Take off your dress.
Bend over the bed and wait for me.
The memory of Devan’s words slide through me, propelling me forward. I wind through the living area and head for the massive master bedroom. My place in New York is bigger than this, but only barely. The sheer opulence is why I chose this hotel, this bar, this room. It feels very grown up and nothing like the partying I’ve done on every other adult birthday.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
I consider the bedroom and then move to turn on the two lamps on either side of the bed. Enough light to see, but not enough to combat the feeling of illicit deeds done in the dark. Even better, the night sky turns the floor-to-ceiling windows into a mirror. My heart picks up as I look at myself.
I’m conventionally attractive, though my true gift is being extremely photogenic. It’s the gift that’s paved the way for me to be financially independent, even without the trust fund in play. Add in my tragic backstory, and sponsors are just lining up to be featured to the millions of followers I have on social media.
None of that matters tonight.
I don’t care what all those strangers think of my looks, my body.
I only care what Devan McGuire thinks.
It’s more difficult than I’d like to get out of my dress. It’s a good thing I’m flexible or I’d be screwed. By the time the fabric slithers to the floor around me, I’m breathing hard and regretting my clothing choices. How much time do I have left? Impossible to say.
After the briefest internal argument with myself, I hang the dress up. It’s a custom design by a woman who rarely ships outside of her local city; if it gets ruined, I won’t be able to replace it even with the resources at my disposal.
I dressed carefully for tonight. I’m wearing a dark red designer balconette bra with the sheerest lace, designed to put my breasts on display more than conceal them. My garter belt and panties are the same crimson shade, but I went with nude stockings. The dress was long enough that stocking weren't required, but I love the look of a garter belt with nude stockings, so I indulged myself. Silver strappy heels complete the image.
I leave the heels on.
After the briefest hesitation, I leave the panties on as well. They’re bikini style, but sheer, designed to tease in the same way the bra is. I’m covered, sure, but I might as well be naked.
The bed is situated against the wall across from the door, so when I bend over it, I will be framed by the soft light of the lamps. There’s no point in procrastinating. I know I’m going to follow Devan’s orders and wait for him, no matter how long it takes. I have more than my fair share of pride, but it has no place in this moment.
With a slow inhale, I bend at the waist and brace myself on my forearms on the bed. The air conditioning teases my exposed skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. As tempting as it is to close my eyes, I’m a showwoman at heart. I turn and look at my reflection in the window.
The position and heels have my ass in the air, my body a long line of invitation. My breasts are currently trying to escape the lace of the bra, and my hair is a messy waterfall on the dark comforter. I bite my bottom lip and spread my legs a little. I can’t see that angle from here, but Devan will.
If he ever shows up.
No, I can’t afford to think like that, to let doubt creep in. He wouldn’t have sent me up here if he didn’t intend to follow, to… How did he put it?
I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want to that tight little body of yours.
Will he be rough? Fuck, I hope so. I want to be fucked, put in my place, maybe degraded the tiniest bit. Everyone treats me like I’m this golden princess, untouchable and meant to be put on a pedestal.
Devan won’t hesitate. I’m certain of it.
But… Just in case…
I straighten and move to my clutch—to my phone. If he’s going to leave me in agony waiting for him, it’s only fair to spread a little of that agony around. I consider my options and then lay on the bed on my back. The lighting creates a soft, intimate image of my body on my phone. I angle it carefully, and turn the video on.
A slow pan across my mouth, down my chest to where my nipples are clearly visible through the sheer red lace. I catch the edge of the fabric and tug it down just enough to see the edge of one before I continue the path south over my body, following my hand with the camera. It’s a little awkward, but I’m a fucking professional and I give exceedingly good sexy selfies.
I skim over the garters and create a V with my fingers, framing my pussy, my slit clearly visible through the panties, for a long moment before I end the video.
I’ve had Devan’s number for years, but the only text exchange we’ve ever had was after my twenty-first birthday when I cussed him out for stopping me mid-threesome. The memory makes me smile a little, especially when I skim back over the texts. I was so furious, and only partially because of an aborted orgasm from the girl going down on me.
The last text makes me laugh a little.
Me: You owe me a goddamned orgasm, Devan. I mean it.
He never responded, of course. And when I sobered up the next day, I spent several hours debating whether I should apologize or just pretend it never happened.
Now, I really hope there’s an orgasm—many orgasms—in
