Free Blue Angel by Logan Belle Page B

how to wear this thing.”
    “Absolutely. But you have to take off your clothes first.”
    “I’m just going to try it on. . . .”
    “Over your suit? Mallory, I can tell you have a hot little body. Why are you so bashful? I’m going to help you get some things to show it off for that gorgeous guy of yours. Believe me, he won’t be touching my leg under the table next time when he knows what you’re rocking under those lawyer clothes.”
    Mallory’s stomach knotted up. So he had been touching Bette’s leg under the table. Well, of course—they had kissed, so it should not surprise her. Still—it stung.
    “Okay—give me a minute, and I’ll call you in when I’m ready.”
    Mallory closed the curtain again, and faced herself in the mirror. God, she was glad she’d worn decent underwear today. Nothing spectacular—just cream-colored, lace boy shorts from the Gap and a white demibra. But it was better than the five-year-old, well-worn, floral cotton panties she sometimes fell back to when she was behind on her laundry.
    She unzipped her blue pinstriped skirt and let it fall to the floor. It was a little too warm in that small space, and her skin was already slightly moist under her white blouse, but she wasn’t taking that off. Observing herself in the mirror, she thought,
not bad
. Not as good as Bette or Poppy—they were nearly perfect. Not all of the dancers were like that. But those two—their bodies were art as surely as the costumes and the dances themselves. But for a twenty-five-year-old lawyer (or almost lawyer), Mallory had to admit she was in good shape. Still, she resolved to go back to Pilates the following week. Maybe even twice.
    She removed her panty hose and replaced them with the sheer black thigh-highs Bette had picked out for her.
    “What’s the holdup in there? I know you need help getting the new stuff on—I didn’t know you needed help getting the old stuff off!”
    Mallory opened the curtain.
    “Ready,” she said, holding out the garter.
    “Okay—now put it around your waist. It should just rest on your hips. No—those straps have to hang down. You really are lingerie illiterate!”
    Mallory hooked the contraption around her waist and then turned the hooks around to the back—the method she used when she first got used to wearing a bra.
    Bette knelt by her side and pulled one of the straps.
    “Okay, now these latch onto the stockings,” she said, fastening one. “Now you try one.”
    Mallory bent down and tried to secure the metal latch against the thin fabric, but it wasn’t working. She felt like an idiot. Did other women really do this routinely?
    “Here—you slide this back, put the stocking here, and then slide this up. There! You got it. I’ll do the ones in the back because that takes a more experienced hand.”
    Mallory felt self-conscious having Bette behind her like that, but less so when she saw herself in the mirror. She liked what she saw—more than she had in a while. Maybe more than she ever had.
    Bette adjusted the length of the garter straps, then stood behind her and appraised her in the mirror as well.
    “Wow. You were made for this stuff.”
    And then Bette ran her hand against Mallory’s lower back, and over her ass. Mallory shivered, the thin layer of perspiration under her blouse turning cold.
    “Wait right here. I want you to try something else,” Bette said, leaving her alone with her tumbling thoughts.
    Mallory turned and looked at her ass in the mirror. How was it possible that another woman was making her feel more feminine than any of her boyfriends ever had?
    She slipped back into her heels, then looked herself over from her toes up to her flat stomach framed in black lace.
    “You’re definitely going to need help with this!” Bette said breathlessly, and produced, with a flourish, a black satin corset.
    “That is gorgeous!”
    “Wait til you see how it feels.” Bette got to work loosening the elaborate back lacing. She glanced up.