Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
God, I’m absolutely deranged.
“What kind of punishment are we talking about here?” I ask him.
He fidgets, wringing his hands. “His exact words were, If she’s not dressed on time, I’m going to kick down her door, shove her in some clothes, and drag her by the fucking hair to that meeting. I’m sorry to be vulgar.”
Oh, sweet mercy.
A sudden flush of arousal falls over me. The image of Tigran stripping me, punishing me, and dressing me when he’s done—
Well, it’s not the most distressing thing I’ve ever imagined.
“Thank you, Vito,” I say, summoning every ounce of propriety I can manage. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“Very good, Dasha,” he says, sounding relieved. “Will there be anything else?”
“Yes, actually.” I keep my chin up. I will maintain my dignity, even if I am going to escape into the bedroom and furiously masturbate the second Vito’s out of the room. “Please bring more French toast in approximately thirty minutes.” That should give me enough time to get off at least once.
Probably twice.
“Wonderful. I’ll be back in thirty.” He turns smartly and shuffles out of the room.
Once he’s gone, I look down at my plate.
Then I leap up, run into the bedroom, slam the door, lock it, and bite down on the pillow as I rub my fingers over my clit, back arched and ass in the air, sweat oozing down my back.
I come so hard thinking about Tigran punishing me that I nearly black out.
My brain is broken, but my god, my body feels amazing.
They’re all absolutely despicable.
It’s like Tigran enjoys making my life miserable.
There are moments of tenderness, like when I woke up to him giving me water in the church or when he held my hand when the plane was landing.
Those were brief flashes of humanity, and I genuinely liked him during them.
But then everything else has been one massive middle finger.
The first dress’s neckline plunged far enough that my tits would have to be taped inside, and it’s not like I’m extremely busty. The next one was backless, the next was too tight, the next was too short, and the last one made me look like a prostitute.
None are remotely my style.
I prefer to be conservative. No reason to show off everything I’ve got. Men’s eyes will glaze past me if I’m in full sleeves and a hem down to my ankles.
Better to look like a schoolteacher during the Great Depression than a stripper.
“This is unreasonable,” I murmur to myself, finally putting on the first dress again. It’s navy blue, which is a color I like, and the hemline’s down to my knees, which is acceptable. There are also little sleeves and the back’s fully covered.
But it’s chesty. Way more chesty than I’m comfortable with. I mess around with various bra combinations, but there’s no getting past it.
I can’t have anything on top if this dress is going to work.
“I’m screwed,” I moan, staring at myself in the mirror. I’ve got on my makeup at least, and the scar along my face is covered up nicely. But nobody’s going to be looking at my face when my tits are hanging out.
What an absolute nightmare.
I pace back and forth across the room. It’s five-thirty, then it’s five-fifty, and finally six rolls around. I have on heels, my hair’s in a tight conservative braid, and I can’t even look at the door.
Much less leave in this dress.
Someone knocks lightly. I yelp, staring in horror.
“Dasha?” Vito’s voice. Calm and measured. If anyone will understand, it’ll be him. “It’s time, Dasha. Are you ready?”
“Come in,” I squeak at him, feeling mortified and tiny.
Vito enters the room. He stops just inside and stares at me. A smile breaks across his face. “Please take this as intended. You look wonderful.”
I groan and nearly collapse. Despair washes over me. I had hoped he’d shake his head and tell me the dress simply won’t be appropriate, but instead he looks like a proud father sending his daughter off to prom.
An experience I never had, by the way.
“I can’t do it,” I say in a very small voice. “Please, Vito. You have to help me.”
His face hardens slightly. I’m reminded suddenly that he’s Tigran’s employee, not my friend. “I know this is difficult, but your husband made it clear.”
“Forget my husband,” I say desperately. “Please—”
“Dasha, this is important to him. From what I understand, the meeting will be brief. You’ll shake hands, introduce yourself, and make some small talk. Then you’ll be brought back here. It’s an hour of your life, at most, and when it’s over, you’ll never be asked to do something like this again.”
I tremble with fear. This can’t be happening. “But I can’t. I just can’t do it.”
“You can, Dasha. You’re strong. I really don’t want to tell Tigran that you’re refusing to come out. I can’t cover for you for long, but I can buy you a few more minutes if that’s what you need.”