The following evening, having slept most of the day, I am bathed, made up, dressed to the nines, and feel like a million dollars.
My Master has been very specific about what I should wear: a black satin wrap-around skirt, held in place only with two buttons; a matching halter top, which ties at the neck and, cut low, unbuttons at the front; stockings; shoes with a heel, but not too high, chic but comfortable. My red silk panties tie at the sides. A heavy Cleopatra-style necklace. Hair up, eyes lined dark, lips deeply scarlet, expensive perfume. Looking at myself in the mirror, I feel completely fuckable.
Michael is carrying a briefcase and I wonder what is in it.
We take a taxi to a part of the city I do not know. Basically medieval, modernity has over-run it, and in the darkness of the
