The Runaway Bride - A Captive Flame Book One by Ashley Spector Page B

Krystopher grinned slowly. “In
that case, this will be a very nice reward for you. Come on, little
slave—we have to get you ready.” Krystopher stood quickly, taking
my hand and leading me from his office.

Chapter Eight
     
    ~

 
     
    Before we could go to
the opera, Krystopher informed me that I had to be “immaculately
dressed.” He took me straight from the office to a high couture
boutique; I was surprised at the fact that while I still felt
strange in such a rarified atmosphere, I didn’t feel quite as
awkward as I had just the day before. He told the attendant who
rushed to greet us as soon as we stepped through the doors that we
had tickets to the opera—to the opening of La Bohème. I had heard
of that opera, but never had a chance to do more than know that it
existed; the woman attending us nodded importantly and walked me
quickly to an area with priceless gowns. I knew that the opera was
typically a black tie sort of affair; but I had never thought that
I’d have to think about an event like that as anything more than an
idea.
     
    Once more, just as he
had previously, Krystopher waited for me, following in the wake of
the attendant who picked out five different dresses for me to try.
“I think you’ll really like this one; the deep green will
complement your skin tone beautifully, and set off your hair.” I
felt almost like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman as I slipped into
the different dresses, stepping out of the changing room to show
Krystopher, to get his approval. My body was still humming from the
sexual interlude, my mind still in the space of subtle obedience to
my Master’s commands. When I stepped out in the deep green dress,
Krystopher’s eyes widened and a faint smile curved his lips as he
took in the sight of me. It was the only dress without a huge
skirt, instead modeled on sleek lines, hugging every curve of my
body and falling to my feet. It was made of real velvet, with a
vines and leaves motif pressed into the fabric, slithering up along
the skirt. The neckline darted down almost to my navel, and I was
worried at the very real possibility of a simple movement exposing
me—but it was obvious that the gown delighted Krystopher. I told
the attendant that we would take it.
     
    When she left us
alone, Krystopher slipped his hands underneath the folds of fabric
that barely covered my breasts, cupping me and stroking my nipples
with his fingertips teasingly. “Hm, yes, this will do very nicely
indeed,” he said, approval rich in his voice. I changed back into
the clothes I had worn to the office, and Krystopher took me back
to his apartment. “While I trust to your taste, my dear,” he
commented as he led me in, carrying the garment bag that held my
gown draped over his shoulder, “I have professionals coming to do
your hair and makeup—this is the kind of event that you wouldn’t be
experienced with.” While I felt strange—and for a moment my pride
stirred up in me, making me want to defy him and insist on doing my
own hair and makeup—I held my peace and let Krystopher pull me into
the shower with him to “get clean” before the arrival of the
professionals. I was starting to learn that my Master would take
any and every moment to impress on me the virtues not only of
discipline and reward, but attention; the shower caught me
off-guard less because of the fact that he pressed me onto my knees
and commanded me to worship his cock with my mouth, and more
because he pulled me onto my feet once more and began to touch me
everywhere, scrubbing and massaging me with his hands lathered with
soap.
     
    We barely had time to
finish up before a chime from the living room announced the arrival
of the hair and makeup artists that Krystopher had somehow arranged
to work with me. I wondered just how he had managed to get them
together—how he had made so many fast plans. Did he have these
people on retainer? Had he called upon them to work on some other
girl who had been his slave? The