Sauce For The GanderChapter 4 free porn video

Charlee took in the loft, nearly agape. “Olga, this is fantastic! How can you possibly afford it?”

Olga snickered. “About that, Charlee, you see... ?”

Charlee fixed her with a good-natured glare. “You’ll be lucky, not to get a docking, smarty-pants.” She gave her employee a slap on the pants.

Olga had stumbled onto this incredible find, an up-market apartment in a converted warehouse overlooking the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. It was technically a loft, split between two levels, but the conversion had skimped on the bedroom level, leaving barely room for the custom king-sized bed she’d had made. Even so, even with her salary from FreeStyle, she couldn’t possibly afford it.

“I want to throw a house-warming Saturday night,” she said. “I’d prefer it very small, of course--” She shrugged apologetically. “You and Charlotte, Penny and Tom Doyle. Do you think they’d come?” she somehow asked straight-faced.

Charlee was not fooled. “You don’t need my permission to shag Penny Doyle, twit. I can’t believe how magically you’ve restrained yourself, knowing how you pine after my pretty little house-mouse.”

Olga coloured deeply. She’d been hopelessly smitten since viewing the tapes back in June, when Charlee had de-clothed Penny in the downstairs corridor outside the suite. Saturday, June 11, 2016: the date was branded into her memory.

“That would be okay with you then?” Olga asked worriedly. “Penny, and I?”

Charlee theatrically rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe I entrust the club to such a twit! Do I need to tattoo permission onto your backside with my bare hand, young lady? I will be more than happy doing so. Especially since I see your bare backside so rarely, these days.” She regarded her employee critically. “Have you lost weight? Tell me you haven’t lost more weight!”

Olga averted her gaze. At 5’10” tall, she was an emaciated 102 lbs., a minimum 24 lbs. below the newly established guidelines for runway models in France, where she could no longer work. Olga had a Body Mass Index of 14.6: the minimum BMI allowable in France since 2015 was 18.0; a reason Olga had accepted the position of Charlee’s Girl Friday at FreeStyle. Her earnings, though still respectable in the general population, had been nearly halved by the guidelines. And Britain was considering signing on.

“Olga, answer me!”

“Okay!” she replied, exasperated. “Only a pound, though. And I had gained two pounds last week, so I’m still a little up.”

“You need 25 to be re-certified!” Charlee said hotly. “Do I—”

“24,” Olga interrupted.

“What?”

“Only 24,” Olga muttered peevishly. “Don’t make it worse than it is, please.”

Charlee laughed caustically. “I really want to beat you with a belt right now, love.”

Olga crossed her arms, evincing a chin-up stance. Though Charlee had claimed to spank Olga only the week before to Penny and Tom (unbeknownst to Olga), the claim was untrue. Many a bare bottom had suffered beneath Charlee’s hand, but Olga’s was not among them. Charlee had long since given up hope of Olga becoming a submissive; despite every imaginable contrary indicator, Olga was simply too strong willed and independent to surrender her freedom. Charlee had slapped her before, and once blackened Olga’s eye, but Olga was tough, no less hardened, and flexible than an oak.

Charlee sighed. “You are incorrigible.”

“Said the thistle to the sagebrush,” Olga retorted. She loosened her stance. “I am, what I am, love. Take me or leave me as I am. Isn’t that what you told Tom?”

Charlee grumbled something undecipherable. Between she, Olga, and the Saguaro cactus potted in the corner, Tom was the bane of Charlee’s existence. Olga had taken her confession in the suite on Saturday night; her commitment to remaining a lesbian was all but gone. Tom had seduced her mentally, if not physically so far, but would lay claim to her mouth, vagina, and possibly her rear end their next meeting. She despised herself being so weak-willed, as gaga over Tom, as Olga was over his wife. Olga understood the compulsive, if hated need; she craved her husband, Charlotte, the same way. The difference was Charlotte had taken her many times; Tom had only touched Charlee’s breasts.

“Charlotte has a hard-on for Tom, too,” Charlee pointed out. Olga grinned at her Americanism.

“Yes, but Tom knows Charlotte is only out for loan until the operation. Once her penis is gone--” She made a brutal ripping gesture. “--it’s done. Besides, he’ll lose all interest in her then. She’ll just be another woman with three holes to fuck instead of two. You have thousands of them to offer from the club.”

“You can be really crass sometimes,” Charlee growled.

“Taught by the master,” Olga retorted. “Can we get off this subject and talk about Penny?”

Charlee muttered, “I need a drink,” and made for the kitchen.

Two hours later, Charlee asleep beside her on the waterbed, Olga carefully propped herself against the headboard on two pillows, clasped her hands over her abdomen and twiddled her thumbs. She purposely left her chest exposed so the residents across the canal could view her minuscule breasts, should they want. It would not be easy in full daylight, but the sun shown over their shoulders, directly into Olga’s west-facing windows, so that might help. Normally not wont for making it easy on anyone--least of all herself, she thought glumly--sightseers were an exception. She liked being seen nude. That came with modelling.

She hated Penny Doyle, simply loathed the woman. She’d robbed Olga of her aloofness, brought her to her knees, grovelling. Made her broach the subject of her need to Charlee, like a schoolgirl pleading to be let run to the potty before soiling her knickers and uniform skirt. Charlee had thought it funny, Olga desperate as an adolescent, made to plead. All that humiliation for one miserable kiss.

She shifted carefully, not wanting to awaken her bedmate. The huge waterbed posed a risk: in order to secure an engineer’s sign-off on the integrity of the loft framework to support the bed’s weight, she let herself be seduced by the partner of a structural engineer she’d met at the club.

His calculations proved the load-bearing capacity of the framework marginal, at best, and advised against the king-sized bed. Go smaller, he told her, and I’ll sign off on the insurance certificate. The man didn’t know Olga very well.

She gazed at Charlee, wondering what her boss and oft-times lover would make of Olga sucking an engineer’s cock and swallowing his mouthful to get what she wanted. Charlee would never know, not from her lips, anyway. It certainly wasn’t the first cock she’d sucked (you didn’t last long in modelling without sucking cock--and often more than one at time) and it wouldn’t be her last. Her legs were forever locked against men, and certainly her rear end, but not so her mouth. This time, used twice, it earned her a signed insurance certificate.

She unexpectedly thought of Charlotte, and what the loss of her penis would mean. She shifted uncomfortably again, almost painfully, imagining her lawfully wedded husband without the member she had so lovingly fucked the last two years. So many times between her legs, sucked with her lips, licked lovingly with her long, pierced tongue. It baffled her that, with Charles she went nowhere; with Charlotte she flew to the moon and back. And two weeks from now, her husband would have cease being a biological male, and become outwardly just like a wife.

Charlotte had fucked Tom Doyle. It galled Olga, knowing that. She had offered her own rear end to Charlotte numerous time, had practically begged to be taken anally by her small, perfect cock, but Charlotte refused. Instead, she inserted that wonderful cock up Tom Doyle’s prick ass and fucked it till she came. She knew this, not only through Charlee’s intimate revealings--she was good at wheedling things out of Charlee in bed--but via the hidden cameras in the suite.

She gazed at Charlee again. No one, not even Charlotte knew of the cameras in the suite. They were impossible to spot, professionally installed during the remodelling two years ago when FreeStyle rose from the ashes of Club Headway, the ill-fated headbanger’s club.

Charlee was innocent in this case, as unwilling a participant in the installation as Olga. Surveillance was authorized and arranged by the major shareholder, the unsavoury Anthony Kantoris, currently under investigation by Interpol for narcotics trafficking across Europe. He was out of the picture, currently, in Switzerland; one of the reasons the suite had never been used for its main purpose: blackmail and extortion. Only Charlee and Olga knew of the surveillance capabilities. They had never been used, except by Charlee or Olga to spy on the suite’s various guests. Often, they watched themselves together, or with Charlotte, in bed or sprawled across the furniture in the living space. Charlee had given permission for Olga to watch last week, live, if the opportunity presented. It hadn’t; Olga watched the next evening, locked alone in the security booth.

“Fucking Tom Doyle,” she muttered. He had such a huge cock. The biggest she’d ever seen on a white man. She’d used her mouth on a few Tom’s size, or even bigger, but all had belonged to men of colour, powerful men in the business who used models like other men used a car--or the mouth and body of a wife or girlfriend. God, you are so jaded, she thought dismally.

What gave her hope was that Tom had not used that member on Charlee or Charlotte yet, only his wife. He’d necked seriously with Charlotte, had done everything but brutally fuck her rear end, but that was the difference that counted, wasn’t it; he’d taken from Charlotte in the end, rather than take her. Of that, she was grateful. However, that would amend itself on Saturday night, at her own instigating. Possibly ending the long abstinence of her bed-partner, silently sleeping beside her. All to get Penny Doyle.

Olga closed her eyes and despondently shook her head. Penny Doyle. It made no sense. If Penny would have her, Olga would instantly abandon her life and move into the tiniest flat, the most Ill-conceived relationship imaginable, only to share that flat and relationship with a dowdy blonde house-mouse.

“Fuck.”

She needed a smoke. Flipping back the satin purple sheets, she slipped off the bed, waited uncertainly as Charlee stirred in her sleep--the 3-day old, beautifully coloured leopard tattoo on her right shoulder was red and puffy--and then tiptoed to the windows forming her west wall, and gazed out.

She was on Miller’s Quay, in Kirkstall, facing Kitchener Terrace and Trafalgar Avenue. The homes and apartments all were perfectly situated for viewing her bedroom and the apartment space below. The windows had no blinds, relegating Olga to existence in a true glass house, if not for the electronic sunshades installed by the engineer and his partner as a house-warming gift.

Oddly, the two weren’t lovers. Anna was married with a teen daughter, and one on the way. She liked women, and Olga liked her, would go to bed with her again, if asked. She was Olga’s age, with a truly awesome eye for fashion. That alone made her compatible with Olga. Nothing like that existed with Penny Doyle.

Naked, Olga tread softly to the stairs and descended to the lower level. This place was such a steal; it was unthinkable that she had bid on it at all, much less been the higher of only two bids. Bidding wars--often ugly and contentious--had erupted over the sale of every other unit. Had Anna the architect and Daniel the structural engineer had a hand in that, she wondered? Daniel was certainly smitten with her, and Anna apparently fond. She’d approached Daniel before the sale, even before she made the bid, already intent on having the custom king-size bed no matter what. It was certainly possible.

She dropped to the couch, then pushed up and made for the kitchen for a beer. Charlee’s two empties sat on the counter; she grabbed one in each hand to avoid the clink of glass, placed them one at a time in the recycle bin, and got a Heineken from the fridge. Leaning against the cold door, breaking herself out in goose-flesh, she spun off the lid and took a sip.

For the sexual animal you are, she thought moodily, you are such a glass cat. She’d thought to lose her virginity to Tyler Crowe in fifth grade. In 6th grade, she’d been alone with boys after school, in the woods, in basements and bedrooms and family rooms, living rooms and dens, and once even in Stanley Smallwood’s parents bedroom. Yet 7th grade found her starting the school year yet a virgin, breasts un-bared, vagina untouched, rear end never cuddled in lust. Her first oral sex was six years away, in Liverpool, England.

She’d finally relinquished her virginity at age 29, to her husband, Charlotte Baker. It was the best night of her life, and one she thought might never occur. It hadn’t yet, with a true male, she thought, frowning gloomily.

Saturday night. She’d never injected herself into a situation where coupling with a man might result. It was a distinct possibility here. She sensed instinctively, and Charlee had said as much: “If you want a chance with Penny, then Tom may be part of the bargain, love.”

Would Tom Doyle be her first? Not if that interfered with Charlee and Tom, she thought. She’d watched Tom with Charlee in the office fucking his wife, and again in the apartment suite. She had never seen Charlee so desperately in control herself, denying what her body wanted, and needed. She’d never seen Charlee refuse her body anything, until now. What an effed up mess.

Surprised to have finished her beer, she opened another and deposited the empty in the recycle bin. She’d left bed for a cigarette, so crossing to the couch, she withdrew a gold-tipped Sobranie from the pack, picked up her lighter and went to the balcony door. Sliding it a few inches, she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, exhaling through her nose. Like all runway models, she existed on cigarettes, coffee, bottled water, cocaine, and marijuana.

She was being watched. Glancing idly across the canal, her gaze picked up nothing at first: not surprising, with the sun in her eyes. She been here two weeks, and every night she’d moved about the loft in little or no clothing, clandestinely revealing her treasure, revelling in her sexuality, taunting herself and her viewers both. This was a discovery to her, a revelation, a dangerous excess. This behaviour invited rape.

She dropped her gaze to the canal, took a lungful and exhaled. This served two purposes: she expanded her chest for whoever watched, and put him at ease by looking away from his possible location. She knew he was male; had sensed that instinctively. How old he was, her sixth sense didn’t know. Was he alone, eyeing her through binoculars, masturbating as he watched? Most likely not; doing so would make her too difficult to view at a distance.

If an adult, she wondered, was he alone? If a teen boy, possibly with friends? The idea unleashed a powerful shiver down her spine, and made her tiny nipples stiffen achingly. She fought not to rub them convulsively.

Penelope Anne Brighton Doyle.

Rich Upscale Bitch. Yummy Mummy. Sausage Jockey. Humper. What other derogatory names could she come up for her popcorn hoe? Cunt? Cockadilly? Ski? All appropriate and all fitting for her little wench.

She sighed, blowing out a lungful of smoke. A flash caught her eye, but she kept her gaze on the languishing, bottle green water below. It was a flat, 3rd or 4th floor of the building to her left. If correct, she had noted the owner twice before, each time on his balcony, drinking a beer, or smoking a cigarette. Once, he’d caught her eye and tentatively waved. She’d been dressed at the time; taking the air in a silk gown, colour of the water below. She’d waved, languid as the water.

Do you like what you see, or am I too skinny, she wondered? She’d never been so skinny before--or this flat-chested. But her experience was the skinnier you were, the harder men drooled over you. Her observer was certainly drooling over her bare breasts right now, she surmised. She lifted her eyes, and found him right at the balcony glass, binoculars trained on her naked body. Inhaling, she flicked ash off the tip, raised her chin, and blew smoke upward. It pooled at the balcony ceiling. She was partly hidden by the narrow door frame, and considered stepping onto the balcony itself. Was she brave enough to do that? Crazy enough? Why did she torture herself like this?

Sighing, Olga flicked the cigarette over the balcony rail, instantly regretting the action. Reflex almost made her dart to the rail naked, to look over. Instead, she gazed across the 50 yards to her admirer’s balcony window, and shrugged apologetically. She watched him start in recognition of being seen, and then slowly nod. She waved demurely, and he waved back. A moment later, he dropped the binoculars and opened the balcony door, stepped outside and grinned. Olga grinned back. You like my skinny naked body, then, she thought. Too bad I’m too stupid to ever give it to you.

Olga wore an apron and nothing else. Charlee had set the table while Olga cooked dinner, occasionally wandering over to lend a hand, cop a feel of Olga’s hopelessly narrow bottom, or lecture her on the stupidity of owning a flat she couldn’t afford. Also, of wandering naked (or nearly so) before floor to ceiling windows forming the west wall of said flat, or resorting to the subterfuge of a house-warming to get Penelope Doyle into bed.

“You ate her damned tongue, for God’s sake!” Charlee said in exasperation. “She knows you want her in bed more than anything except the repeal of Statute 91. Maybe even more than that, based on that fucking kiss. Do you know how close you came to spontaneously combusting? I was embarrassed for your unborn child, Olga Marlene Holloman Baker!”

Olga grinned. Charlee used her full name only when truly aggravated. We’re she Charlee’s submissive right now, a terrific spanking might ensue, one guaranteed to make its recipient kick and flail wildly, beg and plead for mercy and forgiveness, scream and cry, reduced in the end to a bawling infant. Olga had seen it done to others. Charlee had a spanking hand.

Charlee smacked her rear end a good one and walked off. Olga allowed that. It was her gift to Charlee, an outlet when stymied by Olga’s contrariness or intractability. No one was intractable like Olga Marlene Holloman Baker.

She looked at her rear. A white-limbed handprint was clearly visible on her right cheek. Charlee was left-handed, and it always caught Olga by surprise when Charlee lost her temper and unleashed. One night in the suite, she’d unfortunately witnessed what Charlee did to a sub. The woman’s face bore the same handprint, twice as lividly red, on both cheeks. Charlee had made the woman--her name was Madeleine, Olga remembered--put a raw egg in her mouth, followed by another, and then go down on Charlee without breaking the eggs. Off course, Charlee made her swallow the broken eggs raw, shell and all. Olga could never be a submissive.

“If you don’t want me with Penny, just say so,” Olga grumbled. “Don’t get angry with me. You know how frightening you are when you get angry, Charlene.” Olga remembered her black eye, and the swollen lip a week later. Of course, Charlee had sported a shiner and split lip of her own after that fortnight of strife.

Charlee went to stand at the balcony door. Olga hadn’t seen her admirer thus far today, but hadn’t lost hope. It was her night off; once Charlee left for the club, she’d venture onto the balcony and see if he did the same. She’d do it in clothes though; no sense being ridiculously stupid. Normally stupid was good enough.

“It’s just infatuation, you know.” She reduced the heat and let the dish simmer. Joining Charlee at the window, she encircled her chest and kissed the side of her neck. “And it isn’t, I guess. It doesn’t affect us, though. I still love you as much as I ever have, Charlee. More,” she corrected, slipping a hand inside Charlee’s shirt and cupping her left breast. Like all women, Charlee’s breasts were affected by handism: her left breast was marginally larger than the right, and Olga’s preferred target to fondle. Her own breasts were too small to evince a notable difference in size.

“I’m not angry,” Charlee lied. Her hand sought Olga’s crotch through the front of her black apron. Olga cupped her breast tighter, manipulated her nipple into hardness between thumb and forefinger. Charlee wore no bra, though she’d don one before heading out to work. Olga selected Charlee’s under-things, and Charlotte’s also. She advised on Charlotte’s wardrobe, as well, ensuring that Charlotte dressed appropriately for her sex. Charlee dressed as she pleased.

“I don’t expect Penny to leave Tom and run away with me,” Olga complained. “It stunned me the way she reacted to my kiss, Charlee. I was mortified. I almost peed my pants!” she exclaimed, laughing.

“This reassures me so much,” Charlee grumbled. “Reassure me much more, and I’ll walk out the fucking door, bitch.”

Olga attacked her ear, which made Charlee squirm and want Olga’s tongue in her mouth. “You’ve had her three times, and you’re still with me. Tom’s had her for 20 years, and she’s still with him. Charlotte is smitten with Tom, and everyone wants you, which doesn’t exactly make my life blissful, Charlene Baker.”

Charlee spun in her arms. “You make my head ache when you talk like that, twit.”

Olga nodded acceptingly. She uttered pure nonsense quite often, mostly when stressed, which was more often, then not.

“I want Penny, and I want you to want me with her. I want your permission to ask her, and I want your encouragement. I want you to--”

“Jesus! Please shut up!” Charlee cried. “I give you permission. I give you permission to fuck Tom, if that’s what you want! Fuck them both at one time! Fuck anyone you fucking want, just shut up, goddammit!”

Olga shut her up with a kiss. Ten seconds later, Charlene carried her 99 lbs. upstairs to the bed, tore off the apron and fucked her skinny ass. Nobody cared about dinner.

Charlee left at five. The sun was westering, two hours higher than when Olga had stood in the doorway yesterday evening and smoked the Sobranie, allowing her neighbour to observed her nude. She’d emptied tonight’s ruined dinner in the sink and flushed it down the garbage disposal with an aggressive roar of machinery. She wore nothing doing it, and stayed that way, scrubbing the burnt brass pan, putting it away beneath the centre island. It took 20 additional minutes to finish cleaning the kitchen and open a beer. Then she took a Sobranie, her lighter, and a magazine to the balcony door and lit up.

The magazine was Elle, and Olga appeared six times in ads. Two pages in had Olga lounging just inside the balcony door of a Mediterranean hotel, iced drink in hand, hair in apparent disarray, the front of her satin robe tantalizingly open. It was a perfect shot, showing all but her right nipple, strategically obscured inside the robe. In reality, her nipple was Photoshopped out before printing, her complexion manipulated, her breast size enhanced. It made her appear a B-cup.

Flipping farther, Olga located herself in a Joie Katja chiffon blouse. Following an article on Michael Kors, wearing a floral print dress with a Michael Kors handbag over her shoulder, Michael Kors sunglasses perched on her nose. Near the back, Olga lounged on the beach inside an Emilio Pucci swimsuit. The swimsuit was upstairs in a drawer, a gift in exchange for a cocaine-enhanced blow-job. The swimsuit cost nearly a thousand pounds. Olga could afford a blow job, not the swimsuit.

Penelope Anne Brighton Doyle: vixen, harlot, tramp. Strumpet, tart, hussy.

Had she left any out? Trollop, slut, nympho.

You could better define yourself that way, she thought acidly. I suspect Penny Doyle never traded her lips for a precious swimsuit or an engineer’s stamp. She lit up, and observed the motionless water.

What’s wrong with me? I have so many women to choose from. Experienced models galore, every one of who would gladly invite me home for a romp. Desperate youngsters, trying to break in, willing to trade anything for a break, big or small, with the ice queen. Olga was sought after for mid-to-high level profile shoots--the Elle in her hand proved that. Not a supermodel by anyone’s definition, but a reliable, if mostly unnamed workhorse. She’d put more than one youngster on the path to riches. So, what had her so fixated on a 37-year-old home-maker?

She wasn’t, of course, a housewife. Olga knew Penny taught Catholic girls at that high school somewhere in Leeds, the name of which eluded her--if she ever knew it at all. She was married: Olga avoided married women like the plague. She had two kids, one a freaking 14-year-old, the boy 12, probably hot for mum and his sister, both. Her brother, Tim, had tried getting into Olga’s pants when he was 12. (With no more luck than any boy in the US.) He spied on their mum, had found her stash of photos and videos on a hard-drive, had probably spent years beating off, watching her mother fuck. No kids--no, no, never!

“Why do I want you so fucking much?” she murmured.

I’ll tell you why, a birdie chirped in her head. She’s normal. Has a husband and kids, a dog and a cat, a house in the countryside with a big mortgage. A lawn to be mowed, and tests to grade in the evenings. What you have is a milieu of hi-octane catwalk models that subsist on cocaine, coffee, cock, and cunt--every one as neurotic as you. You have a lesbian girlfriend and a transsexual husband. Shortly, the only cock in your life, the one you can’t live without, the only penis to ever say hello to your wasted cervix, will say hello to the knife, and goodbye to the world. You’re frigid as an ice lollipop at the South Pole in the middle of a blinding, 100 mile per hour blizzard.

Not when she kissed me last Thursday night, she thought emotionally. Charlee was right about that: I was seconds away from ripping my clothes off and declaring my undying love. No one had ever kissed her like that before. Like the joining of magnesium and a flame: incandescent, insanely hot. Penny’s tongue-tangled kiss had left her perfectly breathless, perfectly discombobulated.

Penelope Anne Brighton Doyle: mother, wife, teacher, lover. Indescribably desirable.

It was 3:30 a.m. The club was closed down, the staff sent home, the receipts totalled. All cash was sent away via armoured carrier. The armoured service was costly, but so was being robbed. Two security guards, normally unobtrusive and watching from the shadows, would camp out upstairs. Charlee never stayed in the club overnight without security guards. Costly, but so was being raped and murdered. The suite was soundproofed, but not a panic room. Nonetheless, Olga locked and bolted the door.

“Get your clothes off, bitch!” Charlee ordered.

Both women laughed. While Olga went to the kitchen to make them both drinks, Charlee stretched mightily, yawning, untied her boots and kicked them off.

“You are such a dear,” Olga said. “Thank you for inviting Penny and Tom.” She kissed the boss’s cheek, and put a drink in her hand. She’d chilled the glasses, making them frosty-cold before pouring the drinks from the pitcher; Charlee took a sip of hers.

“I did not inform Penny of your nefarious plans,” she said. “She thinks it’s really a house-warming. A pyjama-party, house-warming,” she corrected. “Charlotte will be there. An unfortunate 3rd wheel, if you couple with Penny, and I...” She took another sip of her drink, too embarrassed to finish.

“Do you think you will?” Olga asked curiously.

“I’m tired, frustrated, and my effing pudenda is rubbed raw for lack of hair--” She gave Olga a fisheye. “I’m stressed to the end of my wits with you and this Penny business--” She downed the remainder of her drink in one go. “--and I have a fucking haemorrhoid from you and that fucking dildo of yours!”

Olga stared at her open-mouthed. Wisely, considering Charlee’s tirade, she said nothing. The dildo/strap-on combination were Charlee’s, purchased from Gairsay at the novelty shop.

“I have Preparation H,” Olga offered obliquely. A hazard of modelling, when your diet consisted of coffee, cigarettes, cocaine, and cunt.

Charlee glowered at her.

“Sorry. Let me pour you another drink, Charlee.”

While she did, Charlee peeled off her socks and tossed them aside, rubbing her aching feet. Tonight she had worn a men’s chambray work shirt, stressed jeans, and Olga’s choice of lavender brassiere and panties. No one but Olga would see them, so no harm, no foul. Truth was, she liked Olga selections of underwear. It made her feel marginally female again. Besides, lavender was Charlee’s colour. Olga appeared with a refill

“Thank you.”

“Mmmm,” Olga responded, sipping. She looked moderately ravishing tonight, sporting an open-front lavender top (no coincidence there), purple skirt, and stiletto heels, in a colour not quite describable as purple. Almost anyone wanting a peek at her breasts tonight had seen them--men, and women all.

She wondered what her secret admirer had thought of the top; she had modelled it for him, sight unseen, before coming to work. It bothered her, not knowing sometimes whether he even watched. Sometimes she couldn’t tell. She hated wasted effort.