The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel (4 page)

Another favorite fantasy of mine involved fucking in front of a large crowd.
 
I had always suspected that there was an exhibitionistic streak in me, one that lay dormant in the depths of my innermost desires, waiting eagerly for a delicious awakening to occur.
 
But I was content with just fantasizing about it.
 
Fantasies were sometimes better than the real thing anyway.
 
They tended to be less disappointing.

If only Seton would fulfill at least one of those fantasies…
 

Speaking of which, I wondered what he had in mind for tonight’s private meeting.

Then I remembered the black shopping bag.
 
I couldn’t believe I still hadn’t seen what was inside!
 
Quick as a cat, I dashed over to my bedroom, grabbed the bag from where I’d left it and tossed some of its contents on top of my bed.

There was a dress—too short to be described as micro—made of black leather.
 
It was a size six, my size.
 
How had he known that was my size?

The sleeveless dress had a large silver zipper in the front.
 
The zipper began at the slightly plunging V-neckline and ended almost at the waist.
 
There were tiny zippers everywhere.
 
I held it in front of me, confused.
 
Why on earth would he want me to wear something so tacky?

Frowning, I scanned the other items from the bag.
 
There was jewelry.
 
A black velvet box revealed a twinkling ankle bracelet with a matching toe ring.
 
They were beautiful, made of white gold strewn with tiny diamond studs.
 
There was also a long silver chain thing with what appeared to be large metal clasps at the corners.
 
I had no idea what it was.
 
The bag also contained a tube of blood-red lipstick and a pair of the most incredible high-heel shoes I had ever seen.
 
Strappy sandals made of genuine leather.
 
The heels were at least seven inches tall.
 
They looked like the sort of shoes prostitutes and porn stars wore.

Awestruck, I peered inside the bag to see if there was something else inside and found a folded piece of paper.
 
A note from Seton.

Miss Fordham,

Wear everything you see in this bag.
 
If it’s not in the bag, then I don’t want you to wear it.
 
I hope you will follow these simple instructions.
 
I look forward to seeing you tonite.

Regards,

D.J.S.

I decided to don the garments.
 
I was going to meet him in less than two hours anyway—might as well get a head start.
 
The dress was difficult to put on.
 
The leather clung to my skin and I thought that I would never slip it past my hips.
 
When I zipped it closed I thought I wouldn’t be able to breathe.
 
The friggin’ thing fit me like second skin.
 
My ribs constricted and my waist hurt, and I sent a silent prayer, hoping I wouldn’t have to wear this thing all night long.
 

The shoes were next.
 
The highest heels I had ever worn were three inches tall, and I didn’t think I’d be able to walk in these.
 
Uneasiness surged through me as I slipped them on.
 
I took a few tentative steps, clutching the bed’s footboard to avoid a sudden fall.
 
But the more I walked in them, the more I became used to the towering height.
 
The heels applied pressure to my ankles, but the soft leather shoes were surprisingly comfortable and they fitted me perfectly.
 
Again, how had Seton known my size?

I clasped on the ankle bracelet and slid the toe ring on my left foot.
 
I had no idea what to do with the long chain thing with the clasps at the corners, so I tossed it inside my handbag.
 
I would ask Seton about it later.

To complete the effect, I applied the red-blood lipstick and blotted it with a piece of paper so that it wouldn’t smudge all over my front teeth.
 
Seton hadn’t mentioned my hair in the note, so I decided to leave my chestnut-brown tresses hang down my back.
 
I had no idea what to do about underwear.
 
His note said that if it was not in the bag, then he didn’t want me to wear it.
 
I supposed that included undergarments, so I wore none.
 
I didn’t think I would be able to wear them with such a tight dress anyway.
 
Visible panty lines and all that.

I went to the full-length mirror and studied the results.
 
Ick!
 
I looked like one of those big-haired sluts in a rock music video from the eighties.
 
Was this what David J. Seton was into?
 
Could an interesting, enigmatic, intelligent, sensual and sophisticated man enjoy the company of cheap-looking women?
 
I posed in front of the mirror and sighed.
 
My figure was fine, I supposed—nice breasts, shapely legs, narrow waist.
 
At merely five feet, I hardly ever looked good in anything, and I had no clue if I could pull off this look.
  

My scrutiny was interrupted by the doorbell.
 
Nervous, I wobbled to the door and peered through the peep hole.
 
It was Mitch.
 

Shit!
 
Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!
 

What the hell was
he
doing here tonight of all nights?
 
I had waited weeks for that bastard to show up and he chose the worst possible moment to do it.
 
That was
so
like him!

“Mitch,” I said through the door, “I can’t see you tonight.
 
Could you come over another time?”

“Why, you cheating on me or something?”

I rolled my eyes at the closed door.
 
He was one to talk!
 
Mitch and I had an arrangement.
 
His girlfriend was bisexual, which meant she slept with other women—women who weren’t into men, so no X-rated threesomes for Mitch—and in turn meant that he was entitled to see other women as well.
 
I was one of those other women.
 
Mitch was gorgeous, the quintessential playboy, the town’s blue-eyed heartbreaker.
 
Northampton had a shortage of available straight men, and Mitch took full advantage of that.
 
He even chronicled his sexual exploits in a local newspaper.
 
I once wondered why he’d bothered to see me at all when he had so many options.

“You’re a great fuck,” had been his poetic response.

“No, Mitch, it’s just not…convenient,” I insisted.
 
“I have an important meeting tonight and I’m getting ready.
 
Come see me another time.”

He was silent for a moment, then, “You up for a quickie?
 
I’ll be in and out in five—”

“No!”
 
Damn it!
 
How come men never know when they’re not wanted?
 
Are they really that self-absorbed?
 
Do they all think they’re God’s gift to women or something?
 
Well, Mitch certainly thought he was.
 
He wouldn’t see me for weeks, but when he finally deigned to pay me a visit he’d stay for hours, sometimes days, and I often had to sigh and glance at the clock repeatedly before he got the hint.
 
I hoped I could ditch him as quickly as possible this time.
 
“I really have no time for this, Mitch,” I hissed.
 
“Go see someone else tonight.”

I heard him let out a defeated sigh.
 
“Look, I was hoping we could talk after we fucked.
 
Mel dumped me and I’m pretty bummed out about it.”

Oh.
 
So his girlfriend finally ditched him, huh?
 
I wondered why he sounded so devastated with the news.
 
Didn’t he have literally, like,
dozens
of women on his beck and call?

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, “but we’ll have to talk about it some other time.
 
Let’s meet up for coffee tomorrow morning, how’s that?”

He sighed again.
 
He was quite the little drama queen when he wanted to be.
 
“Fine.
 
I’ll call you.”

Phew!
 
That was easy!
 
I was home free.
 
I had time to make some finishing touches on my appearance before I left for my tryst.
 
I was brushing my hair when the phone rang.

“My driver will be there to collect you in precisely five minutes,” said a sexy baritone with a velvety English accent.
 
The rich, seductive lilt in his voice made me warm and tingly all over.
 
It amazed me what this man could do to me by simply talking.

“Your driver?
 
I thought you wanted me to walk up to your place.”

“What made you think that?”

“You gave me a card with your home address and told me to meet you there.”

A confused silence met my ears.
 
“Well, you won’t have to.
 
My driver is on his way.”

Huh.
 
He was forgetful.
 
Typical writer.
 
And he had a driver?
 
Who did he think he was, Donald Trump?
 
“All right,” I replied.
 

“You’re wearing everything you found in the bag?”

“Yes.”

“Any problems with the items?”

“I had a difficult time putting on the dress.
 
It’s very tight.”

“It’s supposed to be tight.
 
It’s to accentuate that gorgeous body of yours.
 
I can’t wait to see you in it.”
 

I shivered at his words.

“When my driver drops you off,” he continued, “use the side door to my house, not the front one.
 
The side door’s for my cleaning staff and now it’s yours to use as well.”

I was about to ask him what he’d meant when I heard a loud click and the line going dead.
 
He hung up on me.
 
I stared at the receiver in my hand, puzzled.
 
What a strange man.
 
What a strange, fascinating man.

Grabbing my handbag, I dashed over to the mirror for a final inspection.
 
“I think you’re going to like what you see, Mr. Seton,” I said seductively to the mirror.
 
I, too, couldn’t wait for him to see me in the apparel he had chosen for me.
 
I looked like a cheap slut—felt like one too.
 
The more I studied my reflection, the more I thought that I did slutty superbly well.
 
I was glad Seton had decided to send over his driver.
 
It was best not to walk down the streets wearing this in case the cops stopped me and hauled me off to jail, confusing me for a streetwalker.

A shiny black Mercedes stood at the curb when I left my house.
 
Seton’s driver had arrived.
 
Taking a deep breath, I sauntered over to the car, my heels clicking loudly against the pavement.
 
My legs wobbled a little when I crossed over to the cobblestones at the curb.
 
I smiled at the driver, who gave me a quick once-over.
 
A surprised look flitted across his leathery face.
 
I blushed furiously as he opened the back door for me.