dress was black in color, decent, again, by perhaps four inches, and was coupled with knee-high lace-up boots with the Doc Martens tag clearly visible at the back of your calf. I admire your forward-facing fashion sense, as I admire your attempt to be accepted by the “in” crowd. But we are a place of business, Miss Chivas, not a Marilyn Manson concert.
5) On 23 August, though your skirt was of acceptable length, your red lace panties were clearly visible underneath when you bent over during your rather ill-advised and lengthy session of filing in the lower drawer in Mr Grimm’s office. Polaroid enclosed.
6) On 25 August, you showed up to the office with your hair in pigtails, a white blouse thin enough to show your brassiere underneath, and a plaid skirt which came, again, eight inches above the knee. When asked to retrieve a file from the bottom drawer of Mr Harshass’s desk, you reportedly turned away from him, bent over fully without kneeling, and displayed your white panties to him most shamelessly. Again, Mr Harshass thoughtfully provided a Polaroid, which I have enclosed. A third-level warning was issued, resulting in your being docked a day’s pay, to which you responded with a shocking display of disregard for the disciplinary process, stating (and I quote): “Ah, mother-fuck, I guess I’ll have to make up the difference giving blowjobs down on the waterfront.”
7) On 26 August, when working a Saturday to help Mr Stern prepare for a client meeting, you arrived at the office dressed in hot pants, a halter top and platform clogs. Again, as reported by Mr Stern (and demonstrated by the enclosed Polaroid), your panty lines were clearly visible under the shorts, though you didn’t see fit to wear a bra under the halter top. I should perhaps clarify here that our office dress code is to be followed even when the position demands weekend work.
8) On 28 August, you returned from taking your lunch hour in the company gym without changing out of your exercise clothes, shamelessly displaying the fact that you wore a white leotard that had become rather moist with sweat, and therefore almost entirely transparent. A fourth-level warning was issued, resulting in this memorandum.
Miss Chivas, let me take this time to commend you for your excellent work on many other fronts. Your willingness to help out with client meetings has been quite admirable and has led to a number of important accounts being exceptionally serviced by this office. The senior partners have repeatedly commented on your willingness to lend assistance in whatever way is needed. However, your interpretation of the company dress code clearly needs extensive correction, which I offer forthwith:
1) As stated in our policies and procedures document, skirts for employees who measure five feet three inches (as you do) are to be no less than eight inches above the knee; measured from the torso, hems are to remain decent by no more than two inches or (preferably) less. Heels on all shoes worn to the office will be no less than six inches, except on casual Friday, when five-inch heels are permitted.
2) Silk slacks, as you well know, are to be worn without panties underneath (except on casual Friday, when a thong may be worn). Furthermore, you know quite well that employees with D-cup or smaller breasts (yours were measured to be a C-cup) are not allowed to wear brassieres. On that day, this undergarment entirely disguised your nipples, which should have been erect and clearly visible throughout the day, as stated on page 16 of our office policies and procedures document. Also, animal-print clothing is strictly forbidden at this time. If the firm institutes a “Trailer Trash Thursday,” you’ll certainly be the first to know. Lastly, when Mr Stern offered his rebuke of your wearing panties with these slacks, proper office behavior and our specific policy required you to remove the offending panties immediately in front of him and feed them into the office shredder.
3) Again, a skirt six inches above the knee is decent by perhaps four inches and therefore a full two inches longer than is permitted by our dress code. Additionally, I must reiterate that heels are to be six inches, not one bit less. Lastly, wearing a blouse as see-through as you wore on that day, Miss Chivas, you should have known better than to wear a push-up bra. While I admire your desire to display your breasts as attractively as possible, you know full well that such displays of your fetching knockers are required by our dress code to be much more blatant than is provided by a push-up bra. If you are in need of some support, Tamiko in the mailroom has volunteered to provide you with her particularly skilled incarnation of breast bondage. Simply visit her on the third floor before you report to work.
4) Our policy clearly states that black outergarments are unacceptable, as they do too much to camouflage what lies underneath. Furthermore, wearing flat-soled boots is well beyond the scope of acceptable dress at our firm.
5) While red lace panties of the style you wore might be, arguably, allowed to slide on a casual Friday (given their little red hearts and bows on the sides), again, panties are expressly forbidden on all other days. Additionally, Mr Stern found your shameless display entirely distracting, as he was attempting to spank his secretary Julia at the time.
6) While your kinky little schoolgirl fantasy is commendable, I made it quite clear in your job interview that the only schoolgirl who belongs at Stern, Stern, Grimm, Spankett & Harshass is a shameless slut of a schoolgirl. While your skirt was quite attractive, it was entirely too decent for the office, and wearing a brassiere is unacceptable in all circumstance
s regardless of how visible it is through your blouse. Furthermore, shamelessly displaying your white panties to Mr Stern strikes me as another example of your willful disregard of our policies. As mentioned in earlier paragraphs, Miss Chivas, you should have been entirely nude under that pert little outfit of yours.
6a) As a supplementary note to Item 6, I should like to remind you that any income you derive from giving blowjobs down at the waterfront should be provided to me in cash (and preferably not in wadded-up little $1 bills) for laundering through the corporate account. We can’t be too careful about those IRS sons-of-bitches, Audrey, now can we? They certainly don’t appreciate the value of a good blowjob the way our firm does.
7) I should perhaps clarify here that our office dress code is to be followed even when the position demands weekend work. I applaud your adhering to our dress code by eschewing a brassiere under your halter (which would have been unflattering in any event), but you violated our dress code in two ways: first, by wearing panties under those skintight little hot pants (did you get them at Next to Nothing? I’ve been thinking of picking up a pair of those myself) and second, by failing to wear high-heeled shoes. Your platform clogs, while presenting an admittedly cute ’70s trailer-trash picture of your whorish little bitch self, Audrey, were again inappropriate for the office, even on a Saturday.
8) As you know, the co-ed company gym is to be used only when fully nude. I should note that you looked adorable with your nipples poking out of that tiny little leotard thing, but please, in the future, remember to strip naked before mounting the stationary bicycles – and don’t forget to wipe down your equipment afterwards.
Audrey, please let me reiterate that your job duties on other fronts have been performed with great skill and enthusiasm. Mr Stern frequently comments on the quality of your oral skills, and his secretary Julia particularly likes the way you always come when she spanks you. I, myself, have had the distinct pleasure of feeling you up on numerous occasions, and your juicy little cunt never fails to open right up to my mercilessly thrusting fingers. Furthermore, you look particularly eye-catching when you lift your skirt, drop to your knees and take it doggy-style; I think all of Stern, Stern, Grimm, Spankett & Harshass’s partners will agree that you have the finest ass in town, and you never hesitate to give it up. Mr Spankett, in particular, has commented that if you weren’t a shameless little cocksucking whore he’d love to take you home to Mother.
But I must take this opportunity to ask you to reflect on whether full-time employment as a paid submissive in a private brothel for poontang-obsessed billionaires is truly your long-term career goal. While I admire your love of spankings and your unthinking devotion to taking it in those filthy little holes of yours whenever possible, not to mention providing orally for any rampaging hard-on that appears in front of you regardless of the identity of its owner, I question whether the willfulness and cheek you’ve shown in your tenure here isn’t indicative of an unwillingness to wholeheartedly adopt a submissive posture. Perhaps you are what educated office managers call a “smart-assed masochist.”
In that event, despite your disciplinary record, I question whether you wouldn’t do better assuming a leadership role at Stern, Stern, Grimm, Spankett & Harshass. Julia and Tamiko have both expressed the desire to feel that firm hand of yours on their behinds – in Tamiko’s words, to “See if that horny little cunt can give as good as she can get.” I concur. Your impressive showing in the recent catfight with Antoinette over who would get the last Pixie Stick in the company snack room certainly displayed a propensity for uninvited dominance, and once you had the little slut in a headlock you did show an estimable appreciation of the finer points of forced cunnilingus, not to mention great skill at the old “pile-driver.” Furthermore, your skilled application of your throbbing sex to the little bitch’s mouth despite her crocodile tears really demonstrated an ability to turn any administrative situation to your advantage. The result was a full acceptance of her defeat by Antoinette; in fact, the girl saw me immediately afterwards and when I threw her over my lap for disciplining I only had to spank her three times before the little vixen exploded in sobs of orgasm.
In short, you show a talent for exerting your own will, even in the face of resistant employees. I think you would make an excellent apprentice for me, Audrey.
Should you prove open to such an altered career path here at Stern, Stern, Grimm, Spankett & Harshass, I must caution you that along with the vastly increased salary and many career perks (frequent tongue-jobs from your subordinates being not the least of them) comes a great deal of responsibility. It will require improved commitment on your part, not to mention an intense program of mentorship in which I will teach you a great deal about administering punishment to horny little sluts who think they know it all.
Audrey, I hope the choice is clear.
Please report to my office at 5:00 p.m. for further discussion of this matter.
Cordially,
Tabitha Kelly
Office Manager
Bluegums
O’Neil De Noux
“My problem is,” the man from New York explains, “I can’t understand what they’re saying.”
I cover the receiver so he can’t hear me laugh.
“They have the strangest accent,” Noonan adds.
“It’s probably a Cajun accent.” I lean my freshly shaved face in front of the black, revolving fan perched on the corner of my beat-up mahogany desk. My aftershave tingles in the fan’s breeze.
“Anyway,” Noonan continues, “it’s all in my telegram. If you can get those people to confirm Adam Kinzer died an accidental death, we’ll be set.”
“I have your telegram right here.” I open the yellow Western Union telegram and press it flat on my desk.
“You don’t have much of an accent,” Noonan says.
“I’m from the city.”
“Right.” His voice is sarcastic as most New Yorkers tend to be. They live in the only real city in America, right? Center of the fucking universe, right? “Actually, you sound as if you’ve lived in Brooklyn.”
“No, just the French Quarter,” I answer. “And Bywater.”
“What?”
“I’ve lived in New Orleans all of my life, except in the army.” No need explaining how we don’t have southern drawls here, except in the movies where we all sound like we’re from south Alabama or like refugees from a French bordello.
“You’re a vet, huh?”
“Fifth Army. I fought in the sideshow. Italy.” That’s what General Mark Clark facetiously called the Italian campaign. Pressing the receiver between my chin and right shoulder, I instinctively rub my left arm where the round from a German Mauser smashed through my humerus outside Monte Cassino, sending me home early from the bloody mountain campaign. Kesselring’s Gustav Line was one helluva sideshow.
“I think I spelled the name of that village right in my telegram,” Noonan adds. “You guys actually have villages down there?”
“Bayous too and even swamps.”
Noonan laughs for a second, then reminds me Mr Kinzer’s daughter should be at my office at ten o’clock. My electric wall clock reads nine-forty.
“Any questions, you have my number.” Noonan hangs up without saying goodbye.
I do too and pick up the telegram. Dated yesterday, September 16, 1948, it’s from Empire Insurance Agency, New York, New York, authorizing two days work and reasonable expenses.
The village is called Cannes Brulee. I pull a Louisiana road map from my desk drawer but the village isn’t listed in the index. I hope Kinzer’s daughter knows where we’re going.
Leaning back in my chair, I adjust the holster on my right side to let the weight of my snub-nosed, nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .38 rest on my hipbone. I prop my hands behind my head, close my eyes and imagine Kinzer’s daughter as a long, cool blonde in a tight-fitting dress unbuttoned in front to show a hint of white, lacy bra. Getting out of New Orleans for a couple of days with a woman like th
at would soothe the likes of this thirty-year-old ex-cop, ex-G.I., half-Spanish, half-French, southern boy, struggling to make it as a private investigator. For the record, I’m six feet even with standard issue, Mediterranean brown eyes and wavy, dark-brown hair.
I hear a car door close outside, hear the outer door of my building open, hear light footsteps, high-heels I’m sure, hear the squeaky knob of my office door turning. I pull my legs down as a tall, dark haired beauty peeks in.
“Mr Caye?”
I stand and wave her forward.
“Call me Lucien,” I tell her as she crosses to the stuffed chairs in front of my desk. She’s in a lightweight suit; navy blue waistcoat and snug, tan skirt the exact color of the new tan suit I’m wearing.
She has a round, Cupie-doll face with bright green eyes and a wide mouth that looks sexy as hell, with that deep crimson lipstick. She’s about five-nine, taller in heels, but still has to look up at me. Nicely built, she has a creamy complexion, like a porcelain doll. She’s in her mid-twenties. No wedding band.
“I’m Ann Kinzer,” she says nervously.
I point to a chair but she doesn’t sit.
She tells me she knows the way to Cannes Brulee. It’s on Vermilion Bay, south of Abbeville. She says she’s ready to go immediately and would I mind driving. I follow her nice, round hips out into the sunny, September morning.
Parked behind my dusty, pre-war Desoto is a new ’48 Cadillac with the new-style two piece, curved windshield, wide rear window and tail fins that remind me of a P-38 fighter plane.
Ann passes me her keys and climbs into the front passenger side, crossing her long legs as she settles in the seat, skirt just above her knees. I hurriedly dig my over-night bag from the trunk of my Desoto, put it in the Caddy’s trunk, next to her pink Samsonite suitcase and climb behind the steering wheel.
Catching a whiff of her light perfume as we pull away from the curb, I take us up Barracks to Rampart and over to Tulane Avenue. The Caddy’s engine is so quiet I can’t tell if it’s killed as we wait out a red light.
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