by Frost, Sosie
But, somewhere between the sheets and the office, I’d learned the greatest lesson of all.
If I wanted to succeed in this industry…
It was time to play dirty.
11
Cameron
Crossing Mackenza Maxwell was a mistake.
And I couldn’t simply regret my decisions.
No. She punished me for them.
All of them.
I’d checked to ensure she did as I’d ordered—setting up the hairdressers and makeup artists to work on the models commissioned for the board meeting. And, for one perfect moment, I’d believed Mackenza had redeemed herself and acted in the best interests of the company.
I was an idiot.
Mackenza had begun the meeting without me.
Ten minutes early.
It might’ve been admirable for someone so eager to showcase the lingerie for the curious Board members, but I knew the brat.
And, by locking the door behind her and forcing me to chase a janitor over two floors to find a key, I knew to expect nothing short of a blistering headache from the woman I couldn’t deny and the employee I couldn’t fucking fire.
I flung the meeting doors open and interrupted Mackenza’s presentation—a presentation I hadn’t approved her to make.
But whatever she’d said, she’d sold it well.
And it’d helped that the woman was radiant.
Wasn’t sure what sort of illness made a woman more beautiful, but whatever stomach bug she’d caught had illuminated her skin and brightened her eyes. She still dressed mainly in black, but she indulged me with a cherry-lipped smile. Innocent and playful. Her best and worst qualities.
She’s snuck the threat of pink into her ensemble—a bubblegum belt and matching fingernails. Prepping for war.
The board applauded her proposal as she waved me toward an open seat. Of course, she’d taken mine at the head of the table.
I carefully picked my path to the table. The meeting room was usually a clutter of executive chairs, electronics, and men who’d long lost use of their prostate. She’d cleared it, setting a scene of soft classical music and gentle spotlights fixed on a make-shift path for a runway.
“Gentlemen…” She concluded her speech with a sunshine smirk. “I want to personally thank you for taking time out of your schedule for this critical meeting.”
She silenced me before I could speak by pushing me into the empty chair.
“And I want to thank Cameron for granting me this opportunity to present LACE Industries new line to all of you today.”
Shit.
“Mackenza…” I spoke through gritted teeth. “I meant to address the board today.”
“Absolutely, Cameron,” she said. “I’m sure the Board will have many questions for you. But I’m going to ask that they hold all issues, concerns, and comments until the end of the performance. Wouldn’t want to keep those lovely ladies waiting any longer, right, gentlemen?”
The brat winked at the row of elderly, nearly catatonic men, the majority of which had shuffled into the meeting with liberal uses of canes, walkers, and the assistance of third wives no older than their granddaughters.
Her confidence worked. The men might’ve eagerly awaited their own private fashion show, but Mackenza’s modest beauty was just the little blue pill the Board needed to look alive.
And she did her best to win them over, brushing her fingers over liver-spotted hands as she offered a hacking board member a glass of water. Most of the men had one foot in the grave, the other in the Canary Islands with the rest of their money, but their attention fixed on the woman as she handed printed-out copies of her presentation to one of the board members tapping his malfunctioning hearing aid.
Had she not been trying to subvert me, I would’ve believed she was perfect for this job.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “We are all excited to see what Maxwell Intimates has to offer, especially now that we’ve been blessed with Mr. Mitchell’s stalwart leadership. And while Cameron has offered our company a unique perspective for our future, I can guarantee you that our success…” She extended her arms. “Is rooted in our past.”
Oh Christ.
I attempted to stop her, but Mackenza had armed herself with a green laser pointer. With one deft wave of her hand she roasted my corneas. I crashed back into my chair.
“Maxwell Intimates has always been devoted to ensuring a woman is pampered in every stage of her life. That’s why I’m pleased to present to you our newest line of lingerie…” She tapped her phone and switched the music from the twinkle of classical music to a barrage of R&B. “The Senior-ita! Because a senior should always feel young at heart…and in body.”
What the hell?
Our lingerie line was called RAVISHED—a label Mackenza hadn’t understood until I’d proven to her what the word meant.
Senior-ita was…
Oh shit.
The doors opened…
And my worst nightmare came to life.
The trendy, R&B remix pumped a high-powered beat as the meeting room lights began to swirl in a haze of pinks, purples, and whites.
The first model trudged into the room.
Her heels clipped against the tile first…
…Her walker clanked after her.
And a little old woman with stark white hair and an osteoporosis hunch shuffled into the room…
Wearing only her underwear.
No.
Wearing Maxwell Intimates underwear.
Then…she danced.
The black woman shimmied into the meeting room, her arthritis cracking every joint in time to the music, and her booty quaking as much as her trick hip would permit.
With a twist, turn, and puff of her inhaler, the woman dosey-doed and dosey-oh no’ed throughout the meeting room in the silver underwear, her wrinkles mercifully layering over the low-rise panty bottoms which were slowly slipped a little too low over hips that couldn’t remember how to lie.
One of the Board members gave an enthusiastic howl which thrilled the little old lady into shaking what the Lord had given her many, many years ago. Unfortunately, his groan had been of pain as her walker crunched down on his toes.
He leapt up, earning a strike on his ass from the incorrigible senior, wickedly straddling her walker-turned-stripper pole.
“Like what you see?” She cackled and reached into the bra, pulling a handful of Werther’s Originals from the depths and tossing them over the wide-eyed and slack-jawed board members. “Bet you’d love to get a little sugar, eh?”
Mackenza regained the attention on the floor, and her speech interrupted the woman’s second act—a dance involving a skein of yarn, a denture cleaning tablet, and something she’d learned in the 60s.
“As you can see…” Mackenza spoke, her voice clear and focused. “Martha is wearing one of our newest shapewear lines. This year, we’ve incorporated a new underwire tucked inside the brassiere—a more flexible fix which creates breathable clothing as it naturally contours against the breast.”
To demonstrate, Martha tossed away her walker, raised her arms into the air, and showcased her jazz hands until the skin under her arms clapped in time to the music.
“Our newest brassiere features this wider strap,” Mackenza said. “It places less stress on a single pressure point over potentially aching shoulders while still providing the comfort, security, and fit that our customers have come to trust.”
Martha hammed up the attention, dancing for the board with a shimmy so intense it might’ve been learned from a wild youth or a precursor to Parkinson’s.
Mackenza gently guided her around the board before calling for the next model.
“Now, Ruthie is wearing our famous full-body girdle.” She hesitated, cleared her throat, and called a little louder. “Ruthie?”
Still nothing.
With a sweet smile, Mackenza darted to the door and gave a shout.
“Ruthie!”
That did it.
Ruthie, God bless the woman, finally heard her cue, but she squinted through thick-plated glasses and attempted to enter a janitor’s closet. Mackenza fetched the lady and gave her a pat on the back in the right direction.
And the little old woman—wearing nothing but a nearly nude layer of skin-tight spandex—first appeared a bit too modest and reserved for such a revealing piece of underwear.
That is…
Until she slapped her ass and gave it a wiggle.
Which, to the garment’s credit, didn’t jiggle in the least.
The outfit was transparent.
It was tight.
And eighty years of womanhood had been scrunched, tucked, and shoved into a piece of spandex with such precision that it had shaved a good thirty years off the woman’s appearance.
And a good fifty percent off our stock prices.
Mackenza grinned. “Now, Ruthie is showcasing one of our most famous and purchased products. This full-body trainer not only slims the waist and fosters a younger shape, it also offers women guaranteed support in the areas they want most.”
Mackenza gestured to parts of the garment.
It did no good.
Every board member averted his eyes out of modesty, respect, and an unmitigated fear that the spandex would burst and slingshot across the room.
“If I can direct your attention to her bosom and her posterior, you’ll see the wonder that is this product,” she said. “This shaper contains no straps or wires, and yet it still provides stability to sore muscles while also gently reshaping and lifting.”
Had I known Maxwell Intimates had concocted a means to defy the very laws of gravity, I would’ve solicited buyers from a goddamned rocketry company and not fashion moguls.
I sunk deeper into my seat.
Mackenza had declared war with all the fucking subtlety of launching a bomb at my crotch.
And she hadn’t given me time to muster my own forces.
“Up next…” Mackenza changed the music to a sultry and bass thrumming song. “I would like to introduce you to Cleo, wearing the Pièce de résistance of the Senior-Ita Line…”
The next model didn’t wait for her cue.
The elderly black lady crashed into the room with a brilliant smile, a pair of panties swallowed by her gratuitous hips, and a straining, nearly failing bra that just barely tamed her massive…exuberance. She danced into the room, whooping as she strutted past the board.
The magenta feather boa around her shoulders cracked like a whip, and she captured the nearest board member within her web.
One yank, and she’d attempted to get him to dance.
Unfortunately, without his cane, he lost his balance.
Fortunately, she grabbed him as she bounced in time to the music. One girthy arm overpowered him, and, within seconds, his face had mooshed into the depths of her ample and nearly explosive cleavage.
Like a vision of a nature documentary, the man slowly disappeared as if consumed by quicksand.
He shouted. Muffled.
He flailed. Stuck.
He panicked. Suffocating.
Mackenza giggled. “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery, for showcasing the strength of our newest brassiere.”
He gasped for air. “Help…me…”
Yet Cleo was smitten, laughing loud and bright. “Oh, honey-baby, this is the most excitement I’ve had in weeks.”
Mackenza didn’t need to gesture toward the woman’s bosom.
It was all-encompassing.
Eternal.
Expanding like the very edges of our universe with incomprehensible speed and power.
And yet…the brassiere held.
Like a battle waged against God, the material held.
“Cleo is wearing one of our newest products—specifically designed for those with arthritic fingers in mind.”
Cleo hollered, holding the board member closer to her chest. “Perfect for those times when you feel a little stiff.” She hooted as the man uncomfortably adjusted himself. “Don’t worry, sugar. Momma understands.”
Mackenza cleared her throat. “As you can see, not only is this brasserie designed for a more well-endowed woman—”
“Say it loud and proud, chickadee!” Cleo shimmied her shoulders. “You ain’t never seen ta-tas like these!”
Mackenza agreed. “And, however impressive the lady’s chest, our front-clasp is guaranteed for comfort and security—staying fastened for all her daily activities while remaining easy to attach and detach for arthritic fingers. The brassiere is easy on…and easier off.”
To demonstrate, Cleo banished the board member from her chest and flicked a finger through the clasp.
She let the girls fly.
Unfortunately, most of her boa’s feathers had been lost in the struggle against the whip-lashed board member. And not enough pigeons existed in Ironfield to adequately cover Cleo as she wiggled, jiggled, and giggled across the meeting room.
Her breasts fell to her knees, her spirit fingers up to Jesus, and Cleo mambo’ed her way across the star-struck board members.
“Mackenza!” I spat out a magenta feather and stole her phone to stop the music. “The hell are you doing?”
“Oh, I knew, you’d never approve of this.” She smiled towards the board. “And that’s why I still prepared a presentation of the RAVISHED line.”
I didn’t trust her.
Should’ve realized that before I’d slept with her.
She clapped her hands, the sudden sharpness terrifying the shell-shocked board.
“Come on in, girls!” She called to the hallway. “And let’s present the newest adventure from Maxwell Intimates!”
I had a hope.
A singular, fleeting, momentary hope, that she had done as I’d asked.
But a past like mine should’ve beaten all the hope out of me.
What good was praying for a miracle when I’d simply pay for the mistakes.
Three elderly ladies sauntered into the room.
Wrapped into the sluttiest, skankiest, and most sensual lingerie we’d created.
I’d never known what the G stood for in G-String.
But now I figured it out.
Grandma.
The G stood for Grandma.
Grandma’s wearing lace.
Grandma’s wearing stockings.
And one lone grandma showcasing our DOMME line with a ball-gag in her mouth, cuffs around her ankles, and a crop slashing through the air with a violent crack.
“As you can see, this naughty new line is just waiting to be released!” Mackenza grinned. “And don’t they look stunning?”
Oh, I was stunned all right.
Stunned.
Infuriated.
Ruined.
But it was hard to look pissed when a grey-hair little woman shuffled close to lay a big fat kiss on my cheek.
“Oh, sonny…” The woman spat out the ball gag, and I avoided a swat from the crop. “I’ve never felt so alive before! Just wait until my husband, Albert, sees this! Of course, he can’t see so well after the stroke, but he’s always had those wandering hands!”
The eldest woman cackled in the crimson thong, her smoker’s cough rasping into a dry laugh. “Oh, my husband will love this. Half the time he doesn’t remember who I am anymore, but that hasn’t stopped us. Nothing like taking a stranger to bed every night!” She poked at me, twisting her oxygen line around her fingers as if it were a flirty lock of hair. “I bet this strapping young man knows a thing or two about that.”
The third woman—forever tarnishing the cream lingerie I’d so hoped to see on Mackenza—gave me a once over.
Despite her best efforts, squeezing my ass did not raise anything—including our stock prices.
“I bet we could teach this one a thing or two…” She hula’ed as best she could on a bad knee, popping a nitroglycerin tablet when she got too worked up. “Young buck like him doesn’t even know what a woman can do.”
Oh, I learned all too well
the tricks a woman could pull.
I retreated before they bruised my ass like a grocery store peach.
Mackenza addressed the board. “You see? Our line of lingerie will not only open new avenues in retail but will also promote healthy expressions of sexuality within our entire customer base.” She held up a hand. “And I know what you’re all thinking.”
“What did we do to deserve this?” I asked.
“Close.” She held my gaze. “You’re all wondering…but Mackenza, how can we possibly expand our base when the market is saturated with cheap, inferior brands at low prices available on the internet? Well, I have the solution—if we want more customers, we need to approach all customers. For the first time in Maxwell Intimates history…” She whistled between her fingers, summoning the next model. “We are trying something new—rebuilding and rebranding this company to make designer lingerie available to every beautiful woman…and every eager man.”
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
The music blared, pushing bright and bubbly pop through the speakers.
Mackenza swept her arms wide. “I present to you—Manties! The panties for men!”
A variable harem of buff, sweaty, and half-naked men bounded into the meeting room, each wearing little more than a scrap of lace to cover their own fashion disasters.
The panties did very little to support the parts of them flopping in time to a catchy Taylor Swift song.
Each man wore a different color, different style, and different version of RAVISHED that had looked so much better when wrapped around a woman.
Though two of the men had kindly shaven their legs for the event.
The rest? Unfortunately, a majority had suffered tragic wardrobe malfunctions as the lightweight material tangled around their fashion…accessories.
I begged them not to Shake It Off.
It didn’t take a fashion mogul to realize the truth. Sacks…were not sexy.
The investors stared in horror as Ruthie and Martha chose the hunks of their dreams and began grinding hard enough to warrant an entire tube of Ben Gay when they went home.
Cleo, however, had chosen her board member with a grin, and now sat him on her lap to tease him with the remains of her boa.
