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“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
Iwent shoppingfor 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 couldn’t ride up the Bridgeport’s elevator in lingerie. I found a beautifully tailored designer trench, black, lined with butter-soft silk. I had it delivered to her apartment with a note.Wear this over your uniform. There are no changing rooms there.
Then I tried to focus on work, on spring retail numbers and meetings, but my thoughts kept returning to Juliet and the fetishized lingerie she’d wear to The Gallery on Saturday beneath my accompanying coat. Was it too soon to take her there? Was she enough of a hedonist to understand why it turned all of us on?
Shit, if she wasn’t, things would get awkward. It could mean the end of us, which would be okay, I guess. Disappointing. Maybe I should have waited.
Too late now.
I knocked on her door Saturday night with equal parts anticipation and anxiety. She answered in her new black coat, letting me into her apartment with a shy smile on her lips. Her hair was done up in a pile of curls. I stared at her neck, at her slim collar, a collar with the level of quality someone like her deserved.
“Hello,” she said, cinching the coat’s belt tighter at her waist. She looked me up and down. “No leather vest and chaps?”
I brushed a hand over my dark suit, starched white shirt, and striped blue tie. “We have a dress code, too,” I explained. “Have to keep things classy.”
“You look nice.”
I brushed my unruly hair back from my forehead and studied her next, touching the arm of her coat. “It fits you perfectly. Are you wearing your uniform under there?”
“Yes.” Her sweet voice rasped, suddenly gone dry. “Yes, Sir.”
