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"Candy Girl" - 2
He had been watching her from the far end of the Ice Bar, where he was sitting propped up on an ice ledge which was cushioned in plush Reindeer hide and Yak fur, surrounded by men in suits.
His suit was still in it’s Hugo Boss zip-bag, back in his hotel suite, surrounded by expensive soft tissue paper. Although he much preferred Ted Baker and Hackett, he was more a Kingsman. The Boss suit was Q’s idea, obviously, she was now known not as M, but Q for Queen, she'd gone all covert. She liked her men in Boss for various reasons. He would make use of the zip-bag later, including the expensive gold sheaf tissue paper, as well as the Boss suit. He looked at the Gold Manolo Blahniks and their ridiculously fine sharp stiletto heels and thought about what outrageous lengths women go through to please men. The heels would be put to good use later on. They had been custom made at great expense for his girl. He had to admit, they were lethally compelling, in a pseudosexual way. One could only imagine the pain they could inflict, he thought ambiguously. It was all in the delivery of how they were worn and where they were eventually placed. At the time of returning from the purchase and placing them on the hotel suite’s floor, he had glanced over at the graceful dignity and loyalty of his favourite old sturdy R.M. Williams next to the bed. However, on standby for the Boss suit, which he planned to wear much later, were the highly polished more sophisticated new shiny black D&G Derbies.
Wrenching himself back to the present moment, he swivelled around to face the bearded chap next to him, and revelling in the undercurrent of the Ice Bar and his current persona, he manipulated the situation to his better advantage. He smiled warmly at the man, encouraging easy and open friendly communication.
Crossing one slender leg towards the over-heated, intoxicated gentleman whom he had marked some time ago as being short-sighted and in his cups, a few sails to the wind, he smiled, the one he had perfected standing in front of the hotel suite’s mirror an hour or so ago, rehearsing voice-tone and affectations.
He congratulated himself on the effort of mirror play, which he now considered, as always, well worth the preparatory time taken and he always ensured that he had the time to manage this exercise into his tight schedule before final assignation. Once happy with the progress of that rehearsal, in front of the mirror back in the hotel suite, he had applied a luscious ripe shade of Rouge Pur Couture Vernis A Levres Vinyl Cream Creamy Stain No. 403 Rose Happening (he was a stickler for details). He had fixed the long ash blonde wig with bangs to his lacquered and pinned-down hair, applied the false eyelashes, giving them an extra coat of Monsieur Big Mascara Blackest Black, Lancome, French brand, delectable (he thought, smiling wickedly at himself, another practice run for the bar, he had no room for error). Prior to all this, foundation in Buff had been applied with wet sponge to his face and a final fine dusting of translucent loose powder. He took time and he took pleasure in the performance of exacting his appearance. He admitted to himself, that his face, asexual in appearance, indeed his whole body, was another canvas entirely and he had perfected the artwork over the years. What was considered a secret deviant pleasure had transformed from moments of guilty taboo, to now be used as an asset. He was an asset and an expensive one at that.
While he was amazed at how well he had turned his life around, he feared he was constantly at risk of remaining “in” character. Because, being honest with himself, which was his core nature, he had to admit to himself, he enjoyed it immensely. Naked, with only a black Japanese silk thong to cover his well endowed yet with some great effort, hidden family jewels, he gently, yet firmly strapped on his Studyset Full Silicone Breast Strap-on. Over that scandalous visage, he slipped into the Tommy Hilfiger Crimson number, polar neck (for obvious reasons), figure hugging, now showing off his spectacular curves, slinky satin split to thigh, kind of racy, but he thought, in retrospect it was rather understated compared to some of his more risque assignments. Reaching behind his back, turning his long, slender piano player’s fingers onto hidden metal, which he adroitly clipped onto the thong’s strap, he promptly and properly, zipped the whole package that was himself, neatly into the sinuously graceful garment. He was now positively and seductively feline in appearance. He presented himself to the mirror once more and smiled, “You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, somewhat demurely, with undisguised pride.
“God, you are gorgeous!”, the man at the bar leaned into our girl’s freshly applied persona.
“What’s your name?” the man slurred.
“Candy”, our girl smiled back at him, “but you can call me Honey”.
“Love the accent, British?" he breathed all over her.
"If you like", our girl replied.
"Dance?” the man cosied up to her.
“Ta, I would love to”. Honey replied and let him lead her onto the dance floor.
Our girl, glanced over the floor to her intended target, who was, “he” laughed to himself, not seeming to be having much fun, but in total control of her situation.
….to be continued
Dope Lemon - Give Me Honey
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