Going Up

Siren stared at him, dumbfounded, as she shook his hand. She was standing naked in an elevator car with the president of the whole fucking studio? Such a situation was more than simply absurd; it was impossible-and, yet, here she was.

"And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" Charlie prompted her.

She felt herself blush, the heat of her blood rushing through her reddening cheeks. "Siren, sir."

"Siren Sir," he repeated, as if the title with which she'd addressed him were her surname. "That's an odd name."

"Siren Call," she corrected him. She rolled her eyes at the silliness of the appellation. "That's my stage name," she explained. "It was my manager's idea."

"I like it."

"Do you, sir? Really?"

His smile widened. "Really," he confirmed. "As much as I like my own name. Please. Call me 'Charlie.'"

"Yes, sir-I mean, Charlie."

He surveyed her nudity. His eyes moved from her breasts to her prick and back. The nipples, unlike the penis, were erect. He supposed it was from the coolness of the air-conditioning. Without her gown, she must be chilled.

He offered her his coat.

"Oh, no, sir-"

"Charlie," he insisted.

"Thank you, Charlie, but I couldn't."

"Although it's a shame to cover such lovely breasts as yours, you can and, I insist, you will."

She smiled faintly, accepting the jacket he'd removed and offered to her. She shrugged into the coat. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. How did you come to be in such a predicament, I wonder," he said. "I've seen other women get their dresses caught in these doors. The elevator itself may be slow, but those doors are quick enough. Too quick for some. Nevertheless, I've never seen a lady lose her clothes in them before."

"Oh, I can explain that," Siren said. "The gown was a tear-away."