“I chose well,” he told me at last.
At the time, I thought he was talking about my body.
“Get dressed,” he told me. “We’re almost at the airport.”
Chapter Three
I don’t know what I’d been expecting: I’d had some vague presumption that we’d be in first class.
He had his own airliner. Not a private jet. His own 747.
We’d swept down some sort of VIP corridor, stopping only briefly for a token passport check, and we were aboard: no queues, no calls to the gate. A smiling stewardess with an Asterian accent greeted us, and Jagor led me down a corridor lined in polished wood. He opened a door, and we were in a bedroom, with double bed, wardrobes and desk: it even had its own bathroom. I was completely thrown: if it hadn’t been for the view of the wing out of the window, we could have been in a luxury hotel.
“My room,” he said simply. “You can use the one next door.” And he nodded to the right.
My room turned out to be similar, if a little smaller. And there were several more of these doors spaced out along the corridor.
Jagor led me further along the aircraft and into a room that at least hinted it was on an aircraft. It was a passenger cabin, but much more spacious than even first class would be. It was more like the lounge area of an expensive resort: plush leather seats in dark, dark red, spaced in twos and threes. There was soft carpet underfoot and dim mood lighting overhead.
I quickly learned that Jagor travelled with a retinue. There were several bodyguards, whose names I instantly forgot: they all had the same intimidating build and stance. There were two chefs and a thin man described as the Prince’s dresser, who seemed to serve as a hairdresser and wardrobe assistant. There were two business aides, one male and one female, who assisted the Prince in meetings.
Finally, there was Medenko.
Medenko was in his sixties. The hair he had left, around the sides and back, was entirely white: yet he walked with a ramrod-straight back and his height was quite imposing: he was almost like an elderly version of Jagor himself. Jagor described Medenko as his “first aide” in Asterian, which seemed to mean butler, problem-solver and confidante.
I was formally introduced by Jagor as “Miss Snow, who will be assisting me with translation and UN affairs.” The retinue warmly welcomed me. Almost too warmly: as if out of fear. I wondered what he’d told them and what they’d figured out on their own. Did they see me as a genuine aide, proper and above board, a genuine aide the Prince planned to sleep with, or just the Prince’s concubine?
Medenko was the exception: he was scrupulously polite, but clearly regarded me as well beneath him. I was almost glad of his honesty. Almost.
I couldn’t help thinking that, as the first Asterians I’d met aside from the Prince, they all seemed…
normal
. In the few spare moments I’d had that afternoon, I’d frantically Googled for information on Asteria, but as expected there was frustratingly little out there. There’d been mention of collars and even collar
ing,
whatever that was, but I was starting to wonder if the whole slavery culture was a myth. Neither the female flight attendant nor the aide gave any hint that women might be treated differently in their home country and they certainly weren’t wearing anything around their necks.
A steward took a drinks order and Jagor coaxed me to order champagne – in fact, everyone had alcohol of some kind, except four of the bodyguards who were on duty. So I sat, strapped into my huge leather chair, and sipped champagne as Jagor demonstrated the last word in luxury travel: “Tell the pilot we’re ready to depart.”
I realized I was sitting next to the female aide. Her black bob cut and tailored suit were intimidating enough, but it was the way the steward double-checked the number of ice cubes in her drink that sealed the deal. Still, she was the only other woman in the retinue: I was going to have to get friendly with her sometime.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for how different Asteria will be,” I said, grinning. I was quite proud of that: nice and open-ended. I waited for her to say something like
Oh, you’ll be fine.
She glanced at the annoyance that was keeping her from her drink. “Probably not,” she said dourly. “Fortunately we won’t be flying on to Asteria for at least a few weeks.”
The cabin crew took their seats. Sometimes, when I’m nervous, I keep talking when I should really shut up. “Must be difficult: being on the move all the time with the Prince. Is your…partner okay with it?” Carefully gender-neutral: just in case.
The plane started to move. The aide stared at me the way an unrepentant teenager will stare at a parent who’s trying to delicately breach the subject of sex, or drugs, or boyfriends. “Do you mean my owner?”
Time seemed to stand still for a moment. I must have nodded, because she said, “Yes, he’s perfectly alright with my traveling, thank you.” She raised her eyebrows, as if to ask if there was anything else. I faced front, carefully avoiding looking in her direction, while my brain tried to process that. The plane picked up speed, pushing us back in our seats.
Take off.
***
Monaco lay stretched out below us, the sea sparkling, white sand gleaming: it was almost sensory overload, particularly at 8:30 am.
Jagor, myself and two bodyguards were in a helicopter on the way to the hotel: the rest of the retinue were following by road. I wondered whose seat I was occupying, and how annoyed they’d be.
Jagor had gone to his room halfway through the flight, suggesting that I do the same, since it would be morning when we arrived. It had felt strange, lying in a proper bed with sheets and pillows at thirty thousand feet: even if that had been all that was going on, I don’t think I’d have managed to sleep. Given that I was trying to get my head around what the female aide had told me, and was expecting Jagor to come through my door at any moment, I’d had no hope. But Jagor never came: the pilot called us back to our seats shortly before landing and I was left jet-lagged, exhausted and confused. Now that we were around Jagor’s staff, were things going to be strictly business?
***
The hotel was vast: huge, echoing corridors, dark oak paneling and ceilings fifteen or twenty feet high. The Prince had taken over the entire top floor, even though that meant leaving several rooms empty. Arrangements were made for lunch and then Jagor retired to his room to work.
In my own room, I found a terse note from the Prince’s dresser to call him if anything didn’t fit. I didn’t understand until I opened the walk-in wardrobe.
Hanging up were seven suits, each one costing as much as I made in a month. Hanging next to them, several blouses, in white, blue, red and black, all of them exquisitely tailored and finished. I tried on a suit as a test: it fitted perfectly, though the blouse was tighter than I was used to and the skirt considerably shorter. I suspected Jagor had been very
specific.
In velvet-lined travel boxes at the bottom of the wardrobe, I found six pairs of heels. I drew in my breath at the height of them: five inches, at a guess – and then almost dropped them when I turned them over and saw the bright red soles.
I tried the drawers. One held hold-ups in a variety of shades: no tights. The other held underwear: basic bras and briefs in black and white. Surprisingly tame, given that the dresser had no doubt been pandering to Jagor’s whims.
Then I realized why. Everything else could be seen as necessary – a working wardrobe. But Jagor couldn’t get away with buying me sexy lingerie without his staff suspecting…if they didn’t already.
The bathroom had been stocked with not only a wide selection of toiletries, but also a travel case of make-up: more than I’d use in a year, and of much better quality. Finally, already charging in a cradle on the desk, there was a brand new smartphone: the latest model, already programmed with the numbers of everyone in the retinue. I had everything I needed; and no idea what to expect.
I turned on the shower full-force and stood under the spray until the jet lag receded and I felt halfway human again. Wrapped in a towel, I returned to the bedroom, did my nails and make-up, and dressed in one of the new suits. I stood, unsteady in the heels, and tentatively looked at myself in the mirror.
I gasped at my reflection: I almost didn’t recognize myself. The high heels made my legs look endless while the skirt hugged my thighs and ass. The blouse and jacket nipped in around my waist, making the most of even my modest curves. And yet…the outfit managed to be sexy, but not slutty. The perfect tailoring and expensive fabrics landed it just on the right side of the line. It was eye-catching, but I could get away with it and look professional. Just.
Less than ten minutes later, Jagor called me on my new phone and summoned me to his room.
***
Like mine, his room had enormous windows opening onto a stone balcony. He had them all open, and a warm sea breeze was making the nets billow into the room. Sunlight drenched the floor, soaking into the hard, polished wood and heating the air, making me feel languid and lazy as soon as I stepped inside.
Jagor was looking out at the sea, his hands clasped behind him. He turned and saw me, and a grin spread across his face. With two quick steps, he grabbed me around the waist, lifted me easily and kissed me. I squealed in surprise, feet kicking in the air, and then relaxed into it. When his tongue slipped into my mouth, I let out a moan. God: what was I turning into?
He held me like that, as his tongue hungrily explored my mouth; then started kissing my exposed neck. He eventually set me down and stepped back.
“You look incredible,” he told me.
I looked down at my outfit and flushed. “It’s not— I mean, it’s lovely, but not what I’d usually— Thank you.”
He just looked at me. There was something in his eyes: not anger – nothing that simple or clumsy. This was something darkly elegant and utterly intoxicating: that
thing
we’d talked about in the limo. Patient yet expectant. Knowing me better than I knew myself. I could feel the heat rising in me, my insides turning liquid. “Jagor?”
At his name, there was a flicker: like the old children’s game, I was getting warmer. I suddenly got it.
“Thank you,
Your Highness.”
His look told me I’d got it right, and that I shouldn’t get it wrong again. That thought sent another wave through me, strong enough that my knees almost buckled.
He took a few steps back, until he stood at the foot of the bed. I started towards him, but he shook his head. “No. Stand over there.” And he indicated the middle of the room.
I walked to where he’d pointed, my heels clicking on the hard floor. When I turned, his eyes were already on me. He’d been following my ass across the room.
“Take off your clothes,” he told me. And he put his hands casually in his pockets to watch.
I glanced at the wide-open windows. It was mid-morning, warm sunlight bathing the room: there was no hiding place. This wasn’t like in the limo, dim and secret. This was exposed.
He waited to see if I’d protest.
I didn’t.
I’d dressed in a black suit, with a scarlet blouse and black underwear. Now I shucked off the jacket and laid it on a chair.
Jagor watched, and said nothing.
I unbuttoned my blouse, elegant little buttons made from what looked like wafer-thin slate. It gaped open, the sunlight streaming through it to paint my breasts and stomach a lurid red. Then I shrugged it off my shoulders and dropped it onto the chair. My heart was beating faster, my eyes locked on his.
I dropped my hands to the waistband of my skirt and slid the button there free, then unzipped it at the side. Shimmying out of it involved twisting my hips, almost like a dancer, and I could feel his eyes following me as I wriggled, until the tight fabric slid down my legs and I could step out of it. Now I was in just my underwear, hold-ups and heels.
He let his eyes roam over my body, taking his time. Then he nodded for me to continue.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. He was going to have me strip naked for him, in front of wide-open windows. I glanced outside. The nearest people, down on the beaches, were some distance away, but if any of them were looking towards the hotel….
I reached behind me and unhooked my bra; dropped it on the chair. The sunlight was like a caress on my naked breasts: I actually caught my breath as the warm breeze blew across them, unused to being topless in what was essentially the open air.
My briefs were next, and I pushed the silken fabric down my thighs. I stepped out of them and straightened, one hand protectively over my groin. I was naked now, save for my hold ups and heels.
He stared at me, glanced down at my covering hand, then back to my face.
It was a step: he hadn’t seen that part of me, yet. I hesitated for a long moment, breathing faster and faster, staring into his eyes. He looked right back at me: not pushing me, but challenging me.
I slowly removed the hand, baring myself to him. I stared at him as his gaze raked up and down my body. I didn’t glance down at myself, not once: I watched him watching me, the lust growing on his face. My hands balled into fists, nails digging into my palms, the heat building in me—
Someone knocked at the door.
I jumped, and almost fell, unused to the heels. He stepped forward and took one hand in his, steadying me. I was panicking, my mouth moving but not daring to speak, in case the person outside heard us.
His mouth at my ear. “They won’t enter, until I say so.”
And, with my naked body less than six feet from the unlocked door, he drew me into a long, deep kiss. One hand found my shoulder; then slid down my back until it rested on my ass. He pulled me into him, his body hard against mine, and I panted urgently into his mouth, feeling my nipples harden as they rasped against his suit. He kept me there, tilting my head back, his mouth devouring me. The hand on my ass caressed and squeezed and I felt the heat turning to wetness between my thighs, even as my mind screamed
What are we doing?!