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I shake my head as I make my way around the wall of booths that give the playrooms along the outside of the space a bit of privacy. I tug open one side of the only heavy velvet curtain that’s not tied back like the other playrooms’, since I asked Corbin and Brian to shut it when they were done, just in case Seth would somehow see what they installed for me today before I was ready. When it falls closed behind me after I step inside, I look up, and there it is—a huge part of my surprise.
I walk over to it hesitantly, taking in the fact that the guys did everything I asked… and more. The room has been rearranged so nothing is within several feet of the brand-new, glistening, golden stripper pole, making it safe for someone to stretch in any direction without knocking into anything. I’d only asked them to install it good enough that I could return home safely to my daughter at the end of the night and to please check the floor when they were done so I wouldn’t slip and bust my butt on something.
This, though? The pole looks like it’s now a permanent feature of Playroom 2. And as I round the padded leather play table in the center of the room, I see they even added a thick mat around the bottom. It’s black and blends in with the rest of the floor, not a bright color like the ones at Crystal’s studio.
Just off the round mat is a black leather armless chair with gold rivets along the edges. It’s much nicer than the “metal folding chair or something” I asked them to stick in here for me.
It had been hard enough to request the things I needed, since then they’d know exactly what I’d be doing for their best friend for his birthday. But surprisingly, they didn’t laugh or tease me one single bit. They listened intently with thoughtful expressions, nodding as I fumbled through my plan. They smiled encouragingly, prompting me with excitement in their tone and eyes to tell them everything I needed, and they’d get it all done.
I didn’t know if their women had warned them to be good, or if the Dominants themselves just sensed I’d benefit from them taking this seriously and that it would help me get through my embarrassment issues if they refrained from giving me a hard time, even if it would’ve been purely just playfulness.
With my every stuttered request, they’d clap their big hands together and say, “Got it,” or they’d ask me if something else might work better. Each of their suggestions was brilliant, and by the time I asked my last favor, my voice was clear, and a smile was spread across my face at Corbin and Brian’s enthusiasm. They inserted countless phrases that boosted my confidence, like “He’ll fucking love that,” and “The lucky bastard,” and looking back on the hour I spent with them yesterday, it’s a memory I know I’ll hold onto and cherish for a long time. Because I know our two normally broody and much-more-serious-than-my-husband friends chose to show me a softer and more sensitive, caring side of themselves, all to help me in their own way.
I trail my fingers over the buttery-soft leather of the chair they set up, meant for Seven to sit in and watch the moves I’ve been practicing with Crystal for the past several days. We didn’t have time to come up with anything too crazy or lengthy. Not that I’ll ever master anything more advanced than the simple beginner moves that took me days to conquer, when it only took my sister and girlfriends that one hour we spent together at the beginning of the week. But I’m hoping the fact that I’m putting on any sort of performance at all will have him in such a state of shock he won’t notice the pole is merely a pretty banister, there for me to hold on to so I don’t fall over in the heels I’ll be wearing while I essentially just wiggle around a little.
The thought of those heels snaps me to attention. I still need to change into the outfit Astrid helped me pick out and quickly put on the makeup she taught me how to apply to give just the right effect for what I’m about to do. I glance over at the trunk against the wall near the curtain. There’s one in each playroom, somewhere for the play partners to store their clothes and other personal belongings while they occupy the room. I hurry over to it, open it up, and pull out the bag that was thankfully left inside for me. I couldn’t drop it in there yesterday when I met up with the guys, because someone would most likely use the playroom that night, so I put it behind the bar and asked Dixie, one of our bartenders, to stick it in here after the club shut down.
I close the trunk and set the bag on top of it, carefully removing the makeup pouch and setting it to the side so I can start changing. Quickly, I step out of my flip-flops, shuck my skinny jeans and cotton panties in one move, then tug my shirt over my head as I attempt to yank my feet out of the tight denim around my ankles. In my rush though, I forgot to take off my glasses, and not wanting to break them by forcing the neck of my shirt over them or risking them going flying, I try to reach down to my face buried deep inside the now inside-out material. Unfortunately, my feet just aren’t pulling loose from my skinny jeans, and I’ve basically bound myself with my arms above my head, completely blind, and my equilibrium is being thrown off because my glasses are no longer on my nose, so the world feels like it’s tilting.
I’m twisting and turning, growling and grunting, trying to free my top-half and my feet at the same time, and I’m about to truly send myself into a panic attack, because I will absolutely die if my husband has to come freaking rescue me from my own goshdamn clothes like a toddler who hasn’t learned to dress herself. When, finally, one foot pops free, knocking me off balance with the sudden loss of resistance, my body spins on the one foot still on the floor, before I topple backward. I scrunch my face and close my eyes, even though I still can’t see a darn thing, as I brace for impact.
But a painful crash to the floor never comes. Instead, my butt lands on a soft cushion not even close to the ground. I sit there a moment, assessing the damage to my body in my head, my arms still trapped above me, but other than my heart racing and feeling a little nauseated from not being able to see during all that chaos, everything is fine. Carefully, I reverse the situation with my shirt, setting my glasses down beside me, and then look down at my naked lower half. And I realize I’m sitting on the stack of clothes on top of the trunk—the cushioned seat I landed on instead of the floor.
Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing myself to undress the rest of the way calmly and with measured movements so nothing else goes wrong. I stand up, turn to face the trunk once more, and glance up into the huge mirror on the wall behind it. When I reach out and touch the glowing button on the right side of the glass, I blink a few times as my eyes adjust to the bright light that now frames the mirror.
I’m flushed from the exertion, my hair wild, but I don’t have time to pick apart anything else. I don’t want him out there waiting any longer than necessary. I certainly don’t want to take so long he comes looking to make sure I’m all right. I practiced getting ready with my sister several times until I was confident I could do a full wardrobe and personality change within fifteen minutes, hoping to cut that time shorter when my adrenaline would be rushing and I didn’t have her distracting me.
“You can do this,” I whisper to my naked reflection, and with a nod, I look down and grab the cosmetics bag.
First task—contact lenses. I don’t want my glasses getting in the way or hindering any position he might want to put me in.
When that’s done, and I can see clearly once again, I start on the small bundle of clothes. A sexy pink lace thong, a matching bra that’s for absolutely nothing but decoration, a black plaid miniskirt with lines the same pink as my lingerie, a short-sleeved white button-up shirt left unbuttoned but tied in a knot beneath my breasts, and black thigh-high socks with thin pink rings around the tops. An outfit much like the one the intimacy companion was wearing and was conveniently available right at my own store.
Next, my hair. I attempted to learn how to do the French-braided pigtails Astrid first put my hair in when we were deciding on my look, but that was disastrous from the start. I’m just not ambidextrous enough for all that. So instead, we settled for pulling just the top half of my hair back—still in pigtails, but the rest of my hair would hang loose for comfort. When I tried lying down with full pigtails or space buns, it would’ve taken extra time to get the style just right so my head could still lie flat. If the ponytail holder or bun was even a little too far down or toward the middle, it either pulled my hair uncomfortably or made me look off to one side. I didn’t want something as insignificant as a hairstyle to distract me from what really mattered tonight—being the perfect sub.
When my pin-straight dark hair is in perfectly-even half-pigtails, I reach into the cosmetic bag for the style’s final touch—pink, fluffy feather pompoms just like the ones Britney Spears wears in her “Baby, One More Time” video. Except instead of scrunchies, these are a smaller version that are attached to clips I easily snap in my hair to hide the two little rubber bands.
I already have on the basic makeup I wore today, which Astrid added to when we got to her house for dinner. There was no way in the world I’d ever master the art of applying false eyelashes, but according to her, they were a must if I really wanted to pull this costume together. And looking in the mirror, I have to admit she was right, as I take a moment to try out a slow blink while keeping the rest of my face frozen.
“Yep. Pretty but definitely creepy. So just right,” I murmur, then rummage through the little bag to find the red lipstick Astrid spent quite a while choosing.
According to her, it had to not only be the right shade for my skin tone and hair color, but it also couldn’t clash with the light pink throughout my outfit. Even after I reminded her how dim the lighting is in the playrooms, my professional-makeup-artist sister was undeterred. She had to find the perfect red—and red was a must. I agree with her on that part—no other color would do. Red just hits different when it comes to dolling yourself up to… well, pretend you’re a sex doll.
At first, I wanted it to be kiss-proof, because I would most likely do a lot of kissing tonight. But again, Astrid had something different in mind.
“Kiss-proof is good when you’re gonna be out in public and he doesn’t want to be wearing your lipstick on his mouth, talking to people and shit. But for your scene… oh, nay, nay. Nothing will get him harder than watching it smear,” she told me with a wink, and the image that put in my head—of the many ways and places he could smear the perfect shade of red—made my face flush to a similar hue.
Again, my big sister had some good advice.
I throw everything back into the cosmetics bag, close my glasses up in the extra case I tossed into my tote last night, and pull out the last part of my getup. The shoes.
I spin around and sit back down on the trunk, setting the pair of sky-high chunky-heeled Mary Janes on the floor before me. I slip my right foot into its shoe, then bend forward to wrestle with the buckle of the T-strap that makes it possible for me to walk in the darn things. We tried basically all the shoes available at Toys for Twats, but every single one made me feel nothing but anxious. So I left those bad boys to the professionals, and we ended up finding these at the mall. They’re still taller than any heels I’ve ever owned in my life, probably twice the height, in fact, but since they’re solid blocks instead of stilettos or spikes, I feel much stabler.
Carefully, I stand up straight, then take tiptoed steps in a half circle and a few to the side until I can see myself from head to toe in the LED-lit mirror without the trunk being in my way.
And then…
