Liz laughs again before continuing. “God no. The tailor is far too gay to care how accessible your vagina is, and the gynecologist is going to have you in a gown far more revealing than any dress we wear within minutes of you arriving. It’s just the expectation.”

My face falls at this fact, though, and I have to admit, “I don’t have any other dresses other than this one.”

The somewhat shocked look that passes over Liz’s beautiful face turns to a broad smile within only a moment as she continues. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you something that will work.”

She’s out the door without another word, and I retreat to the shower and let the warm water soothe my body. Once bathed, I walk back to the bedroom to see a black dress lying on the bed. It is short. Hooker short. I have to remind myself that I’m exactly that. I return to the bathroom to finish getting ready, not at all prepared to try on the dress yet. Again, my unruly curls go up in a bun, and I brush on some lip gloss.

When finally prepared to face the dress, I return to the bedroom once more and hurriedly work my way into it. It is a short version of a 1920s frock dress. The wide waistband hits at the hip, the neck is wide, and the dress sleeveless. The difference between Liz’s version and the 1920s version? No woman in her right mind would have been caught dead in a skirt cut this short in the 1920s; it’s mid-thigh, and I have to remind myself that I’m lucky. I’ve seen far shorter out on the street, but I’m used to 100 percent demure, or perhaps not demure, but at least asexual, so this will take some getting used to. As I look myself over in the mirror, I note the only things missing are a long strand of pearls, finger-waved hair, and a headband … and of course another foot or so of fabric. The long strand of pearls I can handle, but the finger waves and headband will have to wait for another time. I toss the pearls, fake of course, over my head and tie the strand in a loop at my chest before I exit my room.

Having gotten my coffee and a shower, I’m feeling better. On the ride down in the elevator, I’m actually somewhat optimistic about meeting with the tailor. I’m terrified that I’ll end up looking like a hooker—again I remind myself that’s exactly what I’m supposed to look like—but excited all the same. I am a girl, after all, and while not nearly as girly as the other women in this place, I am still capable of looking forward to playing dress-up for a while.

I check in with the front-desk receptionist as I reach the lobby, and she points me toward a darkened limousine sitting outside. Well, this is far different from the subway I’m used to on the odd occasion I can afford even that. I approach, and the driver hops from the front seat and, with a nod, opens the back door for me. I step into the cab, not noticing that I’m not alone until I’m fully within the cab and ready to sit back to seat myself. When I catch sight of him in the rear-facing bench seat across from me, I trip miserably on my own feet and fall to my knees in the space between us. Damn high heels. He watches me coolly, the good Mr. Pennington and his alleged “impressive” cock.

I swallow my dignity and right myself as smoothly as possible as the limo pulls from the curb. Mr. Pennington says nothing to me as his eyes move over my dress, taking in my appearance. Once finished, he looks out the window, bored. I say nothing for many seconds, trying to decide how to respond to his presence.

Finally, I speak. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

His eyes move from gazing out the window to look at me. “It’s my job to decide what you wear. I have to be here.”

With no other explanation being offered, he looks back out the window to the passing cityscape. I resort to doing the same, suddenly a bundle of apprehension. We pull up to a small elegant shop no more than ten minutes later, and as the driver opens the door, Derek waits for me to exit before stepping out himself. What a gentleman.

We walk into the shop together and are greeted by the very gay Jacob, who is expecting us. He shows us to an expansive fitting room, leaving us to collect the few dresses he’s pulled for me. Derek takes a seat in a plush armchair as I stand awkwardly by. The room is mirrored on two sides. A small moveable platform sits in the center of the room for hemming. As I stand fidgeting with my back turned to Derek, I see him in the mirror appraising my look. As I watch, he lets his eyes move up my legs to the short skirt. He continues up my body, stopping at my bottom briefly before continuing up my back. The wide neck of the dress falls in a low scoop halfway down my back, and his eyes stall there, regarding, judging, or just plain hating the look. I can’t tell. When his eyes eventually leave my back and meet mine in the mirror, I suck in a quick breath as my face flushes. Derek, on the other hand, calmly eyes me impassively as my core trembles and my face turns redder with every passing second.

Jacob interrupts this awkward encounter only moments later when he returns to our room carrying an armful of dresses with him. I set about the task of trying on the dresses in front of two men, one of which hates me and the other of which is too gay to care I’m a woman. I realize too late that my cotton boy-cut brief underwear were perhaps not the wisest choice for the occasion. As Derek takes in my undergarments for the first time as I pull Liz’s dress off over my head, his eyebrows raise in shock at my emasculate choice.

Jacob notices as well and giggles—yes he’s that gay—in amusement while shaking his head and commenting to Derek. “You’ve obviously got yourself an interesting one here, huh?”

Derek looks to my eyes briefly before returning the comment. “You have no idea.”

As I try on dress after dress, Derek strikes down every one. The dresses are outlandishly sexual, and lewd in many cases, and I’m happy he hates them. But what the hell is he expecting? Jacob finally gives up trying and asks Derek that very question. Derek’s only response, “Demure.” Now demure, I can do.

Jacob appears stunned for a moment but exits the room, returning minutes later with evening gowns that actually look like evening gowns. I try on a number of satin and silk gowns that fall slimly against my skin and hug my slight curves. Derek appraises each, nodding his approval before Jacob starts pinning the too-large dresses onto my small frame.

Once finished with the evening dresses, Jacob starts saying his good-byes as he gathers the dresses, but Derek stops him. “She has no day clothes suitable for Trimbles. We’ll need as many casual dresses as you have in her size.” And just how the hell does he know that?

Jacob returns with an armload of day dresses a few minutes later. I like them all. They are exactly as Derek requested, demure. As I try on a light gray twill dress that drops to my knee, I look myself over, suddenly feeling a flush on my skin. I look like a girl, like a real girl, the type of girl who knows what it means to be a pretty girl. The dress is fitted and sleeveless on the top and slightly pleated on the bottom, giving me the hourglass figure I so wish I had. It has an over-wide black belt, and as I stand looking from top to bottom with a flush on my skin and an unexpected smile on my lips, I look to Derek, who is watching me intently and curiously. He looks to Jacob and nods once before looking away. But as I watch, his eyes travel back to my body and his tongue passes unconsciously over his bottom lip. I wonder, not for the first time, just what that means. I finish trying on every last dress, and most of them we take with us. The driver loads them into the trunk of the limo before we pull back into traffic.

As the blocks tick off, I notice Derek has returned to avoiding my eyes and ignoring me. But a few minutes later, he shakes his head, as though giving in to some secret battle, and I watch as his jaw clenches visibly before he raises the privacy shield between the driver and us. As I look to him in confusion, he looks calmly back at me.

Many moments later, he finally speaks. “Kneel between my legs.” His expression has returned to impassivity as he regards me, watching and waiting for me to move.

I rise slowly, moving to the floor in front of him. He looks down at me as my body bristles with electricity.

As his eyes burn holes into me, he continues. “I want you to suck my cock.”

I gasp at his instruction, suddenly terrified and entirely out of my element, but he looks back at me calmly, and I realize very quickly I want this. Sex may have terrified me, hurt me even, but this I want. I want to see him, taste him, and I’m not sure what that means. He terrifies me, but I’m also drawn to his beautiful, strong body and his dark, intimidating eyes.

With a trembling hand that does not go unnoticed, I reach up to the waist of his pants and quickly undo the button before lowering the zipper. His eyes are on me, but I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze. As the zipper lowers, I can see his black underwear beneath, and my breath catches at the sight of the bulge that distends the fabric there. Slowly, terrifyingly slow, I reach for the waist of his underwear and pull them away and down his groin. His hard and erect penis thrusts up instantly, and I realize that Liz was indeed right, “impressive.” My brain fights the idea that this fit inside my body. While I know it did, I can’t imagine that it did. No wonder I can’t sit down without nightmarish visions of Derek’s dining room table flashing in my mind. Still, however much pain it caused me last night, I want to touch it now, badly.

With another trembling hand, I reach out to him. At the touch of my fingers, his body stills and waits for more. And I give it freely. With a quick look to his eyes, I let my fingers caress the length of his shaft. I study every long inch of him, tracing my fingers over the rigid veins slowly as he continues to drill through my brain with his eyes. I’m well aware my gaze is intensely mesmerized by his body, and I’m spending an overly long time looking at him and touching, but he’s making no move to stop me. So I continue on, enjoying this exploration immensely.

His testicles are hidden beneath the fabric of his underwear and pants, and as my fingers work their way down to the juncture of his shaft and his balls, I pull gently on the waistband of his underwear to expose more of his body to me. I half expect him to stop me; but instead, he lifts his hips slightly, allowing the fabric to be shifted lower on his groin. His testicles are heavy and large and overtly masculine. The skin is taut in his arousal, and my fingers run gently over it. I keep thinking he’ll stop me at any moment, but he continues to allow my touch. It hasn’t escaped my attention that, when he said, “suck my cock,” he most likely was not referring to my spending an inordinate amount of time playing touch and feel, but he’s patiently waiting for me to finish.

My fingers move their way back up to the head of his penis, and I trace the peak of skin that runs up the underside of his foreskin before stroking the pad of my thumb down the length of the underneath side of his shaft. I know I must be wearing out my welcome, and after a small eternity of touch, I finally look up to his eyes once more. His lips are parted, and his eyes are impossible to read, but his shallow breathing tells me I must be doing something right. With a lick of my lips, I lower my mouth to the head of his cock. As my lips pass over the head of his penis, his head drops back in pleasure, and his hips thrust upward in desire. I don’t know how to do this, but I don’t care. I’m sure he’ll make me feel inept and pathetic if I do something wrong, so I decide to taste and suck him in the way I want. As I move up and down along the shaft of his cock, I suck him as hard as my mouth will allow. He’s so incredibly large and long, and I’m not sure why that’s so captivating, but it is. I pull my mouth from him and return to the side of his shaft, licking and kissing every throbbing vein as I move along the silken skin.

His breathing and the occasional flex of his hips tell me he’s enjoying my inexperienced mouth. As I reach the engorged head again and pass my lips over it, he starts thrusting his hips against my mouth while he grips and knots my hair in his hand to stay my movements. I suck deeply while he fills my mouth to overflowing with his length and breadth. My mouth can’t accommodate more, just as my tight vagina couldn’t take more the night before, but this at least doesn’t hurt. And the look in his eyes is unrestrained want and desire … for me, the woman he hates.

I suck harder as he groans audibly, glancing quickly in my eyes before his eyes flit away with an obvious refusal to give me that connection. Whether he’ll look at me or not, I can tell he’s losing control; I can feel it in his erratic and trembling movements, and whether he wants it to be because of me or not, it is. He’s waging an internal battle that is playing out in his eyes. He hates being so close to losing himself in front of me, and yet, he is panting and ready to lose himself entirely because of me and enjoying every second of it.