“There are some new garments for you folded by the duke’s bed. I’ll be by with luncheon later, Marta.”
The door clicks shut after that, and I’m left alone again. I eye the pile of folded clothing on the duke’s nightstand and head over to get a closer look at my new wardrobe.
It’s as gaudy as the duke’s.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a statement piece as much as the next gal, but there isn’t an article that isn’t dripping in accouterments. Beading, gilt threads, honest-to-god emeralds stitched into intricate designs.
It’s beautiful, but it’s too fucking much.
After sorting through the heavy and uncomfortable looking fabrics, I’m able to find a dark green slip under one of the gowns. I pair it with a simpler sheer brown wrap meant to go over a shorter dress that’s so heavy with beads that I can barely lift it up.
Standing in front of the duke’s enormous dressing mirror, I shuck off my ill-fitting white dress.
As I slide on the green slip, the fabric feels incredibly smooth on the inside. When I pull it gently over my hips, I realize it fits me better than anything I’ve ever worn. There’s none of the usual tugging to get things over my ample butt.
It’s like the garments are custom made for me, which they have to have been given how small I am in comparison to the maid I met yesterday.
The thin straps don’t fall off my shoulders and when I place the sheer topper over the slip, I’m just a little impressed at the silhouette it creates.
A little editing goes a long way. I think of the duke’s own ridiculous wardrobe.
“All dressed up and nowhere to go,” I say to my reflection, admiring how nice I look.
I collect the dress I wore this morning from the floor and pick up the remaining new clothes from beside Raf’ere’s bed.
As I lift the heavy stack, one of the beaded appliqués catches the knob of Raf’ere’s nightstand drawer, and it slides open as I walk backward.
If I wasn’t so nosy, I would shut it and be polite.
God, is my Stockholm syndrome really that bad? Why would I ever need to give my actual kidnapper that courtesy? If anything, maybe there will be a keycard or some alien phone I can steal.
So, I set the clothes back down and snoop.
The black drawer is lined with a green felted material. Placed neatly in rows are devices of all shapes and sizes. By some of the ones with more phallic shapes, these must be sex toys.
After copping a peek at Raf’ere’s cock, I can say they’re modestly sized for an alien…but still really big if you’re a human. I never got into sex toys much on Earth. I was always a “use the shower head” to get the job done kind of gal.
But as I look over the second stash of sex toys Raf’ere keeps in his room, I’m curious.Hell, what else is there to do?Everything in the drawer is immaculately clean and shining—thank god.
There’s a metal collar and placed in its center is a remote. I pick them both up, holding one in each hand. I can’t read the alien’s written language, so I have no idea what the buttons do.
Does that stop me from pressing one?Sure the fuck it doesn’t.
When I click one of the buttons, my hand instantly is cold. The fine hairs on my arm rise followed by a swath of goosebumps.
“Woah,” I say aloud, not expecting the collar to give me the chills.
When I depress the button next to it, heat floods through me. I drop the collar when I feel the warmth spread to my pussy.
A necklace that makes you horny at the touch of a button was not on my abducted-by-aliens bingo card. But neither was any alien sex toy.
Outer space is weird.
I place the collar back quickly, but take a moment to admire the rest of the items near it.
So many things that I have no idea what their intended purpose would be.
I can’t decide if the number of sex toys this alien keeps at hand is a red flag or a green one. Could these devices really be all that much better than a shower head?
