Well, it will still be a while before it is done, edited, corrected and such, but just as a teaser, here is the first chapter.
I woke up, at first surprised to be alone in bed, without Steven, in my apartment instead of his; then I remembered, and the memory made me rise with a start. Today was the day of my showing.
Steven left me at my apartment early last evening, "Get a good night's sleep dear; you will need it."
I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was eight o'clock. I had time, but not enough to waste.
By ten I was at the salon, getting my fire red hair done, getting a manipedi in fire engine red, a bikini wax, and after all was done, a much needed massage that failed to quell the trepidation that possessed me.
I was home by four. It was time to get dressed for the event.
I'd been to two showings with Steven before. The first time I was shocked that someone could, would, voluntarily submit to such ordeal, to such an assault on her body yet, as the inert protagonist was wheeled out of the stage and taken to the infirmary, I brought my lips close to Steven's ear.
"Fuck me, fuck me hard," I said.
The second time I wondered if ever it would be me, on that stage.
Four fifteen. I undressed completely tossing the dress, bra, and panties into the hamper. I stood, nude, before the full length mirror in the small bathroom of my apartment. I stood proudly but I could see the faint tremor of my nipples in my reflection; the trembling of my very erect pink nipples with every breath.
"I must get dressed," I thought.
Tradition called for the girl, the Showing, to be dressed entirely in white. It was fitting.
When we were first going out together, well, after a couple of months, when I learned his preferences, his requirements, this would be when I would give myself an enema, or two, to make sure I would be clean for him, back there, if he wanted to use me so, as he so often did.
I decided to omit that step.
I donned a lacy white thong. I smiled at the memories. When I first began dating Steven, before we moved in together, the prospect of going out with him, even if only for an evening of drinks and sex, got me so wet that I could not wear sexy underwear. I would soak it before even reaching the sidewalk. I used to put on a sensible pair of cotton panties and try to arrive at our rendezvous a bit early, go to the ladies room and switch undies. I wouldn't have time for that today.
A frilly white push up bra, matching garter belt, and white thigh high stockings completed my lingerie for today.
I placed a drop of my perfume, Fidji, behind my ear lobes, on my wrists, breasts, and sex. Very little make up, just lipstick, no mascara, it would just run and ruin the effect. A squirt of moisture between my thighs made me wonder whether the frilly thong would hold up until the evening. A second squirt convinced me it would not, so I removed it and tossed it too, in the hamper. I picked up another one. I had lots of lingerie; some of it, gifts from Steven, though I bought most of it. Since I basically moved into his home, my only expenses were rent. He gave me a gold Amex to use, and I did, judiciously; but I always bought my lingerie from my own salary. I felt it was my gift to him, in a way, and it was more meaningful if it came out of my wages. On second thought, I put the clean thong on the side, to don just before leaving.
Four forty five. He'd be here at five. I put on a pair of new, white, peeky toe stilettos. They hurt my feet right away but, looking at myself in the mirror, I no longer saw a five foot three red headed girl. I saw a sex goddess.
My white dress, satin, fitted at the bodice, flared at the waist to end up in a swirl, three inches above my knees.
Four fifty. I was almost ready. I struggled to catch my breath. I picked up the thong and placed it by the entrance. I took the bottle of Gray Goose and a shot glass from the freezer and poured myself one. I downed it in a frozen gulp of fire.
Five o'clock. At the door, I put on the thong and stepped out of the building. I barely noticed the nip in the air, a herald of approaching fall. A black limousine approached and stopped at my curb. The liveried driver opened the rear door. I saw Steve inside. I entered the car.
He wore a deep blue, velvet smoking jacket, tied at the waist with a wide, black, silk sash. His formal shirt was open at the neck where, instead of a bow tie, he wore the crimson ascot tie I'd given him for our six month anniversary, only a few weeks ago. The limo smelled of cigar and leather, a masculine smell, potent, strong, indomitable.
I sat beside him and kissed his lips. He tasted of whisky, Islay I'd say by the peaty aroma that I picked up from his lips. In his hands he held a thick cigar; a Dominican I was sure, for he smoked nothing else. I kissed his short grizzled beard as the car started.
"Will you go through with it?" he asked, "You can still back out, you know."
I feigned a light heartiness I did not feel, "What, and disappoint all your friends?"
He took my chin in his hand, "You know that does not matter to me."
I nestled against his shoulder, his right arm around me. I saw the residential street pass by outside the closed windows. People strolled enjoying the last sunny days of fall.
"I know," I said, "I love you. I want to do this for you. Probably as much as you want me to."
"May I?" I asked, taking his left hand, where he held his cigar; he nodded.
I took a draw of his smoke. I did not inhale, of course, but the taste of the dark, strong tobacco was soothing nonetheless.
"Did you make all the arrangements?" he asked.
"Yes. I took three weeks leave at work. Will that be enough?" I asked with a quiver in my voice.
"Yes," he replied, "it will be."
We did not drive far. The club, named Boodle's after the famous London club, sat in the center of downtown, in a late 19th century building that sat, anachronic, in a busy avenue, surrounded by modern buildings. On the ornate entrance a simple sign "Boodle's Private Club. Members only."
Inquiries about membership were referred to the website, where the curious were informed that membership was by invitation only. And that was that.
Carson, the doorman, wearing the same livery as the limo driver, opened the door and greeted us.
"Sir Steven," he said, "Pleasure to see you again; and this is your Showing, I see."
He knew my name, of course; we'd come often to the club, but today I was only The Showing.
On his arm, we entered the opulent bar area. The members, all men, of course, congregated in the bar and sat on the easy chairs that surrounded the small coffee tables. Most wore Tuxedos or, as our friends from across the pond would call them, dinner jackets. A rebellious few, my master (let's say it outright) among them, preferred the more comfortable smoking jacket, easier to remove, to participate in the festivities.
The women sat, or stood around their escorts. No unscorted women were allowed in the building, unless they worked or had business there. They wore cocktail attire, although there was something off. The dresses were,perhaps an inch too short, the plunging necklines and inch too low, the decolletages a shade beyond what decency would permit. None wore white.
White was the color reserved for The Showing.
Steven asked for a glass of Laphroaig, I asked for a Cosmo. The waiter stood straight, looking at me with surprise.
"I did not tell you," Steven said, "Showings can consume no alcohol. Nothing that would impair their senses."
I asked for a Shirley Temple instead.
Members approached Steven to greet him, and to congratulate him on his Showing. Some kissed my cheek, looking at me with eyes curtained by lust.
At a certain point, perhaps after one hour, a young woman, wearing a mini dress with the club's livery colors, British racing green and red and black tartan, approached us. She addressed Steven.
"It is time to prepare your Showing," she said, apologetically.
He kissed my lips once more, "Off you go then," he said with a smile.
"I love you," I replied.
"I know," he nodded.
And here is our heroine: