The Parlour (VDB #1) by Charlotte E Hart Read Free Book Online

nude lipstick and slather it on so that my too thin lips look as full as I can make them. Then, after a final teasing of my dull brown hair, I pin it into place and slide the dress on. It fits well. It’s a little on the large slide around my boobs, but not bad considering it’s not even mine. Shoes, however, are a problem. Most of the shoes here are a seven and I’m a five. There is one pair of long, cream boots with lacing up the front so I slip them on and tighten them as much as I can. Colour? For God’s sake, even I know I need a bit of colour to brighten up this grey, cream combination. I’ll look like part of the snow storm if I go out there like this. I snatch a burnt orange shawl and throw it around my shoulders. Yes, better. It even has hints of grey in it. There’s also a long grey wool coat to stave off the depths of fucking winter, and a fur hat.
    Okay, I guess I’m ready. And waiting for Vixon, whoever she is.
    I drop the coat onto the sofa while making my way back over to the kettle, and immediately trip up the stairs. Heels have been somewhat lacking in the last year. Trainers and jeans have been my normal attire, not that I like either much. They were just all I had left, and they were warm. There’s no denying I’ve felt increasingly better since I got here, and not just because of the heat and food. I enjoy nice clothes, heels and shopping. I’m a girl for God’s sake. I’ve never understood the need for women to wear jeans and trainers all the time. Why would they all want to look like men? When I had a small amount of savings, I’d go into somewhere cheap and buy dozens of outfits, then mix and match them as much as I could. I regularly scoured thrift shops and charity outlets hoping for a bargain, maybe some old designer throw off that the upper class had got bored of. I even found an old Gucci suit once and wore it to the office. Nobody noticed, but I felt kind of nice in it, like I’d arrived somewhere I’d never been before. Unfortunately, I sold that, too. Some woman on the streets offered me twenty bucks for it. Twenty bucks goes a long way when you haven’t eaten for three days. That money lasted me quite a while, and what good was a black Gucci suit going to do me when I only had trainers on my feet?
    I flick the kettle on again and cast my gaze around the room as it boils. Home, apparently. What I’m going to have to do to keep it, I do not know. I’m not even sure I really believe that all this kinky crap really exists. It must do, I suppose. But if the submissive garbage is anything to go by, the type of stuff I saw when those books were out, then I’m not sure I’m going to fit that bill. There is nothing pouty or breathy about me. I don’t caress anything, certainly not with a feather light touch. I’ve only begged a few times, and not because it’s in my nature to do so. I had to in order to survive, that’s all. I’m particular in what I need when it comes to sex. Precise, maybe. You could call me a ‘get the job done’ kind of girl, I suppose. I’m very happy to have a night of passion with someone, but there’s nothing ethereal about the experience. It’s just an act of orgasm, getting myself to the moment as quickly as possible really, because, let’s be honest, most men are crap at understanding what goes where, or what it’s for. And the majority of them have no brains either, which is a definite turn off. There’s a word for someone turned on by intelligence. Sapiosexual. That’s always been me. You can put the fittest, most attractive man in the world in front of me, but if he opens his mouth and rubbish comes out of it, I’m out of there. Yet, in the same respect, you stand a man in front of me that’s not all that hot, and you load him with a PhD in astrophysics, and I’m a melting pot of bliss. I don’t care a shit for astrophysics, haven’t got a clue, but if he uses long words or recites the fucking dictionary at me rather than saying,