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“I guess. When the costume’s ready.”
She smiled. “I’ll have it for you in less than a week. There’s not much to it. Have you seen the design?”
“My Dominant told me it was fetish-y, but I haven’t seen a picture or anything.”
She crossed the small, crowded space to her work desk and returned with a fashion sketch. I scanned the black outline of the lingerie with alarm. “That’s very skimpy.”
“It’s skimpy, yes, but it’ll look lovely on your figure.”
“This figure?” I gestured to my round hips and mediocre chest.
“It’s designed to accentuate the female anatomy.”
I studied the lines of the fabric that composed the bra…if it could be called a bra. “Is that lingerie, or a harness?”
“It’s a peek-a-boo bra, made of mesh and lace. It exposes the nipples.”
I understood why that might be necessary. I pictured my clamped, erect nipples poking out from the sexy black bra and blew out a breath. My blush still hadn’t gone away. This woman was outfitting me to be a sex toy for rich Dominants. But if she’d been to The Gallery, it wasn’t like she could judge me, or expose me as a freak.
“If you’d just get undressed,” she said. “Down to your panties, if you don’t mind.”
I did as she requested, placing my jacket, jeans, and t-shirt over her desk chair. She led me to a platform near the shaded window, clutching a worn notebook in her hand. I studied her soft, pale brown hair as she knelt to measure my inseam and hips. Something in her posture suggested submission, even now.
“Old school,” I said as she wrote down my numbers. “That notebook.”
“Oh, there are years of submissives’ measurements in here.” She tweaked one edge of the book. “Sometimes I look through them for fun, I suppose to see how many shapes and sizes we come in. Some of us are larger, like me. Pleasingly plump, I like to say.” She put the measuring tape around my waist and laughed. “Some of us are more svelte. Goodness, I won’t be jealous. My Master loves my shape.”
I didn’t think Michelle was that “plump,” just a healthy, middle-aged woman, nor did I find myself at all svelte. “How long have you been going to The Gallery?” I asked.
“For years now. Master and I are getting older, so we don’t go as often as we did. But when I go, it’s like being home again.”
“Are you and your Master married?”
I wasn’t sure why I asked. It wasn’t any of my business, but she answered with another laugh. “Oh no, we’re only compatible as power exchange partners. We’re both married to other people who are kind enough to share us. My husband is a mild, sweet man. He can’t give me what I need as far as pain, but I love him to pieces.”
I had so many questions, all of them unforgivably nosy. “Can I ask you something?”
“Here come some cold hands,” she said, as she prepared to measure around my chest. My nipples tightened but she ignored that. “And you can ask me anything, Juliet. I’ll answer as well as I can.”
“What’s it like to be there?”
She collected her measuring tape, rolling it around a finger. “I can’t really answer that for you. The Gallery is a different experience for everyone who goes, for every Master and slave, Dominant and submissive. For some, it’s a frantic trial, just as they want it to be. For others, the pain and lack of control is a meditative exercise. Others want to be humiliated or treated like an animal. What you see isn’t necessarily what’s going on between people.” She measured my torso, then my neck. “It’s noisy there, with voices, screams, and commands, but there’s a lot going on inside people as well. Some participants are stoic and don’t make a peep.”
I wondered what would go on inside me. I wondered if I’d be noisy or silent, frantic or meditative.
“Are you worried about going?” Michelle asked.
“A little. I’m new to the whole consensual-non-consent thing. I’m worried I won’t be good at it.”
“Your Master wouldn’t have invited you if you weren’t ‘good at it.’” She put air quotes around my words. “Lack of confidence is an all-too-common submissive trait.”
“He’s not my Master, just someone who’s teaching me about sadism and masochism. I mean, he’s a sadist, so I guess I’m a masochist.”
She gave me a strange look. “You guess? You’re either a masochist, or you aren’t.”
“I am,” I said, feeling naked under her gaze. “And my Dom is great. He makes me hurt in really awesome ways. He makes me crazy, in a way no other guy ever has.”
“All of that sounds familiar.” Her concerned look turned to a smile. “I can tell you’ll do fine by the way your eyes glaze over when you talk about him.”
“His name is Fort St. Clair,” I blurted out. “Do you know him?”
She leaned to write more measurements in her book. “I know of him,” she said, not looking at me. “He’s very handsome, and good at what he does, judging by the women he plays wi…” Her voice trailed off. My face must have given away my jealousy of those unknown women. Now she looked pensive again. “You have feelings for him? Mr. St. Clair?”
“No,” I lied. “Well, sometimes. It’s just the intensity of the whole thing. We’re not romantically involved.”
“You can get dressed now. I have all the measurements I need.”
She took her notebook to her desk, turning away to give me privacy while I put on my clothes. “Wait until you see how gorgeous The Gallery is,” she said. “So gothic and elegant, and the grand rotunda above, dark with shadows. Pure fantasy made real.”
*
Four days later, a nondescript package from Michelle’s address was delivered to my doorstep via courier. I signed for it, then hurried inside to check out my “uniform.” The black lingerie was folded into crisp, white tissue, each piece as slight and soft as down as I pulled it out.
For starters, there was the cut-out bra and a skimpy garter belt, both embellished with delicate beads and lace. Three pairs of black stockings, with instructions on where to buy more, and curled in a loop at the bottom, a thin, silver-toned leather collar with a tiny, decorative lock. I had to get a magnifying glass to see the small words inscribed on the body of the lock: Property of The Gallery.
I tried on everything, as Michelle’s note prompted. I hope it fits, she wrote.
God, it fit so well I could barely look at myself. The boning in the bra pushed up my smallish breasts, making them look spectacularly lush. The cups’ openings framed the pale, sensitive skin surrounding my pointed nipples, as if offering them to whoever looked at me. The garter belt was cut to frame my pussy lips in the same way the bra highlighted my nipples. There were no panties. The stockings came to mid-thigh, cinched by heavy-duty clips decorated with the same tiny beads as the rest of the lingerie. Understated black stiletto pumps kept me on my toes, literally, making me look even more like a sex bomb.
The stark, black lines around my breasts and hips suggested a harness, even though the uniform wasn’t a harness. It bound me, displayed me. I buckled on the collar last, and I was glad the outfit didn’t have any panties. My pussy would have caught them on fire, I was so turned on.
I texted Fort that I had my uniform, that I was ready to go to The Gallery whenever he was. He told me to take a picture for him, but then he texted a moment later and said I shouldn’t.
Why? I wrote.
Because I want to see it the first time on Saturday. I’ll pick you up at 10:30. Make sure you have everything you need.
Everything I need?
Uniform. Collar. Dots blinked. A pause. Bravery. Another pause. Are you still sure you want to go?
I definitely want to go, I texted, staring at the boldly sexualized woman in the mirror. I’m ready for it now.
Chapter Nineteen: Fort
I went shopping for Juliet on Tuesday, not for socks, although I might have bought some if I knew where to find them.
No, I went shopping for the perfect coat, since she
