Vintage Pleasures
Vintage Pleasures
By
Billy London
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Vintage Pleasures
© 2013 Billy London
Editor:
Katriena Knights
Cover Art: Marteeka Karland
Books are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
Contents
“Tristan’s here,” Lauren hissed over the stall of the ladies’ room. Sabra, partway through adjusting her breasts in her corset, halted.
“How long ago?”
“Just turned up.”
Sabra breathed out softly, biting into her bottom lip to hold back a triumphant grin. Of course he was here. Why wouldn’t he respond to the blatant invitation? She’d been angling for his attention for months, much to Lauren’s annoyance. Lauren was supposed to be her friend, after all they had so much in common having met on the burlesque circuit
.
She was a Domme in her own right. Fascinated by exertions of power by such a tiny little thing, Sabra had been allowed a peek into Lauren’s world.
“Small community,” Lauren explained when they’d attended Sabra’s first fetish club. “Everyone knows someone who knows someone. You probably already know people in the life who just haven’t shared it with you.”
“Think they’re ashamed?” Sabra asked, stepping around a prostrate gimp and apologising to its mistress.
“Do you talk about your sexual deviancy over a Sunday roast dinner?”
Sabra shrugged. “Depends what I’ve done the night before. I like sharing.”
Lauren stopped her. “It’s good to be curious. But I’ll say it now. I don’t believe for one minute that you’re a sub.”
“Because I like nipple tassels?”
“Because you like being in control.”
“Maybe I haven’t met the right master.” Sabra gave a shudder at the word master.
“Doms are ten a penny. Take your time. The worst thing you can do is jump into this eyes closed.”
Sabra’s version of research for the right Dom took up a lot of time on the Internet fending off would-be abusers.
I find my sub appreciates me truly after she’s finished my laundry.
Pfft!
She barely appreciated doing her own laundry.
That’s what dry cleaners are for.
You can find that out when you meet me. Come to my home.
On dead teenager lane? Yes, of course. Next!
I don’t allow my subs to say no.
Excellent. What about safe words?
No.
In her quest for the right Dom, Sabra had realised just how small the world was when she was nicknamed Switch Tease. At one of Lauren’s fire breathing nights, a Dom approached her, demanding respect, which immediately ruffled Sabra’s ostrich feather skirts.
“You’ll never find what you want unless you try someone out.”
“You mean you?”
“I’m the best there is.”
“Anyone who says that has overestimated their skills,” Sabra dismissed.
“Then why are you even here?”
“I’m working. Off you go, dear, before I accidentally spray you with gasoline. Wouldn’t want to set your pants on fire.”
“Cheeky bitch,” he grumbled, storming off to the other side of the club. Flipping the bird to his back wasn’t at all childish.
Lauren came over to her, batons smoking from her performance. “Someone’s asked if you can do a range of cards and pictures. Money!”
Sabra made a face and followed Lauren to the changing rooms at the back of the club. “I’m not photogenic.”
“Bullshit. Here’s the card from the director. She was the one you brushed with your feather fan. Get some shots done, send them over, become huge, never forget me.”
“You’re running away with yourself,” Sabra warned, hunting in her bag for a normal, two-clip bra.
“Not at all. I even know who can take the shots for you.” Lauren moved the scattered make-up from the dresser and opened up her netbook. “His name’s Tristan. We’ve known him for years. He’s the one who did the shots for my website.”
Sabra perked up. Lauren, mainly for business reasons, kept the secrets of her darkly erotic photographs like a state hiding money. Sabra wondered how attractive the photographer was. Lauren pulled up Tristan’s website and showed a variety of his work. From film noir to Japanese anime to Victoriana, he was exceptionally talented.
“He’s good.”
“Don’t,” Lauren warned.
Sabra looked at her. “What?”
“I mean it. Don’t. Don’t touch. He’s not for you.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. I’ve already said you’re not sub material, and that’s what he needs. You messing him about is really low on his list of things to do in 2013.”
“Challenge accepted.” Sabra smirked. Before she could say anything else, Lauren closed her netbook with a grimace. “I’m sure he’s big enough to tell me he’s not interested.”
“I know you. You’ll make him interested.”
“And the problem is?”
“He’s the best photographer I’ve ever had. Don’t fuck him up.”
Sabra felt her grip on her temper slipping. “Stop it. I’m not a heartless whore. And he should be able to separate business from the pleasure I’m going to make sure he has with me.”
A few days later, she rocked up to Tristan’s studio without an appointment and, surprisingly, just one outfit and her make-up box. His personal assistant hadn’t blinked twice that a potential client had messed up his boss’s schedule. Sabra simply sat back in the reception area with a vintage lingerie magazine, circling new costumes, until her name was called.
Barely glancing up as she put a big cross over a forties-style nightgown, Sabra did a double take.
Lauren, you sneaky cow
. Tristan was completely her type. Outer geek, inner dom. Behind black-rimmed, square glasses, moss-green eyes looked straight through her, as if he could see exactly what she wanted. “Sabra? Hi. I’m Tristan.”
“Hello,” she replied, extending her hand. He caught it and gently pulled her to her feet.
“Do you want to come through to the studio?”
“Yeah, um. Sure.”
“Don’t worry about your make-up box. Jono will take that for you.”
She followed him, noting he was taller than her by several inches, even in her four-inch heels. Walking in the trail of his scent, rich with sandalwood, Sabra felt herself drift into lust.
Goodie, goodie, goodie.
He sat her down and sat opposite her, his denim-covered knees a few inches from her own.
“Lauren called me. Warned me, I should say,” he added.
Sabra’s mouth dropped open. “That’s so out of order.”
“I know. Told her as much. Especially as I already know about you.”
“Pardon moi?”
“Remember Theo?”
“No,” Sabra lied without thinking. Of course she remembered him.
“Yes you do. He ran for councillor in South London for the Conservatives.”
Sabra winced. “Yes, well, he should have thought about his political career before dating a burlesque dancer. Kate Middleton’s cousin is a burlesque dancer.”
Tristan blinked butterfly-long lashes at her. “I wasn’t talking about his political career.”
“I did not forward any photos to any tabloid. He was cheating on me!”
“I didn’t mean the photos, either. Not to worry. What are you looking to do today?”
