Chapter 5 BUILDED ATTRACTION 5

He was watching her every movement, like a dog waiting for its master to get up and take it for a walk. She knew exactly what he wanted her to do to initiate the complicated ritual that had developed between them. Some nights she would tease him, delay the inevitable, make him wait. But tonight she was too tired for that. She swigged down half the brandy, which she discovered she didn't really want, and put the glass down on a French, Hepplewhite-design, mahogany card table.

'Would you excuse me for a few minutes, darling,' she said, trying to keep the weariness out of her voice.

The look of relief on his face was obvious. 'Of course.

'I won't be long.

As she turned to walk towards the door he caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek.

'You're very special,' he said, kissing her fingers.

As she walked up the grand, sweeping staircase and along the corridor to his bedroom, she wondered if it were true. Was she special?

How many other women had agreed to participate in David's demands for stylised, ritualistic sex? Perhaps countesses, baronesses and duchesses were used to such things. Or perhaps not. It was entirely possible that she was the first woman who had indulged David's fantasies in this way.

She pushed open the bedroom door, knowing exactly what she would find. There, on the large double bed, the counterpane and bedding already removed, were two beautifully wrapped boxes, one large and rectangular, the other small and square, one on top of the other. Both were wrapped in bright gold foil with gold ribbon.

Clare closed the bedroom door firmly. It had to be closed. She walked over to the bed. Tossing the smaller box aside she sat on the white linen undersheet and ripped the ribbons off the large box. She delved into the layers of white tissue paper. Her hands lighted on something soft and silky. She held it up, the tissue paper falling away.

It was a pink body, beautifully and expensively made in the finest silk, with lace insets over the bosom and at the hips. There was a matching pink suspender belt in the box too, and a pair of very sheer, white stockings. There was also a white lace garter. And the letter of course, right at the bottom of the box.

She got to her feet and stripped off her dress, panties and bra, then clipped the suspender belt around her waist. She slipped into the body. The silk was so soft and sensual she felt a flush of sexual pleasure. Her nipples puckered instantly.

She glanced into the mirror on the opposite wall.

It was a perfect fit. David had a list of all her measurements.

The pink suited her dark

colouring and the tightness of the garment showed off her figure. She had a good figure, her breasts firm and round and high, her waist narrow, her hips generous but not flabby. The lace over her breasts was transparent and she could see her quite large, rose-red nipples under it. The legs of the body were cut high and its crotch was thin, not quite covering the whole curved plane between her legs but leaving the flesh on either side of her labia clearly visible. Her pubic hair was black and, though not particularly thick, formed a definite dark shadow under the pink silk.

Sitting on the bed she took the stockings out of their cellophane packet and rolled them, one by one, up her slender legs. The suspenders were too long and each had to be adjusted until they held the stockings taut. She spread the elasticated garter between her fingers and inserted her left foot into it, drawing it up her legs until it banded her thigh just below the white welt of the stocking.

At least, she thought, this was underwear she would be able to wear outside the bedroom. So often the boxes David had left on the foot of the bed had contained more outrageous items - cupless bras and crotchless panties, tiny, incredibly tight, red-satin waspies with long ruched suspenders, or patent leather high-heels that had forced her foot up almost vertically. They were all the stuff of his highly developed fantasies, leaving her body decked out like that of some cheap whore.

Smoothing the sheer, white stockings up over her legs, satisfying herself that they were wrinkle free, Clare picked the letter out of the box. As usual it was a single sheet of heavy cream vellum, with deckle-edges, folded in half. She spread the paper out. It was covered in neat, italic script.

There were no mistakes, no deletions, no insertions. She knew that David had worked on it for a couple of days, before copying it out like some ancient illuminator of biblical texts. It was a script - her script - the distilled essence of his latest sexual imaginings. He would never have dared to ask her, face to face, to do the things the letter contained; she was sure of that. This was the way he had evolved of giving his fantasies full reign.