“I don’t understand.”
He smirks. “Thebeauty of this relationship we now have is that you don’thaveto. Come on.”
He gets out, and I have no choice but to follow.
Inside, he tucks his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and speaks with the receptionist. Apparently I have an appointment, and they see me right away, giving me a clipboard of paperwork to take with me into the exam room. Christopher comes with me.
When the doctor arrivesto give me my eye exam, Christopher takes over.
“He needs to be fitted for contacts.Notcolored ones,” he emphasizes. “We’ll be getting him a few pairs of glasses today, too.”
“Sure.” She turns to me. “Let me take your current glasses and see what your prescription is.”
I remove them and the room goes a little blurry. “I have bifocals,” I tell her. “Invisible, please.”
“Of course.” She leavesfor a moment and I squint at Christopher. “Plain contacts?”
He’s sitting in a chair along the wall while I’m in the special chair the patient occupies. “You arenotgetting colored contacts again.”
Another of those shivers ripples through me at his soft order, and my cock grows uncomfortably firm in my jeans. “I’m not?”
“Fuck no. I hate those goddamned things. They made your eyes look weird.”
I snort. “The network said viewer response was favorable.”
“Fuck them. Look at where they are now—dropping like a rock in ratings with you gone.”
I’d tried not to look that up, but yeah, I did. This morning, on my phone, while we were waiting for our flight.
And yeah, he’s right. They are.
While it might make me petty, I relish the fact.
The doctor reappears and begins the exam. Those glassesare only a year old, but there is a slight change in my prescription. After fitting me for contacts and doing all the other stuff—including dilating my eyes—it’s time to pick new frames.
Except now I can’t see shit.
Apparently, I don’t need to. We’re the only ones in the small showroom besides the receptionist. Christopher peruses the men’s frames, handing me some to try on, taking picturesof me in others, a process that goes on for at least thirty minutes before he’s decided on four frames for me, two wire-rimmed and two solid resin—one traditional tortoiseshell, and a blue and black tortoiseshell pattern.
I have no clue what I look like in any of them because he had me sit in a chair and wouldn’t let me look in a mirror.
Part of me bristles at this, and another part of me strugglesnot to reach down and adjust my cock.
With the frames in hand, the doctor sits down with me and makes adjustments to them so they fit properly, marks my eye position in them for the bifocals, and then Christopher produces a credit card to pay for everything.
We’re told we can pick them up tomorrow afternoon.
Back in the car, my vision is still blurry. “I take it she gave you carte blanche onall of this?”
He smiles. “You might say that. She told me she trusts my judgment.”
“I feel like I’m your pet.”
His throaty chuckle sends another of those shivers straight through me, winding up in my aching cock. “You might say that, too.”
Our next stop is a men’s clothing store. There, at Christopher’s orders, I’m dressed in a variety of suits, slacks, ties, dress shirts—everything. I don’tbother giving my input because he’s the one with the credit card. That stop takes three hours because they have to mark the slacks and jackets for slight alterations. While I have my own suits and clothes, obviously, most of what I wore on the air was provided by the network or their sponsors, and remained there with them.
Not that I’d want it, anyway.
