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Chapter Seventeen: Milo
Ileaned againstthe counter, watching Alice primp for the evening. She was fresh out of the shower, applying makeup in the nude. It took everything I had not to molest her as she leaned over to put on black eyeliner. I needed to save those urges for The Gallery, or we’d end up very late.
“Is that eyeliner waterproof?” I asked.
She looked at the tube. “I don’t know.”
I hoped it wasn’t. There was something about messy, running eyeliner as your masochist submissive broke down in tears. When she finished the eyeliner, she put on some crimson-red lipstick, and I wanted to fuck her mouth so badly. I wondered if this whole leisurely makeup process was meant as a tease.
“What should I do with my hair?” she asked. “Leave it loose so you can grab it?”
“No, braid it for me. You know, that thing where you wrap the braids around your head?” I motioned over the crown of my dark hair. “It excites me when you have that innocent-Heidi look.”
“That ‘innocent-Heidi look’? You’re a pervert.”
“Maybe. When I see those braids around your head, all I can think about is taking them down and doing nefarious things to them.”
“Hair pervert,” she muttered, but she humored me and picked up her comb. She loved humoring my whims, and it made my life a fucking dream. After she braided her hair with quick, deft finger movements, she squirmed into her Gallery uniform. The sexually overt costume had featured prominently in my dreams ever since she’d tried it on for me. I got hard watching her pull up the stockings. “Here, Cinderella,” I said, picking up the stilettos. “Allow me.”
She held onto my shoulders as I slipped the first shoe on her foot, then the second. When she stood, she almost reached my height. Almost.
“You’re so beautiful,” I said. “So ridiculously beautiful.”
She smiled and straightened my tie, then ran a hand along my suit coat’s lapel. I was in formal business attire, because the Doms at The Gallery had a dress code too.
“You’re ridiculously beautiful as well, Milo Fierro. Oh, I still need my collar.”
“Let me do it.”
I’d wanted to put on her shoes because I loved her feet and her elegant calf muscles. I wanted to put on her collar because she belonged to me. I was more certain of it every day.Mine. My woman, forever and ever.Even so, her collar, like all the women’s collars at the club, had a dangling, decorative lock that readProperty of The Gallery.
It was okay. She could belong to me, and still play with others at The Gallery. I’d have to work that out. Once we were in the thick of things, in the passionate violence of the main dungeon, I’d most likely be able to share her to a reasonable extent. Passing willing women around was just kink, fun stuff, and I trusted every Dom there to take care of her and follow the rules.
“The silver-toned leather looks nice on you,” I said. “You were made to wear a collar.”
She put a hand over mine. “I wouldn’t have thought that a couple months ago, but now…”
I took her chin and pulled her close for a kiss. She braced against me until she found her footing in the stilettos, then my other hand traced down the straps framing her ass. It was so lovely, so round and beautiful. I groaned into Alice’s mouth.
“We should go,” I said. “Otherwise we won’t get there at all.”
I went to the closet to get her fitted black coat that ended just above her knees. She couldn’t go up on the elevator without it, even though I hated covering up her sexy outfit, even for a moment. As she tied the belt closed in front of her, I hugged her from behind, pressing my cheek to hers.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I asked. “We don’t have to. We can wait a little longer.”
“The longer I wait, the more anxious I get about going. So let’s go.” She reached to stroke my cheek. “I’m sure it will be great, and if I don’t like it, I’ll tell you.”
“You promise?”
She turned her head to kiss me, then said, “I promise, Sir.”
We got into the elevator and rode it up to the top floor, to the clock tower that had been renovated into a three-level wonderland for sadomasochistic play. The doors opened into the lobby, and I smiled at her delighted intake of breath. It was a gorgeous, soaring space, with ornate molding and eighteenth century reproduction iron sconces lining the walls, making the gilded, flocked wallpaper glint in the low light.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said.
“I think so too.” Even so, it wasn’t as beautiful as her, with her shining eyes and shapely, scarlet lips. Rene, a young man who served as both greeter and security, smiled at us.
“Welcome to The Gallery, Mr. Fierro.”
