Erin tsks, though. "If this is a first date, you can't go looking like that. It screams desperate dork."
"Gee, thanks. I wonder why I didn't tell you anything." I snort and swat at her hands.
"At least let me do your makeup," she protests. There's that pout again.
I sigh and roll my eyes, though secretly I love when she fusses like this. "Fine, but nothing too weird."
"Just some blush and subtle lips, I promise!" She bounds toward her bedroom. "Maybe some mascara," she calls over her shoulder. "Hmm, or eyeliner too . . ."
I sigh again and check the clock. "Fine, but I only have twenty minutes. Then I need to run."
"Wow." Erin returns with a scarily large makeup bag in tow. "Early for a date. This gonna be an all day thing, or does he work nights?"
I shrug again. This earns me another sigh.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, you know," she tells me as she paints a pale pink gloss over my lips. "Everybody needs to get laid now and again. We're not Puritans. Hookups are perfectly normal. There, how's that?"
But as I check myself over in her hand mirror, admiring the subtle way she brought out the green in my eyes and made my skin look smoother, more uniform and less prone to blotchy red blushes, I wonder how normal she'd think this situation was. Being a virgin at 19 is weird enough. Agreeing to lose it to some guy from the internet might be a little more usual nowadays, I guess.
But getting paid for it? Oh hell no.
So I just smile, close-lipped, and thank my best friend for her help.
"Well if you won't give me his name, at least let me know where you're going," she demands as I'm throwing on my coat to leave. "If he's from online, he could be anyone, y'know."
I pause at the doorway, relenting. She's right. "I don't exactly know yet . . ." I admit, wincing when her eyes widen and her mouth drops open with a million more questions. I raise a hand to stem the tide. "It's a surprise. But I'll text you as soon as I find out, I swear. If I don't message you by two, feel free to send out the search parties."
She salutes. "Aye, aye, captain." Then she melts into a wink. "And hey, Bonnie? Do me a favor. Have some fucking fun, will you?"
* * *
So far, I am failing in my promise to Erin to have fun. There's nothing enjoyable about lying spread-legged on a sterile white table in a colorless room while a strange woman sticks her head between my legs. And that's before the hot wax.
I flinch as a huge glob of the searing hot stuff lands on my nethers. I've got my fists clenched at my side and my teeth gritted in preparation, but honestly, that wasn't so bad. I crack an eyelid to peer up at the woman, an Amazon of a redhead who looks like she could twist my leg off as easily as de-hair it.
"Was that it?" I ask, starting to breathe again. That wasn't so bad. After all the horror stories I've heard about waxing, I was expecting way worse, to be honest.
"No," Red snaps.
The next thing I register is white-hot, searing pain. It's accompanied by a horrifying ripping sound—I mean, I get the whole process in theory, but I didn't expect it to sound like Velcro being torn open. Luckily, I'm so shocked by the stab of agony in my delicate flowery bits that I don't remember to scream in pain. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, though, and my palms have four crescent moons dug into each one in red, where my nails cut my skin.
"That was," Red says.
"Jesus," I gasp, starting to sit up.
She shoves me back down onto the bench. "I did not finish. That was the first strip," she clarifies.
Fuck my life.
Four more agonizing bouts of that, to clear all the hairs between my ass cheeks, down my thighs and across my faint happy trail. By the fourth one, I'm not as shocked anymore, so I remember to yell.
"Sorry," I mumble, after shouting at what felt like the top of my lungs. Definitely loud enough to hurt my throat.
"Don't be," Red replies gruffly. "It's better to let it out." She slaps my tender pussy with a huge glob of liquid heaven. I flinch from the slap, but relax at the cooling sensation of whatever magical moisturizer she's applying. "Healthier to scream, I always say."
"None of this seems particularly necessary for health," I groan between clenched teeth, though the cream is starting to cool the burning sensation at last.
I'm starting to wonder if $500k is going to be worth all this after all. I mean, what's next? A full-body scrub with sandpaper? Carving off any moles or blemishes? Boob implants? Who the hell knows where this all ends.
Though, I have to admit, when the Amazon leaves the room, indicating I can get dressed again, and I slide off the table to check myself out in the mirror, it does look very neat and tidy. I run a hand between my legs and marvel at the baby-smooth skin. It's still bright red, angry from the wax, but the red is fading already thanks to the miracle lotion.
Without thinking about it, my fingers drift to my clit, massaging it gently. As they do, as I watch myself in the changing room of this fancy as hell salon, after being molested by a burly Irish woman, all I can think about is the way Pierce looked at me on camera yesterday. Those ice-blue eyes devouring every inch of me. His parted lips and the steel in his voice when he ordered me to stand up. To strip.
I remember him telling me what he wants to do to me. When I fuck you, I will make you come so hard you forget your name. I can hear his voice now, the surety in his gaze. That man gets what he wants. Always.
And what he wants right now is me . . .
My fingers stroke across my clit in a slow, circular rhythm. My lips part, and I gaze at myself, naked in the changing room mirror, trying to picture what Pierce sees. My pert breasts and my tight waist. I run my free hand over my hips, up my stomach to circle my nipples. With my other hand, I trace the lips of my pussy, feeling a drop of moisture there as I start to breathe faster.
I imagine him standing behind me, watching me touch myself. His hard eyes on my bare pussy. I picture him wrapping his arms around me from behind and stroking me, teasing me with his fingers. I close my eyes and my hand becomes his, toying with my clit, so close to touching the hard little sensitive spot at the tip, but never quite getting there. Dragging this out as long as he wants.
Pretty soon I'm sagging against the mirror, heart pounding as I finger myself harder, faster. My clit feels so sensitive, my pussy tight and wet with desire, every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation as I race toward a climax . . .
Clatter clatter.
The doorknob of the dressing room starts to turn and I gasp and leap away from the mirror to grab my clothes. I'm holding my jeans and shirt defensively in front of my body when the Irish Amazon re-enters, her small eyes squinting over at me.
"Sorry. Thought you'd be dressed by now." She steps inside the room anyway, and I guess it doesn't matter since she's already seen my formerly hairy vagina. She sets two fat store boxes down on the bed, each one wrapped in gold ribbon and tied in a bow that Gram would've killed to be able to imitate for Christmas presents. "Forgot to pass these on earlier—these are for you. Also, there's a car waiting out front when you're ready."
I nod a reply. Something about the mute confusion on my face must strike a nerve with her, though, because Red pauses before leaving again, her eyes on mine.
"Be careful with his type," she says, her gaze all too knowingly sharp. "They'll eat you alive if you let 'em."
Before I can ask what she means, she's gone, the door to the room slamming shut behind her.
Has Pierce sent girls here before? Has he had other virgin sacrifices prepped this same way, before he had his way with them?
I shake my head. Of course he has, Bonnie. Don't be crazy. There's a reason this mad rich man is willing to pay an insane amount of money to sleep with you. It's because this is what he gets off on doing.
I try not to worry too much about what that means, what it makes me to accept his money, as I turn back to the bed and undo the ribbon on the first box.
My jaw drops.
Okay. Not what I
was expecting. I figured he'd want me in a slutty schoolgirl getup, or maybe some kind of frilly, doll-like dress. Instead, I unfold a gorgeous black silk gown from within a fluff of gold tissue paper. It's floor-length, with a slit up one side, tasteful yet just revealing enough to tantalize. The neckline is similar, dipping low enough that it would show only a hint of cleavage, if I had much to display. It's a sleek, modern style, the kind of gown you see on red carpets or in the Who Wore It Better sections of celebrity gossip rags.
Not the kind of gown you wear to a paid hookup, I think. Then again, it's not like I know anything about hookups, paid or otherwise.
The second box catches my eye. When I lift it experimentally, it feels a lot heavier than the first one. Huh. I undo the second ribbon and open the lid to reveal two separately wrapped bundles. Within the first, heavier bundle, I discover a pair of black and gold heels. They're not sky-high, thank god, because I don't know if I'd even make it to the door of this changing room wearing a pair like that, let alone out the front door. But they are at least 3 inches tall, and narrow. Not quite stilettos, but real honest-to-goodness heels, nothing like the cork wedge sandals that are the closest thing I own to heels.
I bite my lip gently. No worries. I'll figure them out. They are gorgeous, too, and the soles don't look killer. When I stick a finger onto the pad, it feels soft and supportive, not like a lot of cute but deadly shoes.
Then I catch a glimpse of the brand and freeze in shock. Louboutin? I may not have known exactly how to spell that until this very second, but I can guarantee these babies aren't knock offs.
Shit.
I swallow hard as I untie the other tissue-wrapped package. Then I burst out in a grin. This is more what I was expecting.
A silk-smooth matching set of lingerie falls to the changing table. There's a thong, if you can even call it that, since it looks more like a string of dental floss mated with a patch of lace. And then there's the top, black just like the panties, lace as well as lace-up—it's a full bodice, complete with a bustier designed to give my girls a solid push. I check the size tag hesitantly, worried I might have given Pierce the wrong impression with the bra I wore on cam.
But no. It's exactly my size. 34A, a little big on the A-side, but not quite large enough to slip into B territory. When I shimmy into the bustier, it feels like putting on a hug. A really tight, slightly uncomfortable hug, but one that lifts my girls onto full display, cupping them just right, and hugging my curves the same way. The panties are a perfect fit too, and even though I shouldn't be surprised by this point, I do still lift my eyebrows when I slide the gown over top, because holy shit.
Not only does Pierce have flawless taste, but he's also got a dead eye for a lady's size. The thought of him memorizing every inch of me, figuring me out down to the centimeter, is sexy as fuck. The man pays attention to everything, every tiny detail.
The gown hugs my waist and flares out over my hips, giving me a gorgeous hourglass figure, emphasizing my chest without crossing the line into trashy territory, and dipping low in the back to show off the nape of my neck and the spot where my shoulder blades meet.
Even the fucking shoes fit. Jesus. How did he figure out that one? I wonder, until I remember that when I arrived at the salon this afternoon for my preparatory body massage and wax, they asked for my shoe size. I'd figured the masseuse needed it for some reason, but now I realize that Pierce must have asked them to relay that information and selected these shoes at the last minute.
However he managed it, I'm impressed. And the rest of the measurements, the salon didn't ask for those. He must have been able to size me up just from those few minutes we spent chatting on cam . . . Which tells me exactly how closely he was paying attention to every inch of my body.
In spite of myself (and my close call earlier), I can feel a faint pulse of desire in my pussy. Again. Damn. I'm going to get these nice, sexy new panties all wet before I even meet up with Pierce.
Oh well. I have a feeling he isn't going to complain. And whether it makes me crazy or not, I have to admit, a part of me is seriously enjoying this. I’m his doll, his plaything, and he’s dressing me up however he wants. And apparently, he is in to some really fancy dolls.
I slide on the heels and they're actually pretty easy to walk in. Supportive but sexy all at once. I twirl in the mirror for a moment, admiring my new look before I stuff my old clothes, which in comparison to this outfit look like something out of a Goodwill donation box, into my oversized purse. Thank god for San Fran sized bags, which we need to pretty much live out of, since no one here can afford a car to throw their extra necessities into. My clothes fit easily, and the slouchy hobo style bag still looks fine, albeit a little bit out of sync with the rest of my outfit.
Then I stride out of the changing room, feeling like a million bucks.
Well, okay. Half a million bucks. Soon to be all mine, baby.
I flash Red a bright grin, and she shakes her head in despair, though I notice she can't help but crack a smile, too. "This sugar daddy of yours has taste, I'll grant him that," she tells me as she waves me on out, adding, "Don't worry honey, it's all pre-paid for. The car's out front."
But I linger by the counter anyway. "Did, um . . .” My cheeks flush. I don't really know the protocol for waxing, but I feel sure that if any beauticians deserve a tip, it's the ones who get all up in your private parts. "Can I leave a tip?"
Red laughs, loud. "Oh, sweetheart, you're adorable. He covered that too, but thank you for asking." She winks, and I guess that's that.
Time to face the music.
I take a deep breath and cast one more glance over my shoulder at my reflection in the salon mirrors.
"You look amazing," Red reassures me. "And if he don't appreciate that, well . . . You know where to tell him to stick it." She grins, but for all her compliments, it's clear she doesn't have a high opinion of my mystery man here.
What if she's right? What if this is all a huge mistake?
But I remind myself of Gram. Of school. Of the angry texts collecting on my phone from my manager because I missed one day of work after years of being the only reliable employee. Of all the reasons I'm really doing this.
Eyes on the prize, Bonnie, I remind myself, and then I square my shoulders, lift my head high, and march through the front doors of the salon.
4
I expect Pierce to be waiting for me outside, but instead I find a valet, full suit and everything, holding open the door to an idling limo. I mean full stretch limo, not just the shorter versions you normally see downtown because let's face it, who can fit a stretch limo on San Francisco streets?
Pierce can, apparently.
I smile awkwardly at the driver as I slide into the seat. It's leather, which normally isn't my bag (freezing cold in winter, hot and sticky in summer, who likes that?!). However, I can tell the moment my butt connects with this seat that it's better thought-out than your average car seat. It cups my body, and the leather is butter-smooth beneath my palms. It's only early fall, not even chilly enough for a jacket yet, though at least the summer heat has finally relinquished its grip. But there's a pleasant hum of warmth beneath me.
Mm. Heated seats.
I settle in and make myself comfortable as the valet shuts the door. I stretch my legs out in front of me and study the interior of the car for clues as to the man who hired it. He's not here, so he must be meeting me wherever we're heading. I'm alone in the car except for a small sideboard bar, the booze stocking it all on display. I don't recognize any of the brand names, they're all unpronounceably foreign, but I can tell an expensive stash when I see one. Vodka from what is probably Russia to judge by the lettering, a bottle of champagne from France, a red wine from Italy, something called mezcal from Mexico I guess, since I can almost read the label for that one. Heck, even his whiskey is in a foreign language, Gaelic probably. And there's glasses beneath the bottles, cut to perfection, like little handheld diamonds that glitter in the limo's interior lighting.
So he likes his drink, but only the best of it. Got it.
My eyes sweep the rest of the interior, but aside from the smooth seats (and enough space that I start to wonder if this limo is larger than my bedroom at home), there's nothing else personal in here. My man of mystery remains mysterious.
Hmm. That or he rented this car just to show off. I lean my head back on the seat and study the ceiling. Did he choose this car for me specifically? Was it like the lingerie, carefully planned, or the dress, tailored exactly to fit me?
Maybe he plans to fuck me in here later, after wherever this car is taking me . . .
I trace my hands down my hips, loving the sensation of the smooth silk against my skin, brushing on my thighs and gliding beneath my palms.
Before I know it, my hands have drifted close to the outline of my panties. I tell myself I'm just checking the seams, to see if the thong is visible through the fabric of the dress. But soon I can't help pressing one finger flat along my mound, then another, inching toward my aching clit.
I can't stop thinking about him. About the way he reads me so easily, terrifyingly fast. About the way he knows my body better than I do, able to judge my size and shape at a single hungry glance.
My fingers reach my pussy, and I press through the dress, rubbing gently, feeling myself grow wetter with each rotation of my hand. Fuck. Is this how he'll be touching me soon? Will he take the time to tease me, touch me, make me gasp for more, before he finally plunges his hard cock into me and strips away my virginity?
Or will he just grab me and have his way with me the second I walk through the door of . . . Wherever we're going?
I can't decide which fantasy I prefer more. Maybe the latter, because there's something desperate and visceral about it, imagining a guy like Pierce, a guy in control of everything around him, unable to control himself over me.
Best of Penny Wylder: Virgin Romance Page 20
