The Lingerie Inspector
It seemed like a dream job at first, this lingerie inspector gig. After all, who wouldn't want to travel to the homes of women who've just purchased intimate apparel from Naughty N' Nice and inspect their bodies for poorly attached bra straps or crotch openings that could possibly chafe? After that million dollar class-action lawsuit involving a faulty set of thong-back pantyhose, somebody had to do it; and Charlie was only too happy to be that somebody.
Even with the badge, it wasn't always easy to get in the door. And good luck explaining to the recent purchasers of Naughty N' Nice undergarments the need to test their brand new items for "compatibility with the individual bodily dimensions of each customer.”
If the ladies often endured the process with unhappily gritted teeth, they weren't alone. Rarely would their husbands, boyfriends, fuck buddies or clients welcome the intrusion without ire. It didn't help that this clipboard-wielding inspector boasted the build of a Greek god and the cool, unflappable manner of Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. Hostile pouts and angrily knitted brows were not uncommon.
"Rules are rules," Charlie would say with the shrugged shoulders of a man just doing his job. Then he'd run his fingers along the gartered thighs of another man's wife, gently inspecting the meeting of fabric and flesh. And sometimes a sigh would escape the lips of a reluctant subject. Sometimes a scowl would curl into a grin as he slipped the underside of his thumb into the front of a ruffle-trimmed cami to insure a proper fit. The ladies would always thank him upon his exit. Always.