Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 66074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“You can do this,” I whisper to my naked reflection, and with a nod, I look down and grab the cosmetics bag.
First task—contact lenses. I don’t want my glasses getting in the way or hindering any position he might want to put me in.
When that’s done, and I can see clearly once again, I start on the small bundle of clothes. A sexy pink lace thong, a matching bra that’s for absolutely nothing but decoration, a black plaid miniskirt with lines the same pink as my lingerie, a short-sleeved white button-up shirt left unbuttoned but tied in a knot beneath my breasts, and black thigh-high socks with thin pink rings around the tops. An outfit much like the one the intimacy companion was wearing and was conveniently available right at my own store.
Next, my hair. I attempted to learn how to do the French-braided pigtails Astrid first put my hair in when we were deciding on my look, but that was disastrous from the start. I’m just not ambidextrous enough for all that. So instead, we settled for pulling just the top half of my hair back—still in pigtails, but the rest of my hair would hang loose for comfort. When I tried lying down with full pigtails or space buns, it would’ve taken extra time to get the style just right so my head could still lie flat. If the ponytail holder or bun was even a little too far down or toward the middle, it either pulled my hair uncomfortably or made me look off to one side. I didn’t want something as insignificant as a hairstyle to distract me from what really mattered tonight—being the perfect sub.
When my pin-straight dark hair is in perfectly-even half-pigtails, I reach into the cosmetic bag for the style’s final touch—pink, fluffy feather pompoms just like the ones Britney Spears wears in her “Baby, One More Time” video. Except instead of scrunchies, these are a smaller version that are attached to clips I easily snap in my hair to hide the two little rubber bands.
I already have on the basic makeup I wore today, which Astrid added to when we got to her house for dinner. There was no way in the world I’d ever master the art of applying false eyelashes, but according to her, they were a must if I really wanted to pull this costume together. And looking in the mirror, I have to admit she was right, as I take a moment to try out a slow blink while keeping the rest of my face frozen.
“Yep. Pretty but definitely creepy. So just right,” I murmur, then rummage through the little bag to find the red lipstick Astrid spent quite a while choosing.
According to her, it had to not only be the right shade for my skin tone and hair color, but it also couldn’t clash with the light pink throughout my outfit. Even after I reminded her how dim the lighting is in the playrooms, my professional-makeup-artist sister was undeterred. She had to find the perfect red—and red was a must. I agree with her on that part—no other color would do. Red just hits different when it comes to dolling yourself up to… well, pretend you’re a sex doll.
At first, I wanted it to be kiss-proof, because I would most likely do a lot of kissing tonight. But again, Astrid had something different in mind.
“Kiss-proof is good when you’re gonna be out in public and he doesn’t want to be wearing your lipstick on his mouth, talking to people and shit. But for your scene… oh, nay, nay. Nothing will get him harder than watching it smear,” she told me with a wink, and the image that put in my head—of the many ways and places he could smear the perfect shade of red—made my face flush to a similar hue.
Again, my big sister had some good advice.
I throw everything back into the cosmetics bag, close my glasses up in the extra case I tossed into my tote last night, and pull out the last part of my getup. The shoes.
I spin around and sit back down on the trunk, setting the pair of sky-high chunky-heeled Mary Janes on the floor before me. I slip my right foot into its shoe, then bend forward to wrestle with the buckle of the T-strap that makes it possible for me to walk in the darn things. We tried basically all the shoes available at Toys for Twats, but every single one made me feel nothing but anxious. So I left those bad boys to the professionals, and we ended up finding these at the mall. They’re still taller than any heels I’ve ever owned in my life, probably twice the height, in fact, but since they’re solid blocks instead of stilettos or spikes, I feel much stabler.