Out of Her Comfort Zone(8)

“What do you do for condoms, sweetie?” the exasperated matron asked.

“We have to order them special.”

“Of course you do. But we don’t have time for that, do we? Let me just check upstairs.” Leaving Emily in her panties staring at multitudes of her ruddy, goose-bumped self in the banks of mirrors, the Madame climbed up a rolling ladder to the loft behind. A garbage bag flew from that direction, landing with a thud by the stairs, but the lady took the stairs back down. Emily pulled open the loosely knotted bag, and a dozen torso-shaped pieces tumbled out.

“Silk, from our previous iteration,” the Madame said.

“Silk? But why are they so stiff?”

“Stays. The real antiques use whale bone but I think these are wood or ivory. Hopefully not rubber. Here’s a likely one.”

Emily slipped it on, and thank the heavens, her skin did not disapprove. In fact, it felt damn good. She slid her hands from under her now-perkier breasts and across her belly. Smooth as butter. So this was what it felt like.

“Now don’t go having too good a time there. We have to practice our strut next.”

On “strut,” the Madame’s voice took an odd dip. Emily suddenly realized that Madame Z was not a woman. Something in Emily’s face must have shown it, because the good Madame knew immediately.

“It’s the Adam’s apple, wasn’t it?”

“The voice. But I made excuses.”

“It’s what you expect, so you give me the benefit of the doubt. That’s how you’ll make it work. Your clientele will do the same for you.”

Her – his – kindness made Emily brave. “You must pad your bra. I want to, too.”

“Honey, you don’t need any padding, with that perfect little B-cup. Where you need it is in the behind. You a runner?”

“Swimmer.”

“Well, some shark must have bitten you down to the bone down there. Almost completely un-slapworthy.”

“Slapworthy?”

“Self-evident.” With pursed lips, Madame Z gazed a good twenty seconds at Emily’s derriere, and then gave a great sigh. “Gonna have to do it with the shoes.”

“Stilettos?” Emily’s voice squeaked the question.

“Too short. Spikes.”

Emily swallowed, hard. “I do think we’ll need to practice that.”

“Elliot paid for the whole afternoon, sweetie. Just you and me and the catwalk.”

Forty-five minutes, thirty painful trips up and down the runway, really a strip of carpet across the back of the store, and Emily was ready. The heels jammed her legs into her spine at such an angle it looked as if she really did have a perfect peach of a bottom. Shoulder blades kissing in back, chin up, she thought she could see a decent cleavage, as well.

Madame Z nodded in approval. “You’ll do fine. Ice down tonight and warm tomorrow, then practice again for a half-hour. Rinse, repeat until the big day.”

Emily bent at her hips and used her hands to lever herself off the shoes and onto the carpet. “Thank you so much. I actually think I might be able to do this.”

Madame Z’s eyes narrowed to nearly black slits. “Why do you even want to? Just because your Elliot thinks it would be ah-dohr-ah-bull?”

Emily frowned. Was that all it was? “Not only. I’m curious. I have to hide – well, I’m always playing down my looks, and, you know.” She shrugged. “I need the men in my field to respect me. And the women.”

“So, you fake it as a man. Well don’t we all, toots.”

Emily couldn’t help laughing. “You are so much the better woman than I am the man.” She shrugged. “It’s easier that way. But sometimes I wonder, what would it be like? What do those women feel like inside? Would I like it? Just for one night?”

“What if you do like it? Would you participate every year? Keep the parties going?”

“No.”

Madame Z’s lips turned down. “Elliot has been a good customer. I never worry about my girls at his events, and they like doing them.”

For a moment, Emily felt washed with shame. She was taking money out of these women’s mouths. Then she straightened her spine, feeling the soreness already starting between her shoulder blades. “It’s time for the next generation to throw the parties. Most of Elliott’s colleagues are family men now, more interested in sleep than sex.”

“Every man is interested in sex, sweetie. Even the cross-dressing ones.” Madame Z gave a sigh worthy of the stage. “I had such hopes for your Elliot, but he does persist in falling for the ladies. And you’re such a pretty beanpole. What’s the difference? But I never got even a whiff of curiosity. Odd in such a perceptive man.”