Red Ribbon, pt 8

Copyright (c) Lila Dubois 2007. This is unedited, and I am an infamously bad self editor (see snarky comment from my editor in this post), so read at your own risk.

To read the previous entries click “Red Ribbon” under the categories heading on the right.

After a brief break, Red Ribbon is BACK! Woot! Watch as I make the tragic mistake of over-describing my heroine appearance and attire.


Chapter 2

The next night Liz met Marcus at a rotating restaurant atop of one of the cities most expensive hotels. Considering the planned discussion for the evening it might have been better to meet at either his condo or her house, but this particular restaurant boasted large enclosed booths withs walls that touched the ceiling.
After trading a valet her car keys for a ticket, Liz strode slowly to one of the black glass elevators. Stepping in she positioned herself so she could use the reflective dark glass for a last minute check of her appearance. As the small glass cage began its quiet ascent to the fortieth floor Liz gave the hem of her little black dress a quick twitch. Made of a thick silk the strapless dress hugged her curves in a way that spoke of tailoring not spandex. Rather than a straight bodice this dress had a molded top, the fabric rising over each breast with a deep dip between them. Clipped to a hanger it looked like the top of a heart, but once on, it was nothing but sex appeal in black silk. Tonight she’d dress it up with a gold and black antique shawl. Black strapy Coup Detats with burnished gold detailing and black chandelier earrings completed the ensemble.
Liz knew what she probably should be wearing. A loose skirt, button up shirt, no underwear and hooker make-up is what most girls in BDSM stories wore. One of the classes had covered the topic of attire. When she had questioned it, asking why a Dom would want his sub to look sloppy, the instructor for the evening had told her that ‘sloppy’ was her opinion and the only person whose opinion mattered was that of her Dom. As much as Liz was trying to understand submission as the world told her it was, she just couldn’t make herself agree.
She didn’t want to look like a sidewalk hooker, she wanted to look like sin and sex in leather and velvet, a courtesan, not a whore. While the idea of not being allowed to wear underwear was sexy as hell, Liz had boobs, real boobs, the kind that liked to rest closer to her navel than her chin if she didn’t give them assistance. This dress would be a tragic fashion mistake without the half corset she had on underneath lifting her breasts so they mounded soft and tempting above the neckline.

As the light in the elevator panel moved from floor 29 to 30 Liz checked her hair. While normally it was straight she had used hot rollers to give it a soft wave. The curl brought her hair up till it was just below her shoulders. She had pulled back just one side. With the soft wave she looked like a sultry femme fatal from Hollywood’s bygone era.

Her makeup was done in the darker shades appropriate for an evening look. Blue and grey perfectly shaded on the eyes gave her a dark sultry look while highlighting the color, careful blush application gave her cheekbones a boost and her lips were the perfect shade of deep rose with a high gloss finish. She looked like a high society girlfriend, too pretty to be a stock broker herself, too voluptuous, too sexual, to be a stock broker’s wife.
Liz was proud that she could look like this, that she could hang up her Anne Taylor business suit for a Spiga cocktail dress and not only look good in both, but like who she was in both.
When the elevator door slid open with a slow hiss she was standing dead center of the car, one hip cocked, the shawl drapped over her arms and framing her black silk encased waist. Stepping carefully from the elevator she savored the moment. She was moments from taking her first real step towards making her fantasies flesh. No matter what happened she could savor these moments, the anticipation. She rolled her hips as she walked, boom, tisss, boom tisss, the heavy thump of a floor drum followed by a single tap of a cymbal.
The hostess didn’t even ask her name, simply rose and with a murmured “will you follow me Madam?” lead her back behind the teak paneled entryway. While the entry was stationary just behind it the rotating floor began. Situated in one of the hotel round glass towers the restaurant took one hour to go all the way around, the only interruption in the view came when a booth rotated past the entryway.

Liz stepped onto the slowly rotating floor and followed the hostess. The booths were on her left the floor to ceiling windows to her right. The restaurant was so large it was hard to tell how far around the circle she was from the entryway once it passed out of sight. Just ahead of them a man slid out of one of the booths, Marcus.



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