Bettie Page Presents: The Librarian (12 page)

CHAPTER 23

Regina looked up at the clock across from the Returns Desk for what must have been the fiftieth time that day. Finally, the hour hand was almost touching six.

As if the tedium of the job in Returns wasn't bad enough, her arm and back muscles were still so sore from yesterday, she could barely handle loading the books onto the cart and reshelving them. On her way to Vera Wang, she'd made a quick stop at CVS pharmacy for a bottle of Advil.

When the clock officially read 6:01, she straightened the pile of books on her desk, grabbed her bag, and practically skipped to the entrance foyer.

As soon as she reached the top of the stairs, she saw the black Mercedes waiting for her.

The driver got out and walked around to open the back door for her. The car was empty.

“Mr. Barnes will meet you at your destination,” the driver explained.

“Oh, okay,” she said, climbing into the backseat. It was strange to be in the car without Sebastian, and she hoped it would just be a short ride.

Then, looking out the window, she saw Sloan descending the steps, her Birkin bag dangling over one forearm, talking on her cell phone. Regina ducked down, hoping she was out of view.

The car turned uptown and within a few minutes pulled in front of the Four Seasons Hotel. Regina wondered if Jess would once again be waiting for her. Thinking of that first night out with Sebastian, how she was mystified by the lingerie and hobbled by the high heels, Regina was amazed at how much had happened in such a short amount of time.

The driver opened her door for her.

“Mr. Barnes asked that you please go to the concierge desk and give your name,” he told her.

“Um, okay. Thanks.”

She walked into the elegant limestone foyer, awed once again by the beautiful and vast space.

Approaching the concierge desk, she felt the beginning of nervous perspiration. She tugged at the neckline of her blue gingham sundress.

“Welcome to the Four Seasons. How may I help you?” asked a young man with a wide smile and bright eyes that made his question seem sincere rather than rote.

“My name is Regina Finch. I think someone might have left something here for me?”

“Ah, yes.” The man reached below the desk and produced a key card.

“Room 2020. Enjoy your stay, Ms. Finch.”

Regina took the card and walked through the lobby to the elevator banks. She heard a medley of foreign languages being spoken all around her. Most people walked briskly, with purpose, some dressed in formal evening wear, some in business suits. She saw a few tourists in shorts and T-shirts, but they were the exception.

The elevator announced its arrival on the twentieth floor with a delicate ping. She stepped out into the quiet hallway. It felt ten degrees cooler than the lobby, and her arms broke out in goose bumps.

Regina slipped the card into the door, and stepped once again into Room 2020.

“Welcome, Ms. Finch.”

Regina turned to find the source of the hard, Eastern European accent. She was disappointed that Jess was not waiting for her, but instead a towering blond woman with burgundy lipstick and cold blue eyes.

“I'm Greta, and I will be assisting you this evening. Mr. Barnes left your attire in the bedroom. Please get changed as quickly as possible, and call me if you need anything.”

She wore a hotel uniform, navy-blue jacket and skirt with stockings and sensible heels. On this woman, the ensemble looked more military-esque than corporate chic.

“Do you . . . work for Sebastian?” Regina asked.

“No, I am an employee of the hotel. Mr. Barnes is an extremely valued guest, and we do our best to accommodate him in any way he needs.”

“Okay . . . thanks,” said Regina. She hoped to heaven she wouldn't need any assistance. The last thing she wanted was that woman dressing her.

Regina closed the door to the bedroom. This time, there were no shopping bags on the bed, but a black satin corset and a black leather skirt with intricate lacing.

Oh no,
Regina thought.
I'm never going to get this on by myself
.

And then, on the floor at the foot of the bed, she spotted black patent-leather platforms with eight-inch heels and wide leather buckled straps for around her ankles. They looked like torture devices, not footwear.

She pulled her sundress over her head and folded it before putting it on the bed. Eyeing the corset and skirt, she realized she would be going without underwear. She unhooked her bra and slid her underwear down over her hips and kicked them off her ankles, then placed them on top of her sundress.

Completely naked, she shivered and glanced warily at the corset. Determined to get dressed on her own, she analyzed the task at hand: she would have to unlace it just enough that she could step into it and then pull the laces tightly behind her. Maybe the poster girl for the Third Reich in the next room would have to tie the laces at the very end, but that would be it.

Regina soon realized how badly she had misjudged the task at hand. The soreness of her shoulders made reaching behind her back impossible.

Distressed, she turned to the skirt. At least she could get that on—she wanted to be as clothed as possible before calling for help. But the leather skirt was essentially backless except for the dozen laces to hold it together.

There was no way around it; this outfit was simply not happening without another set of hands. Regina looked around the room for a towel or robe or something to cover herself with. Finding nothing, she tugged off the heavy bedspread and pulled off the crisp white sheet beneath the blanket. She wrapped it around herself like a toga and padded to the door.

“Greta?” she called.

She heard the woman's high heels on the marble floor before she actually saw her.

“Yes?” she said, arms folded in front of her.

“I need some help, please.”

The look on the woman's face was not annoyance, but something along the lines of, What took you so long?

“We do the skirt first,” Greta said decisively, as if she had already given this much thought.

“Are you sure? Um, okay.” Regina thought she would die of embarrassment. How was she going to do this without putting her bare ass in Greta's face?

Greta was already working on the skirt, undoing the laces so it unfurled into a single strip of leather.

“Turn around. Back to me. And drop the sheet,” Greta commanded.

Mortified, Regina did as she was told.

Greta wrapped the leather around Regina from front to back, and then went to work on the laces, her hands fluttering back and forth with nimble speed. Still, the process seemed to take a long time, and she was relieved to feel the final pull and cinch of the laces.

“Perfect,” Greta said, almost to herself. “Now the corset. Lift your arms.”

Regina complied, painfully.

“Can I lower them now?” she asked when the front of the corset was in place and she felt a few laces securing it behind her. Greta muttered something that seemed like permission to put her arms down, and so Regina did so with relief.

She could feel the progress of the laces being secured from the base of her spine to her shoulder blades. And then Greta cinched them so tight she lost her breath.

“Too tight,” she said.

“It's supposed to be tight,” Greta said with undisguised contempt. “Now, the shoes.”

The shoes! The excruciating process of getting into the skirt and corset had made her forget all about the terrifying footwear.

She glanced down at them. There was no way she could bend and buckle them in her current state. She felt like she was wearing a straightjacket.

Greta moved down onto her knees and held one shoe out for Regina to slip her right foot into. The height disparity between the one side of her body and the other forced her to lean down and grab onto Greta's shoulders so she could stabilize herself.

“Other foot,” Greta said. Regina pressed her left foot into a shoe, and slowly stood up. She was so much taller, the entire room had a different perspective. When Greta straightened up, Regina found she now stood several inches taller than the other woman.

“My work here is done,” Greta said. And with that, she left Regina alone in the room.

Regina was afraid to move. She felt she might topple over and be stranded on the floor like an insect that flips over and can't right itself. But curiosity proved a strong motivator, and she slowly hobbled over to the full-length mirror.

“Oh my Lord,” she breathed. From the neck down, she would never have recognized herself. Her body, cinched and elongated, looked powerful and erotic, like something out of one of Sebastian's photographs. Her fair skin against the dark satin seemed to shimmer like mother of pearl, and the short skirt and towering heels made her legs look long and powerful.

She turned around, looked at the view from the back, and gasped. The lacing left gaps that showed tantalizing glimpses of her skin, dramatically white against the inky black leather. She thought of an expression she'd always found ridiculous: “sex on a stick.” But that is exactly what she looked—and felt—like.

She heard the front door open and close.

“Where are you hiding?” Sebastian called.

Heart beating fast, Regina tottered to the bedroom door and made her way back into the living room.

Sebastian looked devastatingly handsome, every inch the man who could handle a six-foot-tall woman clad in leather. He wore black slacks and a black shirt, and he was slightly tan, as if he'd spent the entire day outdoors. She wondered what he'd been up to since she last saw him, and felt a surge of possessiveness that she'd never experienced before.

“You look stunning,” he said, smiling at her. “Come closer.”

She walked slowly, nervous that she would trip and fall. All the while, she felt his eyes locked onto her.

When she was close enough, he took her hand and led her into a room with a long marble-topped dining room table. Two wineglasses were set out, next to a silver ice bucket chilling a bottle of white.

“Are you hungry?” he asked her.

“Not really,” she said. The thought of eating in that outfit was not appealing.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks. I'm okay.”

“I think you should have a glass of wine,” he said, uncorking the bottle and pouring her a glass. She took it from him and had a sip. It was crisp and delicious, and she found she actually did want it, after all.

“You're not having any?” she asked.

“No,” he said, watching her. She drank some more, and when she'd had half the glass, he took it from her.

“Turn around, Regina,” he said. She did as he asked, bracing herself against the table to take some of the pressure off of her feet.

She felt him unlacing the back of the skirt until it fell open, leaving her ass bare. He ran his hands over her skin, rounding the curve of each of her ass cheeks before sliding to the center to part them.

“What are you doing?” she asked, shifting to move out of his grasp.

“Stay still, Regina. And don't make me ask you again. Now spread your legs.”

Nervously, she moved her feet wider apart.

“Bend over the table,” he told her. She complied.

Again, she felt his hands spreading her ass. She found it so humiliating; it was the first time she considered stopping him.

And then a shocking sensation stilled her thoughts, and her entire focus was the pressure in her anus as he pressed something hard inside of her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, trying with every ounce of willpower not to turn around.

She felt him lacing her skirt back up, the object still lodged inside of her. Her hand flew behind her, pulling at the laces. He smacked it away.

He cinched the skirt closed and turned her around. She was practically panting with anxiety.

“Relax, Regina. It's just a butt plug,” he said. “It's not going to harm you. It's just a strange sensation until you get used to it.”

He pressed the wineglass back into her hand, and she gulped until it was empty.

“Do you want me to remove it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Then I will. After you make me come.”

She looked at him quizzically. Did he expect her to have sex with him like that?

He unzipped his pants and let them drop to the floor, then eased off his white boxer shorts. His cock was hard. She wondered when it had started getting erect. When he'd walked in the door? When he'd seen her ass displayed—as he had orchestrated—by her outfit? When he'd pressed the hard plug inside of her?

“Get down on your knees,” he told her. And then she realized how he wanted her to make him come.

“I've never done this before,” she said, moving into position.

“I'm glad you're telling me this. You know I don't like surprises. We'll go slow. Just lick me—like a popsicle, one that's melting,” he said. She put her hands on his hips, and did as he asked. She could smell him and taste the sweet saltiness of his skin, and the overwhelming intimacy of it was enough to make her forget all about the pressure in her behind. “Now take me in your mouth,” he said, winding one hand through her hair. She placed her lips around his width, and he slipped one hand under her jaw. With slight pressure, he indicated for her to slide her mouth on and off of him. “Use your tongue,” he instructed, and she concentrated on sliding her tongue around his shaft as she stroked him with her lips. An odd sound came from him, and this excited her as much as any touch. She moved more quickly, and soon her movements were not controlling the pace but the thrusting of his pelvis and his driving himself in and out of her mouth. Just when she felt she would choke, he stilled, and her mouth filled with a rush of warm, salty fluid. Shocked, she instinctively swallowed, then pulled away so she could spit out the rest. Coughing and embarrassed, she covered her mouth and turned away from him.