ALL THAT'S MAGIC EXCERPT
“Ms. Gibson, why did you create the Pleasure Bra and
Panties?” A reporter for the Daily News shoved a mic under
Sheila’s nose, with an expectant look in her eyes.
How many times had she heard that before? Wasn’t it obvious?
Men just couldn’t do the deed well enough or last long enough. A
woman needed a man as much as she needed a migraine. “Well, as
I’m sure you know, we women are very busy with life—our careers,
our families. Sometimes, when the mood strikes, we aren’t in a
convenient place to get a little action. Am I right, ladies?”
She glanced around the small crowd of men and women
surrounding her. There were nods and “I know that’s right” from
several directions.
“And let’s face it,” she said, pausing for emphasis and
running her fingertips along the outer edge of her blouse, “the
pickings have become slim. We may not have a man to satisfy us
when we come home at night.”
This time the consensus was a depressing grunt. Sheila would
have liked having someone in her life. She was often assessed in
the media as being a man-hater, but she was far from it. Sure,
she didn’t trust a man as far as she could toss his lying,
cheating backside, but she wanted one all the same. That hungry
desire led her to the creation of her intimate undies, which
women were snapping up as fast as their credit cards could be
swiped. Of course, she couldn’t tell them that. It would be
opening up her vulnerabilities to the world. No, instead she
purported herself to be the woman’s woman, and the image was
paying in the millions.
As Sheila twisted to field the next question, her attention
was caught by a man at the back of the crowd, near the street.
Although she was sure she’d never before seen the expressionless
face peering out from the forest-green hooded cape, recognition
shot through her. The feeling was unwelcome, and a tremor of
fear shot down her spine. With effort, she focused again on the
swarm of reporters.
Another stepped forward. “So what exactly does your bra and
panties do, Ms. Gibson? What makes it so different from others?
I mean it’s got to be special at one hundred dollars a set.”
She grinned, lifting a hand habitually to be sure her hair
was in place along the sides of her face. “Oh yes, my friend,
they are special. Inside each cup of the bra, and placed
strategically along the panties, is what I like to call feelers.
No, pinchers? Hmm, certainly caressers.” She paused again
deliberately. There were lonely, horny women in the audience and
glued to their TV set hoping Sheila really was offering
something they’d never before experienced. And she was. “Let me
say it like this, Mr. Sumner,” she said, recognizing the
reporter most often found in her press conferences or dogging
her steps wherever she went, Peter Sumner. “My little secrets
stroke a woman in just the right place, between her legs. They
tease her nipples to stimulate her body. But they go much
further than what is on the market today. They’re not vibrators.
No, far superior to that.
“My little secrets reach out and gently tug at a woman’s
nipples, playing with them until she reaches that pinnacle of
delight that we all wish to experience. To be mindful of your
audience, sir, I will not go into detail of what happens in the
panties.”
“If you ask me, I’d say it’s just plain wrong. To take the
place of a real relationship is going too far.” An older woman
spoke from the middle of the crowd, her voice contorted in
anger, her graying hair escaping its confines at points around
her head. “You’re nothing but a hussy, miss.”
Sheila was not perturbed. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I cannot
please everyone. I realize that. Tell you what—why don’t you
call my offices tomorrow morning, and I’ll see what I can do for
you?”
The woman’s anger immediately subsided. Sheila smiled. Just
as she suspected. The woman couldn’t afford the high price.
She’d struggled over the cost, but her marketing experts had
assured her it was fair.
“Surely, you’re worried about offending the men, Ms. Gibson.
I’ve heard you have received death threats.”
“One or two, but I’m not worried. Listen, this is for
everyone. A man can enjoy watching his woman satisfy herself
with my product. It makes for more interesting bedroom activity.
I assure you, no one has ever been hurt from my products. Now,
please, I must get back to work. Thank you all for your time.”
* * * *
Like, hell, no one has ever been hurt by her products! Drake
watched her in disgust, his anger threatening to overflow at her
easy confidence. No, it was arrogance. She made out like she had
just what every woman needed while sticking her greedy hands in
their pockets and bleeding them dry. Just like her mother! He’d
bring down her company, Bare Pleasures, one way or another. He
had it all planned. She had it coming. As beautiful as Sheila
Gibson was, with her thick black waves, unfashionably long,
hanging midway down her back, and her voluptuous figure, he
would resist her lure and make her pay.
As he watched her, someone blocked his view, and he stepped
right to bring the evil witch into view again. He hit a solid
force and turned to offer his apologies. The weirdo in the
forest-green hoodie, made of a material too heavy for
mid-summer, was fully absorbed in watching Sheila Gibson. The
man muttered, “She’s gone too far. Something must be done,” made
Drake wonder just how many enemies Ms. Gibson had made.
Drake glanced at his enemy, then back at the man at his side.
The stranger was gone.
.
