Chapter 7: The Bridal Delivery
The summons came at nine the next morning, in Mr. Garth's voice over the stockroom intercom. Megan finished hanging a rack of babydolls and walked to the back office, her heels clicking on the tile.
He sat behind a desk she'd never seen him use, a tablet glowing in front of him. He didn't look up right away.
"Delivery order," he said. "VIP client. Bridal set, custom sizing, paid for overnight fulfillment. You're the only associate cleared for home deliveries."
"Home deliveries?" Megan frowned. "We've never done those."
"New ownership policy." He slid a small black garment box across the desk, then a laminated badge on a lanyard. "Hotel suite, downtown. The Meridian, top floor. Client's name is on the invoice. You take a cab, you hand-deliver, you provide the full fitting experience."
The training voice hummed low and warm in her skull. White-glove service drives client loyalty. She felt the words settle into her like a swallowed pill.
"What's a full fitting experience?" she asked.
"Exactly what it sounds like." He finally looked up, and there was that flat appraisal in his eyes, the same one from the VIP room. "Fittings require the associate to model the product. On herself. For the client's evaluation." He tapped the invoice. "Client pre-paid the service fee. Plus gratuity is customary."
She picked up the box. It was heavier than it looked, ribboned in white satin.
"Question?"
"No," he said, and turned back to his tablet.
The cab ride downtown took twenty minutes. Megan sat in the back with the box on her knees, watching the storefronts blur. Her phone buzzed once. Dave.
Working the early shift today. Wanna grab lunch at the food court?
She stared at it, thumbs hovering. Can't. Special order delivery. Working through lunch. She hit send and watched the message go, another small stone sliding into the wall she'd built between them.
The Meridian's lobby was all cold marble and orchids. The elevator needed a key card; the front desk waved hers through without looking, and that unsettled her more than anything. Someone had called ahead. Someone had arranged this.
Top floor. Suite doors of dark wood, brass numbers. She could hear the noise before she knocked. Voices, laughter, a television playing something loud. Music underneath it. She raised her fist.
The training voice hummed. Present the product with confidence.
She knocked.
The door opened in under a second, like someone had been standing behind it. A big man filled the frame, forty-ish, jaw shaved smooth, dress shirt already unbuttoned at the collar. Behind him the suite sprawled open, the whole main room visible through a wide arch: a dozen men clustered around the marble bar and the long couch, bottles and glasses everywhere, champagne sweating in an ice bucket the size of a mailbox.
They were all staring at her.
"Finally," the man at the door said, and his grin spread slow. "You're from Silhouette?"
"I have a delivery." She lifted the box, holding it like a shield. "I need a signature."
"Come in, come in." He stepped back, waving her over the threshold. The door swung shut behind her, and she heard the latch click. Not just click. The deadbolt slid. She turned her head and watched his hand leave the lock.
Inside, the laughter had died down to a low murmur. Someone at the bar whistled, a long rising note. She counted faces. Eleven. Twelve with the man at the door. All of them looking at her, most of them holding drinks.
"Uh." She looked back at the man. "I'm just here to drop off a bridal set. For the groom's..."
She stopped. Because it clicked, all at once, the tuxedos hanging from the closet doors she could see down the hall, the matching ties draped over a chair, a banner strung across the window glass that read LAST FLIGHT OF CHAD in silver letters.
Bachelor party.
She was standing in a hotel suite full of groomsmen with a lingerie box in her hands, and the room had gone quiet the way rooms go quiet before something starts.
"Delivery, yeah." The man pulled a wad of bills from his jacket pocket, thick, folded with a rubber band. He peeled the band off with his thumb. "Best man's name's Rick. You're Megan, right? The invoice had your name."
"How do you know my..." She didn't finish. Garth's invoice. Garth's arrangement. The room tilted a degree and righted itself.
"Megan." Rick said her name like he was tasting it. He counted bills off the top of the wad, one, two, five, and laid them on the entry table like he was dealing cards. "So here's the thing. My buddy Chad's getting married Saturday. We ordered this set through your store a gift for the bride. Special order. But the manager told us that for a little extra we could get a live fitting, a little preview of what Chad will get on his wedding night. That's what the fee was for, right?"
The training voice swelled, smooth and certain, drowning everything under it. A client who has paid is a client who has been promised. Deliver what was purchased.
"That's what the service fee covers," she heard herself say.
Rick's grin widened. He gestured, and a younger guy near the bar raised his phone and angled it, and Megan realized with a slow cold slide that he was reading from it, that somewhere in this arrangement was a message she'd never seen.
"So open the box," Rick said. "Show us what we bought for the lucky bride."
Her fingers moved on the satin ribbon. She watched her own hands pull the bow loose, part the tissue. Inside, folded in layers, was a set she half recognized from the floor catalog: white lace and sheer ivory mesh, a bustier with boning, stockings, a garter in pale blue. The something blue tag was pinned to it.
"All right." Rick peeled more bills off the wad and set them down, a thicker stack this time. "Now the fitting. That means you wear it, right? For the room. So we know were getting our money's worth."
A voice from the couch, some guy with a flushed face, called out, "How much for the full fitting, Rick? What'd Garth say?"
"Room fee's covered," Rick said, eyes on Megan. "Gratuity's up to us. And we tip real well here."
Twelve men. Champagne on the marble. The deadbolt thrown. The box open in her hands, tissue paper bright against the white lace.
The training voice hummed at the base of her skull, patient as a dial tone. The fitting requires the associate to model the product. The associate provides the full experience. The associate is professional at all times.
Megan looked at Rick's wad of bills, still thick even after what he'd peeled away. Then at the mirror behind the bar, where her own reflection stood small and composed in her Silhouette blazer, blonde hair falling over one shoulder, green eyes steady.
"Where do I change?" she asked.
Rick pointed down the hall. "Bathroom's first door on the left. Take your time."
Megan carried the box down the corridor on unsteady legs. The bathroom was all marble and gold fixtures, towels thick as loaves. She locked the door anyway, more habit than protection, and set the box on the counter.
The training voice was already there, folding her clothes for her. The fitting requires the associate to model the product. Gratuity reflects service quality. She undressed, laid the Silhouette blazer over the towel rack, folded her bra and panties on top of it. The bathroom mirror showed her a woman with steady hands, which felt like a lie told back to her.
The bustier was heavier than the birthday set had been. The boning bit into her waist as she worked the hooks, the cups lifting her breasts into stiff pale shelves, the lace edges cutting a faint line of red where they pressed. The stockings took longer, each one rolled up her thigh and clipped to the garter straps, the pale blue band sitting snug above her knee. She checked herself in the mirror. The sheer mesh panels did nothing. Her nipples showed as dark blooms through the ivory, the shadow of her cunt a soft gray beneath the lace panel.
She pinched her cheeks, fluffed her hair, and opened the door.
The room had changed. The television was off. A speaker sat on the marble bar, and a lean guy with a cropped beard crouched over his phone beside it, thumbing through something. The bass started as she stepped into the arch of the hallway, a slow throbbing pulse that she felt in the soles of her feet before she heard it. It rolled through the floor, through the marble, up into her spine.
Someone raised a glass. "There she is."
"Look at that. Chad, buddy, you are so fucking set."
Megan looked for the groom. He was on the couch in the middle, flush-faced, a champagne flute loose in his hand, staring at her like a man watching his own surprise party. Rick stood beside the couch, arms folded, the wad of bills still in his jacket.
"Give her room," Rick said. "Clear that coffee table."
Two groomsmen shoved the glass table back against the wall. The open floor in front of the couch was the size of a small rug. The bass thudded on, patient, sexual, a heartbeat with no conscience.
The training voice hummed through it, perfectly in time. Present the product with confidence. Movement demonstrates the garment's fit and flexibility.
Megan found the beat with her hip. One sway, then another. The champagne smell mixed with her own nerves, sharp under her ribs. She walked to the center of the floor and turned slowly, letting the stockings catch the light, letting them see the blue garter band.
"Fuck me," someone said near the bar.
"That's the something blue," Rick told the room, grinning. "Turn around, sweetheart. Let's see the back."
She turned. The mesh panel over her ass was completely sheer. She heard the reaction move through the room like a wave, low murmurs and one high whistle, and felt it land on her skin as heat.
"Dance," the guy with the speaker phone called out. "You're getting paid, right? Dance."
She started moving for real. Slow rolls of her hips, hands sliding up the boning of the bustier, tracing the cups. The bass throbbed and she throbbed with it, dropping low and coming back up, the stockings flexing at her thighs. Her breasts strained against the lace and she cupped them, lifted them, felt the room lean in as one body.
"Come here." Rick's voice, from the couch. He'd moved to its arm, one thigh angled out, patting his knee. "Chad paid for the full fitting. That means up close."
She crossed to him on the beat. When she swung a leg over his thigh and settled her weight onto his lap, he grunted low in his chest. His hands hovered, then landed on her hips, big and warm through the sheer mesh.
"Now that's a fitting." He rolled his hips up under her, and she felt him thicken against her cunt through his dress trousers, a hard ridge growing with each bass note. "Go on. Show the groom what his money bought."
She ground down on him, slow circles, the mesh dampening against his wool. Rick's fingers dug into the garter straps, snapping them lightly against her skin. Around them the groomsmen had pushed in, a loose ring of bodies and held drinks, phones tilted. She caught one screen glowing at the edge of her vision and her stomach clenched, but the training voice poured warm over it like oil. Client documentation supports the service model.
Rick gathered her hair off her neck and leaned into her ear. "Chad." He raised his voice. "Get over here. She's your present as much as the bride's."
The groom stood on unsteady legs and crossed the rug, laughing, his face blotched red. "You're kidding."
"Best man's privilege," Rick said. "Sit your ass down."
Chad dropped onto the couch where Rick had been, and Megan slid off Rick's thigh and onto the groom's, her knee brushing his, the blue garter band flashing. The bass thudded. The room crowded closer, and hands began finding her, one on her shoulder, one at her waist, a thumb tracing the lace edge of the bustier where her nipple strained against it.
"Gratuity's customary," Rick said, peeling bills off the wad again. "Boys, tip the lady."
A twenty appeared, tucked into the garter strap at her hip. Then another. Then a fifty, slid under the pale blue band at her thigh by a man whose fingers lingered there, pressing into the flesh above the stocking. The bills accumulated on her body like scales, and every one of them came with a touch.
Chad's hands gripped her waist, guiding her hips against the hard length straining his slacks. "Holy shit," he breathed, watching her tits work in the cups. "Honey, you're gonna make me embarrass myself before the wedding even starts."
"That's the fitting," she heard herself say, grinding down harder, the mesh soaked now, clinging to her lips. "You're supposed to test the product."
The bass rolled on. A hand slid up her spine, unhurried, and stopped at the nape of her neck. Rick's voice came from somewhere behind her, close and level.
"Product's holding up great," he said. "But the fee covered the full experience, Megan. So here's what happens next."
Rick's hand pressed the nape of her neck gently, turning her toward the room. "Boys paid extra for the hands-on experience. Give it to them."
The lapdance shifted. Megan slid off Chad's thigh and onto the next man's, a broad guy in a loosened tie, and as she ground against him she felt his zipper dig open under her. His cock was out before she registered the button. Thick, flushed, pushing up against the bare skin of her cunt through the open mesh panel.
"Holy shit," he groaned, hands clamping her hips. "She's not wearing anything under the lace."
"That's how the set fits," Megan said, and the training voice hummed its approval, warm as champagne. The associate provides the full experience.
She wrapped her fingers around him. He was hot and heavy in her palm, leaking at the tip, and she stroked him slow while she rolled her hips, his cock dragging wet through her folds without ever entering her. He lasted maybe a minute of it before his whole body seized and he came across her knuckles and the garter strap, cursing into her shoulder.
"Next," someone said, and it wasn't a joke anymore.
She moved to the third lap. His cock was already out, his hand working it, and when she settled onto him he caught her wrist and guided her grip onto himself. She stroked him against the soaked mesh, felt him buck, and when his breathing broke ragged she sank down and took the head of him into her mouth. He grabbed a fistful of her blonde hair and came in four hard pulses across her tongue. She swallowed, throat working, and licked her lips while the room roared.
"Chad, man, you seeing this?"
"Jesus," Chad breathed from the couch, champagne forgotten. "She looks like... holy fuck, she looks like Dani."
The room went quiet a half beat. Then the murmurs started, agreeing, excited.
"She does. Same mouth. Same hair."
"Dani with her tits out."
Megan froze with her lips still slick. Dani. Chad's fiancée. She'd never met the woman, but the groomsmen kept saying it, passing it around like a joint, and the training voice folded it neatly into the service model. Familiarity enhances the client experience.
"Come here," someone called from the armchair near the window. "Over here, Dani."
She crawled.
That was the part that dissolved something in her, the crawling. The lapdances were over. No more music, no more grinding. She crossed the marble on her hands and knees, stockings and garter flashing, bills fluttering off her body, and the men got out of her way like parting water, each one waiting with his cock in his fist. She reached the armchair and took him into her mouth, cheeks hollowing, and he lasted no time at all before he spilled down her throat.
Another. She crawled to him. Another. A thin guy near the bar she sucked slow while he narrated, "Look at her, she's a professional," until he flooded her mouth and she swallowed every drop. Her knees ached on the marble. Her jaw ached worse. The training voice counted the loads like gratuity, steady and satisfied. Client satisfaction reflected in repeat bookings.
Rick peeled bills off the wad and dropped them on the floor in front of her, one at a time, so she had to reach past a cock to get to each one. The men loved that. She crawled and sucked and swallowed until three more had finished, and the suite smelled of sex and cooling champagne, and someone had turned the music down.
"Okay." Rick stood over her, thumbs in his belt. He'd stayed dressed, directing, the wad of bills still fat in his pocket. He crouched to her level, wiped a stray strand of hair off her cheek with his thumb, almost tender. "You've done beautiful work, Megan. Real beautiful. But here's the thing." He tipped his chin toward Chad, slumped on the couch, red-faced, staring at her like a man hypnotized. "My boy here gets married Saturday. He's been with Dani three years and never once had a bachelor party. Never had a night that was his."
He peeled a long stack of bills and laid them on the marble in front of her knees. Hundreds in it. More than she'd made all month.
"So we're gonna tip you very, very well, if you'll give Chad the full wedding night test." His voice dropped low, reasonable, patient. "Everything a bride gives her husband on the wedding night. In the set. In the bedroom through there. The whole thing, start to finish, so he knows what Saturday's gonna feel like. You do that for him?"
The training voice didn't even hesitate. The client has purchased the premium service. Deliver what was promised.
Megan looked at Chad. He was staring at her mouth, at the bills, at the white lace. His throat moved when he swallowed.
"How much is in that stack?" she asked.
"Two thousand," Rick said. "Cash. Right there on the floor when you're done."
She picked up the stack, folded it, tucked it into the garter band at her hip. Then she rose off her knees, took Chad's champagne flute out of his hand, and set it on the table.
"Bedroom's through there?" she said.
Rick grinned. "First door on the right. We'll give you two your privacy."
"Not too much privacy," someone called, and the room laughed.
Chad stood on shaky legs. He reached out and took her hand like she might evaporate, and Megan led the groom down the hall toward the bedroom door, the bills rustling at her thigh, twelve men watching her ass sway in the sheer mesh until the door closed behind them.