Chapter 1
The young woman approached Margo Chandler with a look of perplexity. "Excuse me, but I need something that addresses my lack of curves. like, my boyfriend wants me to dress sexy. like, he's bored with the traditional low-cut negligees and pop-out bras. I have to be careful what I buy, because, like, I've got no tits."
Margo suppressed her smile. She'd heard it put more subtly, but judging from her age and poise, that concern had been accurately related. The girl was pretty but flat-chested. "You've come to the right place. I have the essentials that will improve that situation and satisfy your boyfriend."
Margo was an expert in dressing women for those romantic moments. She ran a lingerie business called the Golden Chemise, an operation that paralleled the biggest chain in the business but with a unique difference: Margo personally designed her wares. A gifted artist, she worked closely with the manufacturer and a team of seamstresses, submitted preliminary sketches, supervised their production and inspected the results before placing them on her racks. Margo's creations were of the highest quality material, and sewn with the finest thread. She stood behind the craftsmanship of her apparel.
Margo loved sexy lingerie. She believed a woman should feel special when spending prime time with her man. She patiently listened to their needs and fashioned bedroom attire that revolved around them.
Although managing a boutique near the elegant Michigan Avenue shopping district of Chicago, Margo also arranged private demonstrations. Some of her customers were reticent about sifting through her provocative goods, much less walking into the shop. To accommodate their calls for confidentiality, she packed an assortment of unmentionables that could be savored in one's home.
Her customers threw parties that specifically showcased her latest creations. The results were often startling. Those most inhibited drank until the lines of discrimination dissolved. Margo watched couples succumb to animal instinct as the night developed. The sight of her hottest items in stock precipitated the most outrageous behavior. Frequently, Margo was propositioned.
Her powerful allure invariably surfaced during those presentations. The silk, the lace, the naughty under things and Margo fueled their desire.
Margo, an ash-blonde of forty-three, could have easily modeled the silk garments she invented. Her slender frame accentuated anything she wore. The punishing exercise routine she followed kept her deliciously trim. Her green eyes and thick, sensual lips embellished her glamour. Lithe and vivacious, she typified the aspirations of women who arrived at the milestone of forty. Her rounded breasts retained their firmness. Her legs were remarkably flawless. A man with an average hand span could have encompassed half her waist.
Margo treasured her independence. For years, she resisted marriage, fearing it would affect the outcome of her work. She considered herself a "free spirit," a woman with the soul of a gypsy. Unaccountable to no one, she did as she pleased and, therefore, wove her magic.
Margo savored the daily human interaction. Her customers were both women and men. Although her things were specifically for the female gender, men visited her shop to purchase suggestive gifts for their wives or girlfriends. Business executives shopped for their mistresses. Assisting them was her pleasure.
Her merchandise wasn't cheap, but habit-forming. She charged exorbitant prices, not to consistently turn a profit, but to maintain her lofty standards. Margo was a perfectionist. She knew her clientele expected excellence, and delivered it without fail.
Margo sat with her customer and went over some sumptuous alternatives. Her glossy photographs furnished some mouth-watering ideas. "Being small-breasted isn't the end of the world," Margo commented. "Some men prefer women of a lesser size. They feel they are more sensitive to stimulation. Don't believe, even for a moment, all men place total emphasis on breasts."
"Yeah. like, there's Ass Men and Leg Men."
"Precisely." Margo assessed her figure. "You have many attributes that aren't receiving their fair share of attention. Your thighs, for example, are underrated. They're delightful. A silk teddy will position you for success. Your der-riere is worthy of equal praise."
The girl's eyes sparkled in entertaining the possibilities. "like, you really think I ought to get a teddy?"
"Or, perhaps, Baby Doll pajamas."
"Excuse me, Miss Chandler," interrupted her assistant, Amanda Hunt, "but there's a Mike Brennan who demands discussing a purchase with you."
"Can't you see I'm in consultation? He'll need to make an appointment." Margo refrained from raising her voice. Amanda was efficient, yet impetuous. She often let the-likelihood of a sale go to her head. Margo had known upon hiring the petite redhead that she lacked people skills, but felt competent about cultivating her into a valuable employee.
Amanda failed to take the hint. "He insists upon having a word with you."
Margo saw that her withering gaze went unnoticed. "Very well. Please help this young woman while I attend Mr. Brennan."
She endeavored to see her impatient customer with a semblance of dignity. Margo disliked pushy people, and specifically had no use for those who tried negotiating price. When weighing the amount of effort that went into each piece, she was appalled at the haggling largely practiced.
Other customers browsed through her aisles. The Golden Chemise was rarely empty. A constant procession filled the store, customers prepared to write hefty checks or surrender large bills.
Mike Brennan, she discovered, defied her perception of the classic bargain-hunter. Approximately six feet of solid man awaited her in the conference area. Of rugged bearing, he reminded her of the fiercely masculine men with whom she had affairs. She estimated his age between forty-four and forty-six. His black hair had thinned on top, yet was worn thick in back. On Mike, she thought, it enhanced his desirability. His blue eyes seized her with a stirring intensity. She involuntarily skipped a step.
"Are you Margo Chandler?" he asked, rising to his feet. His deep voice gave her the chills.
She nodded. "You had a question about some of our items?"
He cleared his throat. "I hope I didn't intrude upon your time. I hadn't meant to dispatch your assistant with such urgency."
Margo gestured to the chair which he previously occupied. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
He extended his hand to the one empty chair beside him. Margo permitted him to draw back . the seat. He waited until she crossed her stunning legs before sitting. His choice of aftershave, a rustic scent, pleased her.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Brennan?"
Those blue eyes lured her into captivity. "I'm interested in purchasing the entire collection of your French Silk line."
She lifted her eyebrow. "All of it?"
He nodded. "I've passed your front window dozens of times in the past week and can't erase those items from my mind. They're a stroke of genius."
Margo silently calculated the amount of money she stood to receive from the transaction. "That's a substantial acquisition. Your wife is a lucky woman."
"I'm divorced."
Margo noticed his hair-rough wrists. His hands were large, his fingers thick and long. "Then your girlfriend should be extremely happy."
He grinned. "Are they of your measurements?"
"No. I designed them for a woman with more voluptuous dimensions. They are alterable."
His thigh pressed against hers. Margo barely contained her quiver. When his knees came apart, she avoided glimpsing his crotch. "How quickly can that be accomplished?"
Margo shrugged. "I can send them out to my seamstresses immediately. The modifications should be complete within a day or two."
"Please, do so at once."
"Shouldn't you verify the measurements before the work is done?"
He scanned her body, from the shoulders down to her crossed legs. His frank evaluation forwarded another feverish wave. "Yours are ideal." He removed his checkbook from his suit jacket. "Now, kindly state my final cost."
Mike's expression didn't falter after Margo quoted him the amount. He wrote with a Mont
Blanc pen, a status symbol among executives. His signature flowed evenly on the paper. After tearing it smoothly from the perforated line, he made certain to brush her arm when submitting it.
Again, Margo endured a tingling reception. Mike signified authority and magnetism. Her nipples enlarged from the vibrations he exuded. Her pussy constricted after moisture dribbled from her core. She responded strongly to him.
Mike pocketed one of her cards from the dish at the table. "I believe we'll be doing business on a regular basis. I admire your talent. I understand from your assistant that everything in the store originated from your drawing board. You devised each article."
"The Golden Chemise personally caters to one's tastes. The bulk of our work is customized."
He clasped her hand. An electric current passed through her. Margo underwent a palatable shock. "Thank you for your time. I will return in two days to collect my things."
"I hope the recipient of your generous gift is thrilled." He merely smiled, then departed.
Amanda materialized at her side. "That was a productive afternoon. The girl bought three of those teddies and two sets of Baby Doll pajamas. I take it the gentleman purchased your entire French Silk collection?"
"Yes," Margo said, clearing her throat. "We have to send it to Collette for alterations."
"So, that was the purpose of his summons. Did he have accurate measurements?"
"He wishes to use mine."
Amanda's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."
"Neither do I."
Margo closed her shop precisely at five, then returned to her Lake Shore Drive condominium. Mike Brennan was very much on her mind upon entering her luxurious duplex. His unforgettable sensuality haunted her all afternoon. Rarely did a male customer make that kind of impression. His features were vividly engraved in her memory. She recalled the potent charge she sustained when they accidentally touched. He lent the opinion he was a skilled and imaginative lover.
The thought of lying naked with him made her wet. Getting groped by those enormous hands brought a quivering tightness. She practically felt his rough exhalations over her nude flesh.
Unconsciously, Margo lowered a hand over her mound and squeezed. Her toes curled from the raging voltage. Her nipples were transformed into stiff peaks.
After a moment, she recovered. Ever since
Mike left, she had wanted to fondle herself. Amanda gave her no opportunity; she intermittently shadowed her footsteps. She didn't blame her assistant; the girl had no way of knowing how deeply Mike affected her.
Margo stripped off her clothes. She discarded her slitted skirt, then removed her blouse. The mirror that spanned the wall of her great room captured her in the varying stages of undress. She smiled at her reflection. Margo took tremendous pride in her body. The hours she invested in conditioning and toning yielded her steep dividends. Her slim thighs and shapely calves attested to that regiment.
Her ash-blonde hair draped her rounded shoulders. Her breasts jutted prominently, enclosed in satin and lace. The matching panties were cut to the fringe of her blonde thatch. Its frilly border obscured the stray wisps.
Margo was the best advertisement for her lingerie: she constantly modeled it.
She strolled through her spacious dwelling, defiant of the chain of shadeless windows. Margo had a tinge of exhibitionism. In her industry, flaunting one's body was heavily promoted. Margo had no problem if her neighbors regularly spied on her via telescope. She hoped she made their investment in one worthwhile. It also existed in the realm of possibility that while salivating over her exposed flesh, they fancied her undergarments and made a note of stopping by the shop.
Margo's bedroom was a lavish affair. She breezed into it, pleased with its bordello-like atmosphere. No expense had been spared in rendering that effect. Margo favored the extravagant decor, the sculptures, the velvet drapes and mirrors that were relative to such establishments. Her version contained no imitations.
Margo had a passion for antiques. Her furnishings revolved around that theme. Each room represented a different period. The income she generated from her business financed the conversion of her home into a museum. Margo's ambition was to live among the relics of the past.
She treasured her old-fashioned canopied bed. An ornate mirror reflected down upon her. The dealer assured her the piece was authentic, having once belonged to a decadent countess.
Margo climbed on the bed, relishing its elegance. Her crotch smoothed over the satin bedding. She sobbed at the lush sensation. Her pussy tingled from lingering thoughts of Mike. His lasting touch continued to torment her. She had total recall of the pressure he exerted against her thigh; the caress of his fingertips on her arm; and his penetrating stare.
Keeping those elements in mind, she opened the drawer to her night stand. A three-speed vibrator awaited her use. She settled against the heap of pillows, propping herself. Her thighs moved apart, her feet sliding across the silk sheets in anticipation.
The silk panties Margo wore had three hidden snaps that opened the crotch area. She undid each of them, savoring their popping noise. Blonde fur peeked from the gap. With two fingers, she separated her thick cunt lips. Droplets of moisture clung to those pink folds.
Gazing above, she studied the reflection of her glistening flesh. Her snatch had that wet, hungry look. Her fingers drifted over that sodden patch, swirling. Her clit swelled beneath those purposeful rotations.
Images of Mike monopolized Margo's mind. She saw him without clothes, his face red and sweating. Urgently, he dragged her beneath him, seeking entry.
Margo turned the end section, which activated the machine's hum. Gently, she lowered the tip to her susceptible love button. At the point of contact, she came. Her brain had been fed explosive visuals. Her heels burrowed into the sheets, elevating her buttocks. The vibrator hotly pursued her spasming cunt. She rocked, digesting the shivers it produced.
"Yes," she whispered to her phantom lover. "Don't stop. Ohhhh. Give me more of it."
The oscillating tip pressed into her susceptible flesh, augmenting her pleasure. Trembling, she began her next ascent.
She moistened the rim of her lips with her tongue. Her nipples bulged beneath her silky finery. Her pussy retracted, then thrust at an imaginary cock. Mike's contorted features were mental pablum for her unraveling fantasy.
Intuitively, she recognized the animal in him. Margo identified those men which held their thirst in reserve. Once their passion had been roused, they became insatiable. To complete their satisfaction, they required several rounds of sex.
Margo pretended he jammed his dick into her wet pussy. She buckled from the fictitious impact. The joy of containing his frenzied cock made her swelter. Perspiration broke over her body as she writhed.
"Yes," she murmured, flogging her clit. "Fuck me. Make me cum."
She gritted her teeth while the humming apparatus brought into play the images that occupied her head. The juices oozed from her cunt. Jerking her hips, she simulated fucking. The vibrator circled her aroused clit, then pressed into it.
"Oh, God," she sputtered. "Oh, God! Ohhh."
Her hips snapped from the ferocious contractions that riddled her body. Her green pupils curved in their whites while she underwent that debilitation. Her buttocks slammed onto the silk sheets until she exhausted herself. Drained, she rolled on her side and curled into a ball. The shaking did not subside for several minutes.
A hostile eye was trained on Margo's convulsive display via a high-powered telescope. Situated in a building directly across from hers, that person glimpsed her in the throes of orgasm. Margo's fulfillment had been gripping. The owner of the Golden Chemise had been under scrutiny for weeks. Her erotic behavior was of keen interest.
Her watcher derived satisfaction from conducting a hidden surveillance. Becoming a regular customer of the Golden Chemise was the first step. Initially, it had brought some anxiety. Fear of recognition plagued that person. Fortunately, Margo failed to make the connection to someone she had once known.
Her beholder emerged from her well-guarded past. More than twenty years ago, Margo Chandler had committed a crime for which she had dodged retribution. She may have conveniently swept that sin under the carpet, but her spectator hadn't. After two decades, the search was over. Changing her name and appearance hadn't helped her escape detection.
Launching a wildly lucrative business had been her fatal mistake. It illuminated her path. Margo Chandler would pay with her life.