The most fabulous freebees arrived at À La Mode On-line today.  All delivered by that adorable courier boy, Hubert.  As my desk is next to the receptionist’s, near the door, (denoting my rank in this outfit, I’m afraid) I’m usually the first to rise to the ring of the doorbell.  On Monday Hubert kept his delivery helmet on and had me sign on the dotted line.  I kept curtsying to catch a glimpse of his face beneath the visor, but no such luck.  Fortune followed the next day, however.  On Tuesday he traded in his helmet for a hoodie and I was witness to his wonders.  He is naturally brown all around, an island boy with sea green eyes framed by long fringes of dusky lashes and a full mouth (or at least a mouth I’d certainly like to know!).  If only I could get him to step into the office.  On Wednesday, that is to say today, I dared an invitation.
     “Care for some coffee?”  I inquired and noticed his eyes brush over me approvingly.  I felt my grammars (my ballet instructor calls breasts “grammars” and, though I can’t explain why, I feel it is somehow just the right word) tingle and a blush come on.  I was emboldened, perhaps by the fact that Hubert was conveying packages of such risqué provenance – Victoria’s Secret, Coco de Mer, Agent Provocateur.  He was bearing gifts from Knicker Land!
    “I’m afraid I can’t today, Mademoiselle,” he declined looking at his watch. “À la prochaine? Next time, perhaps?”  He gave me a sassy (but also savvy) smile which I returned as I clutched the Agent Provocateur package beneath my grammars, pushing upwards for cleavage enhancement and hoping to provoke him just a bit.
     Unfortunately I am not permitted to open these packages myself; I am merely a link in the courier chain.  I take them from Hubert and hand them over to Héloise, our fashion editor.  She is the lucky recipient of this raiment that is meant to seduce our pens, to spur us on to fine plume work.  Héloise was at her desk today, which is actually set up like a temple, with a fruit bowl and a photo of her guru (a grungy fellow wearing but a cloth diaper) as well as a gong and some stinky jasmine incense.  Much to our regret she often whisks herself away on week-long assignments with her Blackberry, or her Vital Equipment as she calls it; she is dear and lovely to have around, especially when the freebies fly in.
     All the girls flocked to her desk to find out what goodies awaited.  Juliette and Stéphanie always get first dibs; they report on Haute Couture and have needled their way up to the higher seams of our hierarchy.  Next in line are Bénédicte and Virginie who cover ready-wear and cosmetics.  Lastly there is myself.  I fix the Fashion Week forecasts, stitch names into anonymous shifts; I am the house Remedy-girl, relegated to stay-home assignments only.
     “Shall we take a look at the amenities?”  Héloise loves the word amenities because it reminds her of the spas.  She’ll use it to mean a whole manner of things, particularly perks, and even favourite edibles like Chicken Tikka.  With surgical precision she scissored through the transparent tape on the boxes and then, closed her eyes for moment.  Perhaps she was murmuring a mantra to bless our booty, though it was hard to say.  All the girls stayed tuned awaiting the cue. It came after a short respiratory exercise which brought a curiously covetous gleam to Héloise’s steely gray eyes.  “Allez les filles… on y va, let’s go, girls!”
      A chorus of oh-là-làs, gasps and giggles.  Stationed outside the giftee circle like a night watchman protecting the panty-inspired pleasures of my co-workers from unwanted prowlers (such as the secretary and the receptionist who were fortunately out to lunch when the package arrived, but could be returning anytime), I merely glimpsed twinkling lights in the apertures between their huddled bodies - a sparkle of diamanté, an aperçu of lace, the glimmering sheen of satin.  “Shall we?”  It was Héloise’s invitation.  A nodding of heads and all the girls rushed off to the ladies room, leaving me with the remains.  
I foraged through the red and pink tissue paper, already terribly trampled.  How unfortunate because I dearly need some unwrinkled sheets for my collages.  I’m currently showing them at the Gorgeous Guys Portrait Gallery, right in my alcove, above my desk.  The highlights feature Michael Barishnikov in a gallant jeté wearing bulge-becoming green tights as well as Tom Ford in cactus briefs.  Héloise says it’s simply amazing how life-like my paper and glue confections are, though I was a bit disappointed when she mistook Brad Pitt in chaps for Hugh Grant in Gucci trainers!  She does get her wires crossed, poor dear, and is simply lost without her Vital Equipment.   As I tried to retrieve as much potential collage paper as possible, I accidentally unearthed a Victoria’s Secret freebie – a pair of black stiletto heel bedroom slippers with a midnight blue powder puff over the toes.  How perfect I thought, as I was (and am) wearing a black Bisou Bisou Flyaway halter dress which frankly looks much better with boudoir slippers than it does with my green Florida Crocs (all other summer footwear momentarily at the cobblers).  I stepped into these tiny vixen bedroom shoes feeling both ripe (for Hubert) and regal (gained two extra inches).
      Now the girls emerged from their changing room all a-glitter, their Eve-wear scantily covered by incandescent intimates.  Stéphanie stepped out in a sheer waspie, a cheeky quarter-cut bra and matching v-string - all covered in Swarovski crystals!  Her stride was feline, ultra feminine and when she did a sassy pirouette, it was clear from the jolly jiggling transpiring behind her back that gym sessions were long overdue.  But how little this mattered!  She was a perfect, cinched-in hourglass and loving it for all it’s worth!  Next came Juliette and Bénédicte in lacy femme fatale merry widows (red and purple respectively) enhanced by tiny Cupid bows at their backs and mesh thongs below, continuing the Venus bow (and arrow?) theme.  Virginie joined this strutting trio in a diamanté hook-and-eye cami with extra slick side-fastening French knickers – a very pink and winning mixture of slumber party pathos and boudoir bathos.  “Turn the music on, Remedy!” yelled Héloise from her stall.  I went to my computer and piped up some Patsy Cline, wondering if a country tune would do.  Our top fashion editor kicked open her door cowgirl-style and slinked out in a black satin, fur-topped Goddess-oh-Goodness corset attached to a cabaret rhinestone garter contraption, beneath which she wore naughty “ouvert” knickers, also in black satin.  We only discovered their “ouvert” aspect when she gave us a cancan kick that could have put Sharon Stone and Britney Spears out of business.  “Goodness!”  I exclaimed.  To which Héloise responded by hoisting her grammars higher in the Goddess-oh-Goodness.  My own grammars being free and braless beneath my dress, I preferred to remain frocked, but hastened to join the girls in their exotic little dance.  Yes, they danced as only Frenchwomen do, not exactly on the beat but with wings beating.  They showed off their marvellous port de bras and flapped like mad as Patsy Kline belted out “Walking after midnight”.  I took my clue from Patsy and let my pompoms do the walking, folding my arms across my chest and dosie-doeing around the crystal-clad Stéphanie.   We were having a grand old time as energetic country dancers - Héloise had even found a pole to dance with (for lack of a straight-backed buckaroo) though it truth it was just a coat rack – when the door bell rang.   The girls squealed in unison and ran for the loo, locking the door behind them.
    “I’ll get it, girls.  Not to worry.”  I reassured them, for unexpected visitors at panty parties do ruffle feathers.  I quickly hushed the tunes and headed for the door. 
    “Yes?”  I inquired before opening.
     “It’s me again.  For a delivery…” 
    “Oh Hubert!  Do come in!”   Indeed, he took me up on the invitation, walked right in and stomped down hard on my midnight pompom.  I cringed in pain, for pompoms offer only promises and not an ounce of foot protection.
    “I’m so sorry!  Terribly sorry, Mademoiselle.”  
    “Do call me Remedy.”
     “Please… Remedy… sit down here.  Let me have a look.”   And so I let him have a look.  And his look was followed by a diagnosis and a treatment.   Perhaps it is best after all to be closest to the door and lowest on the ladder; because of my humble position, I was the recipient of the most fabulously erotic foot massage imaginable!  In fact, it was much more than just a massage.  Hubert, I should say, gives pedogasms, which are orgasms of the feet.  Why it was simply unbelievable to discover such a pleasure exists!   But now I know and will be sure to keep the boudoir slippers at my desk at all times… for delivery purposes.   The girls may get first pick, but I picked the winner.

© Anne Marsella, 2007

Tags: Anne Marsella, Free Online Book, Remedy and the Gems, Remedy and the Gems - By Remedy O’Riley de Valdez, Remedy O’Riley de Valdez

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