Date: Tue, 25 Jul 2000 21:11:49 -0700 From: J. Ocean Subject: 17th Summer 12 My Seventeenth Summer, Part 12 The catalog was full of pictures of women in lingerie. Beautiful women, beautiful lingerie -- it put Victoria's Secret to shame. I started to flip through it, feeling the heat rise on the back of my neck. Some of the outfits were barely there, and some were downright nasty -- a full-page picture of a statuesque brunette in a crotchless mesh bodysuit, the horseshoe-shaped opening circling her pubic hair, was a particular eye-catcher. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that India was also paging through the catalog with one hand as she sipped champagne with the other. Turning the page, I did a double-take as I saw that the model on the next page was Julia. She was photographed from above as she lay sprawled on a bed in a wispy black lace bra-and-panty set. Her tits were spilling out of the bra, her erect nipples clearly visible beneath, her big brown eyes staring seductively into the camera. Thinking that this was what I had turned down in the stairwell, I felt faint. I quickly turned the page, but what I saw there was no help. It was India naked from the waist up. Photographed from behind, she was wearing only a tiny white thong that covered the merest fraction of her ass. She was half-turned toward the camera so that one breast was clearly visible. It was small and high and delicious-looking. I felt a little sweat break out on my forehead, and I couldn't help sneaking another glance at India. She had put down the champagne and now had slipped one hand inside her blouse, slowly and unself-consciously rubbing her left nipple as she turned the pages. I wanted to go over there and help her, but I quickly looked away. Returning to the catalog, I saw that toward the back it started to feature pictures of women together. There was Julia again, kneeling in front of a redhead in leather, her eyes closed as she rested her head on the redhead's hip. There was India again -- blindfolded, naked but for a garter belt, stockings and high heels. Feminine hands were reaching around from behind her, holding and hiding her breasts, and one stockinged leg was wrapped around her waist, coyly obscuring her crotch area. But the other woman must have been shorter, because her face was hidden behind India. I shifted my eyes from the picture to the model, who now had hiked up her skirt a little and had a hand between her legs, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Or maybe not -- suddenly, she looked up from the catalog and met my eyes. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she said teasingly. "Anything at all?" I froze. My natural instinct was to jump up, rip her clothes off, and do her right then and there. But I remembered my resolution and, wincing with effort, shook my head and returned my eyes to the catalog. I couldn't really concentrate on anything and it took all my will to keep my eyes riveted to the page. In another minute I think I would have broken, but then I heard footsteps approaching. Looking up, I saw a honey blonde in a dark blue pinstriped pantsuit. She walked right up to me and offered me her hand. "Morgan, my name is Kira. Thank you for your patience. We'll be ready in just a minute." She looked over at India. "India, would you get dressed please?" India nodded, stood, and exited with long, regal strides. Kira took the seat India had just vacated and I checked her out. She looked to be in her late 20s, with classic all-American features and a tan that rivaled those I'd seen in California. Her eyes were green and sparkling but with a serious, "don't-underestimate-me-because-I'm-blond" look. "Allow me to tell you a little about us," said Kira. "Chimera deals in world-class intimate fashions. All our products are made from the finest materials with the finest workmanship. We have a very exclusive clientele. And let me just say, Morgan, that you are one of the loveliest clients ever to walk through our doors. You will do justice to some of our most challenging outfits. As a matter of fact, if you said to me right now, 'Kira, I want you to delay the show for a few minutes so that we can go into the back room and get naked together,' I wouldn't hesitate to do that." I blinked. Was she kidding me? An enigmatic smile was playing at the corners of her mouth. It could have been a serious offer, and it could just have been her way of paying a compliment to a client. I was completely paralyzed, and the proposition just hung in the air for a long, tense moment. Then Kira was all business again, handing me a clipboard. "This is our scoresheet. During the show, please rate each outfit you see on a scale of one to ten. Afterward, we'll sit down, see which ones you rated highest, and write down your order. OK?" "OK," I said. It was all I could manage. Kira stood and walked to the far end of the room, where she knocked on a door. After a moment it swung open and Kira said, "She's ready." "Thanks, Kira," said a woman's throaty voice. Kira nodded at me and told me "I'll see you shortly" before leaving through the double doors. I was alone, feeling fairly perplexed, for a minute, before the owner of the voice emerged from the doorway. And that was the first time I laid eyes on Athena. How to describe Athena? She's a big woman, first off. About six feet tall with an enormous bust and wide hips, and a waist that's not small but tapered enough to perfect her figure. Black hair, black eyes, and skin that I've never seen on anyone else -- a smooth, lustrous, very light brown that I might call copper. When I saw her, my jaw dropped and I was rendered speechless. She was wearing casual clothes -- biker shorts and a loose-fitting gray top that was cropped just above her navel -- but on her they looked like the garments of a high priestess. When Athena walked up to me -- long, haughty, confident strides -- and introduced herself, and it was all I could do to lift my hand to take hers. And then I flashed: the woman in the catalog, the amazon in the crotchless bodysuit -- it was her! I very nearly dropped to my knees in worship. And I bet that wouldn't have fazed her at all; I bet it happened all the time. Somehow I remained standing, and Athena walked me to the front of the stage and deposited me into a tall chair so soft and deep that I felt I might have trouble getting out of it. On my right was another table with another bottle of champagne, open but untouched, and to the right of that a black director's chair upon which Athena now arranged herself. She picked up and placed in her lap some sort of control panel. For several minutes she fiddled with it as I sat nervously, wondering what the hell was going to happen now.