Myth: It’s all about power

Reality: Nobody knows what the hell it’s all about

“Dean, I never even knew shops like this existed,” I said and gawked at the dozens of chandeliers suspended from the vaulted ceilings with velvet cord.

To even call it a ‘shop’ felt wrong. It wasn’t a boutique either. It was more like a shrine to only the most exclusive forms of consumerism, an altar where only the richest could come to worship, black Amexes in hand and the scent of complimentary martinis on their breath. Look, I love a bit of gloss and polish, but even I was overwhelmed.

“Yeah, I know, it’s a bit tacky. But they have pretty things, and I’m getting you something pretty, and that’s the end of it,” he said and dragged me through over the marble floors and to a little enclave ringed with mannequins who stared at each other’s reflections. Each wore something you’d see a celebrity wear to the Met gala, all haute couture ruffles and edgy cutouts.

“Pretty? Damn, I can’t believe a dress like this is legal,” I said and lifted the lace sleeve of something that can only be described as a jumpsuit for a renn fair street walker from the future. I was in the best mood. I always felt like this, after he’d fucked me – a little cheeky, a little defiant. Buzzing and full of sass… among other things. The last place I wanted to be right now was in this super fancy boutique. The first place? On his cock. Again.

“Well, I agree, that one’s a little …avant garde. Plus it wouldn’t show off your ass enough,” he said and gave my butt a playful slap. “Now pick something quick so I can take you home,” he said, devouring me with his eyes.

I loved that look he gave me. Two parts ravenous animal, one part sheer wonderment. I once saw a clip of the great Sergiu Celibidache conducting Mozart’s Requiem, and at the swell, the part where the chorus bursts into that painful, final few bars of the Lacrimosa, he had this look on his face, eyebrows tilted, mouth slightly open, like he had just been blessed with a vision of angels. Well, Dean looked like that. Except on top of everything the angels he saw were hot.

“But everything’s so damn colorful,” I said, weaving my way through the displays. “Besides, have you ever even shopped with a woman before? I need at least a few hours in here to pick something. Are you in some kind of rush?” I flashed him a goofy grin and rifled through a rack of gaudy sequined numbers.

“Rush? No rush. I told you. I blew off those investors this morning and told them I’d meet with them in the new week.”

“Blew them off? Again? Remind me how you make so much money when you’re trying to get into my pants 24/7?” I teased and waggled my ass at him, daring him to come get me. He straightened his tie and pulled a serious face.

“How? Well, personal assistants, of course. A gentleman makes time,” he said, then ducked as I playfully tossed a beaded clutch purse at him. He propped it up against one of the mannequins, tilted his head to admire the back end of the outfit and then looked at me.

“And you, Nora?”

“And me?”

“Any clients today?”

His face was suddenly more serious.

“Today? No.”

“What about tomorrow?”

I looked into his eyes.

Nobody could say a man like him didn’t belong in an ultra-exclusive place like this, where the frocks cost as much as a car each and the shop assistants where all ex Ukrainian models. His suit fit him perfectly, and he held himself like he owned the place, like there was no luxury on this planet that he wasn’t entitled to or indeed, a little bored of.

I saw all that.

But there was something else in him, something that didn’t fit. And it was in those cloudy green eyes of his, a little glint that told you that not everything was quite as it seemed, and the really good stuff was inside. This is what I looked at now. I forgot the glitz, the holidays, the extravagant shopping sprees. I even forget the heady evenings we spent together, and the obscene and wonderful things he knew how to do to my body. For a moment, I just looked at him, at that …something in his eyes.

“No. No clients at all,” I said plainly.

He nodded once and then flipped through the racks with me.

“Good. Now let’s pick out something sexy for you so you can drip deliciously off my arm tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, I’m taking you out. A very important party, just a bunch of stuck up old geezers I need to make nice with, but it is terribly important that everyone sees how drop dead gorgeous you are,” he said, raising a teasing eyebrow at me.

My skin went a little cold. A million possible situations raced through my mind, roughly half of them involving some embarrassment involving bumping into his father, who had mercifully not decided to ‘ruin’ me yet as he had threatened that awful day not so long ago.

I swallowed hard.

What an idiot I was. What did I expect, for it to never come up? It’s not that I was deliberately trying not to tell Dean. It was just that… I never found the right moment.

I smiled and kept looking at the rows of gowns and cocktail dresses, but my good mood was suddenly feeling a little thin.

“These are all nice, you know, but they have nothing in white…”

He came up behind me and gave me a flirtatious nibble on my neck while wrapping his strong arms round my waist.

“So help me, Nora, if you don’t pick something out then I will. One of us has to be pretty tonight, and if you’re not up to the task.”

I turned around to see that he had donned a massive bonnet, complete with exotic feathers and a piece of black netting hanging down into his eyes. I burst out laughing.

“Woah! Bellissima!” I said and kissed my fingertips, then went to grab a red scarf from a table. “But you just need a little bit of color round your neck, it’ll really make your stubble pop, you know?” I said, and laced the silk over his tie with a flourish.

He thrust his chest forward, pouted and got to work modelling up and down in front of the mirrors, hips jutting this way and that way. When he flicked his hair and did a little turn at the end, I was nearly folded double with laughter.

“Stop! Stop! They’ll throw us out!” I squealed, but he only swanned over to me with his best bedroom-eyes, wrist hanging limp out in front of him and the other hand on his hip.

“Throw us out? Dahling do you even know who I am?” he pouted. I couldn’t stop laughing. The beautiful blonde shop assistant a few feet away did indeed stop to peak over at us.

“Shhh! Yes, dahling, clearly, you’re hot stuff, just look at you,” I said through giggles.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I’d tap that,” I said and gestured to his jutting hip. He tore off the hat and scarf and took a bold step towards me.

“Then do it,” he said, outrageously naughty smile still plastered all over his face.

“Dean! Oh my god you’re--”

“Come on, that changing room over there is open,” he said and pressed his tall frame against me, pulling me close. He pressed his lips to mine for a kiss but I still couldn’t stop giggling. I just knew the shop assistant was ogling us, but when I turned to glance at her she appeared to be on her phone, doing her best to ignore our shenanigans. I guess if you’re wealthy enough to shop in here, you get to do what you want without the shop assistants having an opinion about it.

“How long has it been since I’ve fucked you, hm?” he breathed into my ear. I loved it when he swore. On his tongue, the word ‘fuck’ somehow became a spell, a magic word that instantly melted me inside and had my legs feeling stupidly weak. I yielded to his kiss and let him breath and nibble his way down my collarbones.

“Probably a whopping two hours,” I said, fondly remembering back to this morning in the shower, and the way the water streamed off him and made little braided rivers over his chest.

“Two hours? Unacceptable. I think we need to do it again,” he whispered, and tugged me toward the plush changing room to the corner.

“Oh my god, Dean, you’re crazy,” I moaned, but it was hard to sound very convincing when I was already beginning to ache all over again, my poor body barely recovered from our last romp and yet twitching awake again now, knowing exactly what treatment lay in store for it now. He was all over me again, folding his chest around me in a way completely impossible to resist. He grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the heavy drapes of the changing room.

“I can’t believe you’re serious,” I said, trying to hide my face.

“What? What’s your alternative, we do it out here? What a pervert.” His smile was so white-hot and delicious I could do nothing but follow along as he dragged me inside, laughing freely.

He had barely shut the drapes of the booth when he immediately started to tear off my dress with his other hand. In a minute I had lifted the hem and wriggled down my soaked panties. We did this so often I felt permanently turned on these days, permanently wet and ready, permanently turned on. He unzipped, released that solid lump from his trousers and turned me roughly to face the wall. His shoe nudged my feet a little wider apart and then he bent his knees to bring the already rock hard tip to my dripping little hole.

And once he had jammed that generous bulk all the way into me, it was suddenly like all the other times we had fucked, suddenly like that first time. My body needed no help remembering what to do, and raced ahead, still hot and sensitive from that steamy time in the shower, from the slow, sweet time by the fireplace, from that truly filthy time in bed that Sunday morning when we did it over and over and over, till our drained, sweaty bodies fell asleep on one another and then woke again at noon for naked croissants on the balcony.

I had discovered the trick to having good orgasms.

Dying a little.

Being completely willing to let it all go, and not giving a fuck, even if just for a few split seconds. It was a new skill I had learnt. And with him, I was getting really, really good at it.

With each easy, gooey thrust up into me, I felt him lift my weight a little and tilt me forward, making my hands spread wide against the mirror in front of me to balance. I loved seeing our reflection; him so much taller and bigger than me, me absorbing each strong plunge of his dominating hips. I loved that no matter how much we did this, no matter how used to him my little pussy became, I hoped that he would always hurt just a little, would always sting slightly like this. I loved that full, open feeing of holding all of him in me at the top of each thrust. But I also loved the resistance, loved the faint hint of pain, like I was always just slightly pushed, just strained further than what was strictly necessary.

When we were done, I buffed the steam off the mirror in front of me, pulled my panties up and gave him a delicious smile as he zipped up and straightened his tie. Fuck, he was a good-looking man. And knowing that I had just had his glorious cock hammering into me right to the hilt made me feel so giddy I had trouble keeping a straight face as he snapped open the drapes and stepped out into the boutique again.

How could I not grin like an idiot, knowing what his cock had just done to me? Knowing that as I walked out there in public I was literally brimful of his warm, thick cum?

If the shop assistant noticed anything, she didn’t let on. In fact, she was still on her phone. Slightly embarrassed, I pretended to be interested in a red dress off to the side and hoped she wouldn’t notice we hadn’t taken anything into the room with us. To my surprise, she came up to Dean, shyly waving her phone at him.

“I know this is going to sound strange, but since you’re here, can I ask you a question?” she said. I pricked my ears but pretended to examine the hem of the dress, still feeling the memory of that orgasm convulsing through me. He went over to talk to her. I wanted to leave already.

“It’s just, I’m trying to set up this new feature? This device flicking thing?” she said, and dragged her fingers over the screen of her phone. He took it from her and started to tap the screen quickly as she looked on.

“Yeah, what’s intuitive to the designers is not always intuitive to regular people like us,” he said warmly. He handed her the phone back, took her finger and dragged it over the screen, aiming the phone at a TV screen above one of the changing rooms. Instantly, the woman’s phone screen shot up on the TV screen. He flicked her finger down again and the TV went dark again. This new feature had lots of fans excited.

“Thanks!” she said. “You make it look so easy.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

“Well, thank you. I would never have figured it out on my own,” she said, and walked off again. He walked over to me again and looked down at the dress in my hands.

“Is that the one you want?” he said casually. “It’s nice.”

“It must be weird, right? Having the Portal creator as your father,” I said, and threw the dress over my arm. I didn’t want to try it on. We walked to the payment counter and he sighed.

“No, not weird at all. It’s just nothing. He doesn’t feature in my life at all.”

“At all? He’s like, a household name. Literally everyone has a Portal phone. He’s a billionaire. Come on, I’m sure he features a little.”

“He doesn’t,” he snapped, and guided me to the shop assistant who began to ring up the dress.

It was red.

I never wore red.

It was something Jessica Rabbit would wear. It looked slinky up top and tight down below, and had a long, red carpet-style train that the assistant had to wrap carefully in silk tissue and place in a big paper bag. The register showed the price: $ 7500.

I’d have to tell him eventually. It would be the most awkward conversation of my life, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I would die if I had to meet his father now, wearing this dress, at the side of his son. Literally, I wouldn’t survive the shame.

I watched him pay and decided to myself that I would tell him soon. Tonight even. Before this got even more out of control than it already was. I wasn’t imagining things though, it seemed like just the mention of Jeff Cane’s name had spoiled Dean’s mood, too, and I was dreading having to bring the topic up again.

He handed me the bag and smiled.

“Let’s get out of here, beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the bag.

It wasn’t gratitude for the dress. It was gratitude for him. For the fact that he had, in his own over-the-top way, quietly turned my life right around. A month ago I had been a dark, sad woman bent on petty revenge and today, I was giggly and goofy and, gasp, about to wear something that wasn’t white.

I want to defend myself and tell you, don’t jump to conclusions, I wasn’t falling for him, it was just a crush, just a bit of fun. I want to tell you that I wasn’t being a completely smitten girl in a whirlwind romance that had me forgetting every last thing from my old life. But I think I was. Honestly? I had no idea what was happening to me.

On the drive home, I placed my hand on his knee and stared at the road ahead.

“You seemed uncomfortable back then, when I mentioned your dad.”

His thigh tensed under my touch.

“I want you to tell me about him. What’s your relationship with him like?”

I had asked him for dozens of things so far. I had tested him in millions of ways, and he had complied with every request of mine, from the silly to the serious. But now he was silent.

“I’ll tell you about him one day. But not now,” he said, voice hard and strange.

It was the first time he had not given me what I wanted. My heart was in my throat. The old paranoia came back.

Did he know?

I removed my hand and we drove on in silence. I knew right then that something was wrong. But even I couldn’t have guessed at just how ‘complicated’ his kink really was.

A few sequins peaked out from the bag and cast tiny, metallic shimmers on the roof of the car.