Miss Latimore
Chapter 2

Copyright© 2017 by Jessica James

Sex Story: Chapter 2 - The Snyder matriarchs - - Cyan, her daughter Ivory, her daughter Delft, and one day 8-year old Cinnamon - - handed Miss Latimore down, generation after generation. The 61-year old woman was brilliant, strong-willed, tough. She managed the business and personal lives of each household she was given to. Although when Cyan first bought Leticia, before she evolved into Miss Latimore, the little girl was just pussy. Far too talented to be merely a toy, she was elevated into family management.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Teenagers   BiSexual   Fiction   Mystery   Brother   Sister  

After Delft’s Millicent Memo, outlining the role of the New Editor, Hattie gave the 12-year old a small office and her own intern for a week. Mr. Big told her, “Write out a full job description. Everything you can think of that the work entails. Hattie will set you up with accounting and marketing. They’ll help you draft a business plan.”

“Yes sir.”

“They know what I want to see, they’ll steer you in the proper direction. Do it right, but don’t dawdle. Next Tuesday, 10 in the morning.”

“Yes sir.”

Delft worked 12, 14 hour days. Took Uber home. Woke up early and worked before going in to the office at 7.

The white paper wasn’t bad. Wasn’t complete enough, needed a lot of polishing. But it captured the gist of what would be involved.

Mr. Big told her, “Make it happen. Start in Los Angeles.”

This began the formative part of Delft’s magazine career. She was sent to satellite offices, but ones that had some editorial functionality. Hattie had called ahead, let it be known that the little girl was Mr. Big’s protege. An exaggeration back then, but Hattie knew it was necessary. Or Delft would be politely ignored.

There was still resentment. Her youth for one thing. But more than that, the company culture was changing. For the worst. Editors used to be on pedestals. Now?

It was like they reported to Marketing. Fucking worked in fucking Sales.

Delft was patient. Unfailingly polite. Persistent. This was going to happen. Unless, of course, it didn’t. Didn’t increase revenue significantly. The editors talked quietly about undermining the project. Pretending to cooperate with marketing, pretending to help shape the advertisers’ creative communications.

But that fucking Delft had tied a significant percentage of their compensation to the success of this fucking ... editorial disaster. Their friends at other magazines, while openly sympathizing, privately relished the diminished status of their rivals.

At the same time, they knew their own bosses — bosses above editorial, marketing, production, distribution, yeah those ones on the Executive Floors — were watching the competition closely.

This was the same publishing company, MegaMax Publishing, after all, that had changed the world of magazine distribution through significant policy shifts.

Mega was the first to undercut subscription prices. The circulation income was important, but not so vital as the number of eyeballs seeing the ads. Mega wanted boxcar numbers. The company, so far as readership was concerned, now valued quantity over quality. Ad rates were directly linked to the number of readers.

A million new readers at the lower subscription prices would boost ad revenue before the ad agencies caught up to the reality of lower demographics, less coveted audiences.

Mega led the way, and their competition was soon forced to follow. Self defense.

Magazine readers were taught, by the magazines themselves, to undervalue each issue. What the editorial staff was giving their hearts and souls to create was devalued. Readers were, in essence, trained to believe that a magazine, no matter how splendid it was, was worth less than a glass of beer.

Then Mega partnered with Publisher’s Clearing house. Now a magazine subscription cost less than the postage it took to deliver it. Twelve issues for $10. Mega!

MegaMax Publishing didn’t stop with subscribers. They moved on to magazine newsstand sales. The number of magazines actually sold on newsstands was far smaller than the number of copies that were printed and distributed for direct sales.

Magazines kept the newsstand sales numbers purposely murky. The twice a year audit always trailed behind the ad buys. And there was considerable flexibility in how the publisher reported the numbers to advertisers and their agencies.

Through exhaustive research, Mega Publishing knew their newsstand sales numbers were better than the competition. Much better in many instances. Although, as with all magazines, the sell-through numbers were lower than advertisers and agencies were led to believe.

Mr. Big, working behind the scenes, wrangled the keynote speakership role at the largest annual conference of ad agencies and national advertisers.

His PR team created a whisper campaign — expect something big. From Mr. Big.

Now this was back in the day, before digital. While magazines still constituted a healthy percentage of marketing budgets.

Mr. Big spoke directly to the media buyers at the country’s most influential ad agencies. He told them, “Newsstand sales. We will guarantee a specific number of magazines will be sold. If we don’t reach our target, you’ll receive a proportionate credit for future ads. No one else in the industry is opening up the books. You’ll have full access to every newsstand sales figure.”

MegaMax. Those fuckers.

The move forced the competition to follow like lemmings. Fuck Mr. Big. Fuck him up the ass.

So, yes, Mega’s competitors were following Delft’s editorial gambit closely. Very closely. Hoping of course for a major pratfall.

Delft had never been on Mega’s Organization Chart. The work she did simply didn’t fit into any specific category. Oh, she could have made one up, International Consultant, something vague and bland.

But she preferred for her business cards to have just her name and contact numbers. She was special and preferred being perceived as different from the status-chasers who were so conscious of titles.

Millicent Hightower, now a superstar editor, number two behind the legendary Alma Winter, was a frequent, and most welcome, guest at the Snyder household.

She often spent the weekend, to the delight of Sin and Rusty.

“Hey Rusty, how many of your teachers are you fucking?”

Blush. Whisper. The 6-year old said, “None.”

“Good for you. I like a boy who doesn’t kiss and tell. Sin, how about you?”

“Teachers are lame. I’ll fuck a principal, but that gets old too.”

“Understood. Aim higher. Find a Gotrocks. Several of them. Put that prime pussy to work.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

When she stayed overnight, Millicent, now 26, enjoyed the same early morning pampering that Delft did. Penny simply wheeled a second mirror into the dressing room.

Sin noticed that her younger brother paid extra close attention to the nude visitor. Good. Healthy not to focus solely on Delft.

Miss Latimore noticed too. She knew that Delft was mildly curious about how Sin would raise Rusty. Shape him, mold him. What sort of person she would turn him into. Although neither Delft nor Miss Latimore was curious enough to influence very many of Sin’s decisions about the boy.

Sin was left free to do what she wanted with her brother. Miss Latimore would, however, nudge Cinnamon along the path she herself should be pursuing. Just as Miss Latimore had done with Delft’s mother, Ivory, then Delft. And now Sin.

Delft had been given a niche assignment — she, from the marketing side, was turning one editor in each of the branch offices into a ... what? A marketing editor, for want of a better term. An editor who didn’t exactly report to Sales, but did what Sales wanted.

Fuck me.

Delft went from Los Angeles to London. Then, six months later, to Paris. Followed by Rome. Back to New York.

NYC. Where the first national / international editor would be transformed. Under Delft’s tutelage. She wasn’t resented in Editorial. She was despised. Decades of protocol, of propriety, of respect, of ... everything decent was being systemically eroded.

In a bold, and as it turned out, brilliant, move, Delft asked her friend, Millicent Hightower to be the New York guinea pig. Millicent worked in the most prestigious, most profitable magazine in the Mega empire. And, at 26, she was the number two editor of the world’s favorite fashion magazine.

Millicent immediately said yes. “If you hadn’t asked me, I was going to volunteer.”


Oh, maybe just a tad. But Millicent was every bit as ambitious as Delft. Maybe even more so.

Millicent was old enough to have seen how the publishing world — magazines, newspapers, books — completely missed the digital revolution. And that same, cloistered world was still playing catch-up years and years later.

Although it was now a smaller world. Many publishing companies had simply been unable to cope. Stuck in analog while the younger generations had long ago moved on.

Millicent thought that Delft had been correct — the New Editor had to become more flexible, more open to a new sense of what the job now entailed.

Of course, everyone knew that the editor-in-chief, Alma Winter was dead set against the sea change. Millicent was viewed by the old guard as having knifed her mentor, her boss, in the back.

But it was now as it ever had been, the new wave wanted to move beyond the old guard. So the battle lines were drawn.

Millicent was openly lesbian. She would sometimes fuck a man if it could help her career. Or if she were in a certain mood.

She and Delft weren’t lovers although Delft thoroughly enjoyed other women. The had discussed it a couple of times and decided not to risk the friendship, nor to risk tipping the career boat.

Delft had been tempted though. Millicent was one sexy dame.

At 5’ 4” she was 6 inches shorter than her younger friend. Millicent had jet black hair worn in a smart bob. Slender, like Delft, but with big boobs that looked, but weren’t, enhanced.

Millicent kept a small diamond shaped design above her pussy. Which fascinated Rusty. He had never seen pubic hair.

As the two women stood nude in front of the matching mirrors, they openly discussed their sex lives. Miss Latimore brushing Delft’s hair, Penny doing Millicent.

Millicent said, “Does Hattie have you fucking anyone these days?”

“Not really. Mostly our foreign visitors.”

“Blow jobs?”

Delft laughed, “I took pity on Big Dick. His wife has him sleeping on the coach. So I sucked him off and sent him home.”

Sin nudged Rusty, “He’s gorgeous.”

Delft didn’t hold grudges. When someone disappointed her at work, she remained pleasant. He might be of use on some other project down the road.

Delft said, “How’s your love life?”

Millicent grinned, “The same.”

She had a steady string of female interns, editorial assistants, copywriters, junior photographers, layout artists and the like who regularly spent a night or two at her Central Park West apartment.

Most of Millicent’s lovers weren’t lesbians, although a few were bi. But the straight girls all knew better than to say no to Millicent’s invitation. Much better to lick pussy than not, in this case.

There was certainly no stigma. Not in New York and not in publishing. Columbia University even had a ‘Sex in the Office’ course in their Journalism School.

Interns and new employees knew going in that they were pussy. Their boyfriends knew, their girlfriends knew, their husbands and wives knew. It was just the way it was. Magazines 101.

Oh, there was some gentle joshing. The secretary of a gay art director or a gay copy chief, might wink at a blushing boy as he sidled by her desk to suck her boss’s cock.

But even the shyest boys soon became inured to the act. Just as the girls no longer hesitated when the Millicents of the office invited them home.

Delft smiled at Millicent, “Have anything on for tonight?” 
 Millicent smiled back, “Deborah somebody somebody. A cherry.”

Sin said, “How old, Milli?”

Shrug, “Still in college. Maybe 18, 19.”

“And she’s still cherry? That’s odd, isn’t it Delft?”

Grin. “Shit yes. What the fuck is wrong with little Debbi’s mother?”

Later Sin would interpret the morning conversations for her brother. Sin was sharp and Rusty was, after all, two years younger.

When Delft was at work, which was often seven days a week, Sin would stand, nude, in front of her mother’s mirror, studying her own image. When she had time, Miss Latimore would brush Sin’s hair as Rusty watched closely.

Miss Latimore knew that Delft would give her to Cinnamon one day. Just as Cyan had given her to her own daughter, Ivory. Who passed her along to Delft.

Miss Latimore didn’t feel any resentment. She was a millionaire many times over thanks to the strong-willed Snyder women. Besides, Miss Latimore loved Sin.

And Sin loved the one-on-one conversations in front of the mirror. No subject had ever been off limits in Delft’s house.

Miss Latimore began each mirror-session with Sin in Spanish or French. That would be the language of the day. Rusty, silently watching the grooming process, would answer any questions in the same language. As best he could.

Sin smiled at Miss Latimore’s reflection, “I want to be sexually active, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But I won’t be a slut puppy either.”

“No, you will not.”

“Should I be concerned that Rusty doesn’t dry-cum?”

“Not at all. Boys develop at their own pace. When it’s time, you’ll know.”

Sin grinned, “Him, now maybe I’ll turn him into a slut puppy.”

Miss Latimore winked into the mirror, “Up to you, dear.”

At night, after dinner, Sin gave her younger brother an hour or so of free time. He could watch TV, stream music videos, surf for porn, whatever. Then, without needing a reminder, Rusty would seek out his sister.

Miss Latimore watched as Sin regarded Rusty. Evaluated him. Then Sin smiled, “Hemingway.”

Rusty grinned and rushed off.

Sin said, “He’ll outgrow that macho crap someday.”

Miss Latimore smiled, “I’m sure you’re right, dear.”

Sin entered their shared bathroom just as Rusty stepped out of the shower. The bubble bath was already drawn. A few moments later, Sin went from shower to bath and leaned back, ready for this night’s reading.

Rusty had a hardcover book open on the portable bath shelf that was between his sister and him. He read aloud and surprisingly well. Sin had started teaching him when he was 2 and he was pretty proficient by the next year.

After about 10 minutes, he closed the book and stepped back into the shower where Sin joined him. She no longer bothered to check that he cleaned himself thoroughly, he’d been good at that for a couple of years.

After she dried Rusty off, he scooted into their bedroom. Sin now let him choose which pair of pajamas they would share each night. She had ordered a couple dozen, but he usually selected one of his six or seven favorite pairs.

He put on the bottoms, Sin the tops. She usually let him sleep with her now that he was no longer scared in the night. It was companionable, comfortable for him.

As usual, she sat beside her brother, giving him 10 or 15 minutes to ask her anything he wanted, this was Rusty Time. His favorite. Sin believed he slept better after having a quiet conversation with the person he adored most in the world.

Afterwards, she kissed him goodnight, some toothpastey tongue this night, and turned out the light, Sin felt her duties were done for the day. Now she would talk with Miss Latimore, read, watch a sexy movie ... do whatever she wanted. It was her own time and she stayed up as late as she wanted.

Miss Latimore had never established a bedtime for Sin, and she left Rusty up to the little girl.

About one Saturday a month, Sin told her little brother, “Pack.” Rusty would grin that delighted grin and race back to their bedroom.

He folded her clothes carefully, even the tiny thongs. Sin believed that teaching him what females wore would broaden his perspective, make him more intelligent about the opposite sex.

And, good boy, he was equally thoughtful in packing his own clothes.

When they left for their weekend on the town, Rusty often wore the double-breasted black blazer that Sin had bought for him. She liked how they looked that morning — Rusty crisp and neat, Sin in the tightest white short-shorts that she could squeeze into.

Sin never told Miss Latimore where they were going, nor which hotel she would check them into. Sin had been going out on her own for three years, and taking Rusty with her for the last two.

She considered her brother’s cultural education to be an important part of his formative years so she included ballet, art galleries, opera, museums, symphony, jazz clubs, performance art, street food, room service ... the panoply of New York offerings.

Miss Latimore, through one of her many acquaintances, arranged it so that Sin could sneak her brother into the live sex shows in outer Queens that were currently so much in vogue. Because the rotating group of homes that housed the shows was near JFK, the shows were called Airport Fucks. The first couple of times had been almost overwhelming to Rusty, but Sin kept taking him.

She didn’t let him wimp out on her, and certainly not about some silly little performances.

On those cultural outings, Sin let her brother order his own meals in restaurants. From food carts. And room service. So long as he varied his diet.

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