Page 20 of Owned By The Bratva King

“This set is very forgiving,” the assistant coos, tilting her head at me as I hold the lingerie up to my body. “Covers a lot.”

Bitch. I was confident when I walked into Agent Provocateur, but this patronizing stick insect got me on the run. I’ve never bought beautiful underwear before, and I’m not sure why I want some now, but my first priority wasn’t damage limitation until she put the idea in my head.

“It looks like it’s made of surgical bandages,” I reply. “I was looking for something lacy in black.”

The assistant smiles thinly. “I see. What bra size do you take?”

“Usually J? With a thirty-six band.”

She stalks away and returns to the dressing area with several hangers. “These are all the black lace sets in your size,” she says. “We don’t refund items that have been worn, so please make your selection carefully. Thank you!” She drops the hangers onto the hook and retreats, closing the curtain.

Dressing rooms in stores terrify me. I’ve racked up every fat girl cliché: getting stuck in something too small, handing it all back because it was ‘not right’, and buying the most oversized tent-like monstrosity to avoid the humiliation of leaving empty-handed. But today, I feel empowered.

You’re enchanting, rusalka. Maybe Roman is full of shit, maybe he isn’t, but I’ll never forget how he looked at me.

I strip and wriggle into the first lingerie set. It’s pretty, but the briefs are more brief than ever once they’re stretched over my ass. Two steps, and they’ll be gobbled up. I try a couple more, but there’s always something—too itchy, pinching somewhere, not my style.

The last set is perfect and very racy; my nipples are only just hidden by the molded cups before the lace begins. The panties are in the French cut, so there’s some coverage, but my booty is slaying somehow. It probably helps that this is the kind of underwear I imagined myself wearing while I wrote my fevered fantasy last night.

My pussy twitches at the memory. After giving myself a shuddering orgasm, I sat at my desk and treated my journal to a dirty scene featuring me and none other than Roman. I can’t imagine fantasizing about anyone else, and the thought of wearing these intimate garments knowing he paid for them? Too hot to resist.

Counting out two thousand dollars at the counter feels almost perverse. The assistant’s eyes widen at the cash, and I wonder if this is what it’s like to be a criminal’s wife. Wads of money, no cards, no trace.

“Enjoy!” she says, handing me the pink bag. “I hope he’s worth it!”

I flush and turn away. Roman will never see this underwear, but I’ll think of him whenever I wear it. It’s as close as he’ll get.

I have a thought and scurry out of the shop, sitting on a nearby bench to think. Am I genuinely considering this?

I can’t suppress a naughty grin as the idea takes hold, and I’m on my feet again. I’ve never been to the shop in question, but it’s not far. If I don’t go right now, I’ll lose my nerve, and the notion in my mind is too delicious to deny.

Five minutes later, I’m there. The place is on a side street, and the blacked-out windows give nothing away. I take a deep breath and shove the door open.

Everywhere I look, I see sex toys. Dildos, vibrators, little bullet things, and other stuff I have no clue about; whips, bondage stuff, and lube are made for people with partners, not sad acts like me. I have never bought a sex toy before, but something has shifted in my thinking, and Roman’s money is burning a hole in my pocket.

To my dismay, there’s a young man behind the counter, but he sees my hesitation and gives me a wink. “It’s alright, doll. I’m Lorenzo, and I’m gay as they get. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

I nod and smile. A contraption on a shelf catches my eye, and I pick it up to examine it. It’s a wheel with many small silicone fins, like little tongues.

“That’s called the Sqweel,” the man says. “I don’t know anything about giving women oral, but I’m told you gotta start like a butterfly landing on a petal and finish like a bulldog eating oatmeal. Does that sound accurate to you?”

I burst into laughter, and the tension is broken. “I don’t know. But it can’t be a good sign that there’s a special toy for that!”

“Angel, there are toys for everything. What are you after?”

I avert my eyes. “A dildo.”

“Ah. Those I do know about.” He emerges from behind the counter, beckoning me. “Are you looking for something…you know? Realistic?”

“Yes. And,” I hold my palms a few inches apart, “of a certain?—”

“I got you, babe.”

We choose the fake penis of my dreams. It’s girthy, with what Lorenzo insists is ‘real-feel’ skin. All very high-tech. He also talks me into buying a bottle of lube, and he hums as he rings it up.

“Gonna have some fun nights in with this guy,” he says, tapping the box. “What will you call him? You gotta name your dick, you know that, right? Otherwise, you’re fucking a stranger, and that’s just slutty.”

I laugh and tuck my purchases into the Agent Provocateur bag like a dirty secret. “Strangely enough, I have someone in mind.”

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