nearly cried tears, the same emotional tears that threatened to overwhelm me now. Tears of fearful, fascinated infatuation.
Yes, infatuation was all it was.
No, no, I wasn't falling in love with him; it was ridiculously inappropriate to even dream of feeling that way. Wasn't it?
He'd destroyed my life, my career, reduced me to a contractual comfort object, but all I could think was, I wish he hadn't sent me away.
I lay in his guest room, cold, lonely, horny. I could have reached between my legs and soothed some of the ache away. He never would have known, but I wouldn't. I couldn't. He'd told me it wasn't allowed, and I desperately wanted to obey him already. I was already hopelessly his.
He had said “ You're mine ,” whispered it into the hollow of my earlobe. Did he really think of me as his , or did he think of me as Nell, his body for hire? Was he thinking of me right now, lying in bed, as I was thinking of him, or was it out of sight, out of mind for him?
Well, of course it was. He wouldn't go to the trouble of hiring someone to play his girlfriend in public and his sex toy in private if he wanted to get emotionally involved.
I would need to be so careful, so cautious here.
And I would definitely need to dry my tears.
* * *
Jeremy and I spent the next couple of days in a flurry of preparations. We went to the doctor first, or rather the doctor came to us, drew blood, put me through a very thorough and intimate physical to declare me free of disease and in good health.
Then we shopped, and shopped…and shopped. True to his word, he paid for everything I needed for the trip, and for some things I probably didn't even need. Luggage, clothes, gadgets to make traveling easier, and a durable wheeled leather valise for all my mythology books. Dresses, tops, jeans, cardigans, shoes, bathing suits, and cover-ups, even though it was early October. And lingerie, what had to be thousands of dollars worth.
Most of the practical items came to the doorstep already selected and paid for by some underling of Jeremy's, Kyle perhaps. The clothing he gave me a budget for, and I went out on my own to put together a nice little wardrobe. He insisted that I dress with my own sense of style, which he professed to like. But the lingerie—we went to buy that together in what amounted to one of the most arousing shopping excursions of my life.
We didn't just pop down to Victoria's Secret. He took me to a small, exclusive boutique I didn't even know existed, a boutique whose tissue paper was out of my price range, much less the fine garments they wrapped in it.
There was no discussion of price, or any visible price tags, only incredibly luxurious and detailed lingerie. I stared in wonder at the fine silk corsets and sighed over perfectly fitted bras. There were risqué garter belts and G-strings. And of course, piles and piles of cheeky, impossibly detailed panties. If he insisted my outward appearance be completely my own choices, it was clear my private appearance would be exclusively his.
But I didn't mind, because it was incredibly erotic to be dressed by him. He selected everything carefully, studying me with his cool blue eyes as Madame smoothed the corsets and adjusted the garters. She pointed out the embellishments and features of each garment she produced.
“You see, Monsieur, how beautifully this presents her décolletage,” she would point out, and he would agree, running his fingertips over the tops of my rounded breasts thrust above the silk.
Or she would run her hand just beneath the seams of the fine French panties she slid up my legs, pointing out how they exposed the perfect silhouette of the curve of my ass. And he would cup my ass and agree with her in a perfectly normal, modulated voice. “ Yes, they suit her well .”
I wanted to beg on my hands and knees for sex.
He hadn't touched me since that first night I'd moved into
Yes, infatuation was all it was.
No, no, I wasn't falling in love with him; it was ridiculously inappropriate to even dream of feeling that way. Wasn't it?
He'd destroyed my life, my career, reduced me to a contractual comfort object, but all I could think was, I wish he hadn't sent me away.
I lay in his guest room, cold, lonely, horny. I could have reached between my legs and soothed some of the ache away. He never would have known, but I wouldn't. I couldn't. He'd told me it wasn't allowed, and I desperately wanted to obey him already. I was already hopelessly his.
He had said “ You're mine ,” whispered it into the hollow of my earlobe. Did he really think of me as his , or did he think of me as Nell, his body for hire? Was he thinking of me right now, lying in bed, as I was thinking of him, or was it out of sight, out of mind for him?
Well, of course it was. He wouldn't go to the trouble of hiring someone to play his girlfriend in public and his sex toy in private if he wanted to get emotionally involved.
I would need to be so careful, so cautious here.
And I would definitely need to dry my tears.
* * *
Jeremy and I spent the next couple of days in a flurry of preparations. We went to the doctor first, or rather the doctor came to us, drew blood, put me through a very thorough and intimate physical to declare me free of disease and in good health.
Then we shopped, and shopped…and shopped. True to his word, he paid for everything I needed for the trip, and for some things I probably didn't even need. Luggage, clothes, gadgets to make traveling easier, and a durable wheeled leather valise for all my mythology books. Dresses, tops, jeans, cardigans, shoes, bathing suits, and cover-ups, even though it was early October. And lingerie, what had to be thousands of dollars worth.
Most of the practical items came to the doorstep already selected and paid for by some underling of Jeremy's, Kyle perhaps. The clothing he gave me a budget for, and I went out on my own to put together a nice little wardrobe. He insisted that I dress with my own sense of style, which he professed to like. But the lingerie—we went to buy that together in what amounted to one of the most arousing shopping excursions of my life.
We didn't just pop down to Victoria's Secret. He took me to a small, exclusive boutique I didn't even know existed, a boutique whose tissue paper was out of my price range, much less the fine garments they wrapped in it.
There was no discussion of price, or any visible price tags, only incredibly luxurious and detailed lingerie. I stared in wonder at the fine silk corsets and sighed over perfectly fitted bras. There were risqué garter belts and G-strings. And of course, piles and piles of cheeky, impossibly detailed panties. If he insisted my outward appearance be completely my own choices, it was clear my private appearance would be exclusively his.
But I didn't mind, because it was incredibly erotic to be dressed by him. He selected everything carefully, studying me with his cool blue eyes as Madame smoothed the corsets and adjusted the garters. She pointed out the embellishments and features of each garment she produced.
“You see, Monsieur, how beautifully this presents her décolletage,” she would point out, and he would agree, running his fingertips over the tops of my rounded breasts thrust above the silk.
Or she would run her hand just beneath the seams of the fine French panties she slid up my legs, pointing out how they exposed the perfect silhouette of the curve of my ass. And he would cup my ass and agree with her in a perfectly normal, modulated voice. “ Yes, they suit her well .”
I wanted to beg on my hands and knees for sex.
He hadn't touched me since that first night I'd moved into
Similar Books
