Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
However he managed it, I'm impressed. And the rest of the measurements, the salon didn't ask for those. He must have been able to size me up just from those few minutes we spent chatting on cam . . . Which tells me exactly how closely he was paying attention to every inch of my body.
In spite of myself (and my close call earlier), I can feel a faint pulse of desire in my pussy. Again. Damn. I'm going to get these nice, sexy new panties all wet before I even meet up with Pierce.
Oh well. I have a feeling he isn't going to complain. And whether it makes me crazy or not, I have to admit, a part of me is seriously enjoying this. I’m his doll, his plaything, and he’s dressing me up however he wants. And apparently, he is in to some really fancy dolls.
I slide on the heels and they're actually pretty easy to walk in. Supportive but sexy all at once. I twirl in the mirror for a moment, admiring my new look before I stuff my old clothes, which in comparison to this outfit look like something out of a Goodwill donation box, into my oversized purse. Thank god for San Fran sized bags, which we need to pretty much live out of, since no one here can afford a car to throw their extra necessities into. My clothes fit easily, and the slouchy hobo style bag still looks fine, albeit a little bit out of sync with the rest of my outfit.
Then I stride out of the changing room, feeling like a million bucks.
Well, okay. Half a million bucks. Soon to be all mine, baby.
I flash Red a bright grin, and she shakes her head in despair, though I notice she can't help but crack a smile, too. "This sugar daddy of yours has taste, I'll grant him that," she tells me as she waves me on out, adding, "Don't worry honey, it's all pre-paid for. The car's out front."
But I linger by the counter anyway. "Did, um . . .” My cheeks flush. I don't really know the protocol for waxing, but I feel sure that if any beauticians deserve a tip, it's the ones who get all up in your private parts. "Can I leave a tip?"
Red laughs, loud. "Oh, sweetheart, you're adorable. He covered that too, but thank you for asking." She winks, and I guess that's that.
Time to face the music.
I take a deep breath and cast one more glance over my shoulder at my reflection in the salon mirrors.
"You look amazing," Red reassures me. "And if he don't appreciate that, well . . . You know where to tell him to stick it." She grins, but for all her compliments, it's clear she doesn't have a high opinion of my mystery man here.
What if she's right? What if this is all a huge mistake?
But I remind myself of Gram. Of school. Of the angry texts collecting on my phone from my manager because I missed one day of work after years of being the only reliable employee. Of all the reasons I'm really doing this.
Eyes on the prize, Bonnie, I remind myself, and then I square my shoulders, lift my head high, and march through the front doors of the salon.
4
I expect Pierce to be waiting for me outside, but instead I find a valet, full suit and everything, holding open the door to an idling limo. I mean full stretch limo, not just the shorter versions you normally see downtown because let's face it, who can fit a stretch limo on San Francisco streets?
Pierce can, apparently.
I smile awkwardly at the driver as I slide into the seat. It's leather, which normally isn't my bag (freezing cold in winter, hot and sticky in summer, who likes that?!). However, I can tell the moment my butt connects with this seat that it's better thought-out than your average car seat. It cups my body, and the leather is butter-smooth beneath my palms. It's only early fall, not even chilly enough for a jacket yet, though at least the summer heat has finally relinquished its grip. But there's a pleasant hum of warmth beneath me.
Mm. Heated seats.
I settle in and make myself comfortable as the valet shuts the door. I stretch my legs out in front of me and study the interior of the car for clues as to the man who hired it. He's not here, so he must be meeting me wherever we're heading. I'm alone in the car except for a small sideboard bar, the booze stocking it all on display. I don't recognize any of the brand names, they're all unpronouncably foreign, but I can tell an expensive stash when I see one. Vodka from what is probably Russia to judge by the lettering, a bottle of champagne from France, a red wine from Italy, something called mezcal from Mexico I guess, since I can almost read the label for that one. Heck, even his whiskey is in a foreign language, Gaelic probably. And there's glasses beneath the bottles, cut to perfection, like little handheld diamonds that glitter in the limo's interior lighting.