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Renata

Don Winslow

All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

Prologue

 

 

 

"Is he there...with you?" The voice was low, barely audible, but unmistakable - that raspy, by-now-familiar voice that inevitably launched a shiver of electricity up her spine.

She turned her close-cropped, blond head to glance over her shoulder, as if to assure herself of his presence, although she knew quite well that the boy would stay put. He hadn't moved; still sat there, slouched back comfortably in the white-upholstered, wind-backed chair, legs crossed, one booted foot on the pearl-gray carpet, the other swinging idly as if he were relaxed. He watched her with a half-smile playing across his lips.

"Yea, he's here," Renata whispered, turning her back to the phone, bringing her lips closer to the receiver. Already her words were being choked by the rising sense of anticipation she felt, the familiar tingling his phone calls always stirred up in her.

"What's his name? Do you know his name?"

She swallowed, hard, twice, before she could speak. She took a deep breath. "It's Alain. His name's Alain...he's a student," she added helpfully, sensing the guy behind her shifting in his seat at the sound of his name.

"What's he look like?"

Renata resisted the impulse to turn and inspect her guest. Instead, she lowered her head over the phone, spoke into the receiver, talking from memory.

"He's young, probably early 20's; slim-build; with dark, wavy hair. He's wearing a T-shirt and jeans. And one of those black leather jackets. Looks a little like James Dean."

There was a pause. Renata waited.

"And you? What are you wearing?" The disembodied voice bore in on her in that flat, insistent monotone of his.

Of course, there was no need for him to ask that. He knew perfectly well what she was wearing. He knew that by now, she would have received his printed instructions in the mail And she'd follow those instructions, just as she always did, to the letter, wearing whatever he wanted her to wear.

"I'm wearing a white dress, with buttons up the front. It has a loose, pleated skirt. And stockings, also white, of course and a pair of matching heels." She was about to add 'just as youwanted,' but she bit off the words. There was no need, and besides, he might take it as an impertinence.

Renata waited in silence for what seemed a long time. Only the hollow sound of the open phone; his faint, shallow breathing, assured her that he was still there--out there, somewhere in Paris.

"And what else? What do you have on under that pretty white dress of yours?" his deepening voice teased.

Alain, sitting behind her, could not see that blond face, as the tip of the tongue emerged to quickly lick across working lips. The tense woman sucked in a breath before continuing on in a conspiratorial whisper, super-aware that her companion, although he seemed totally indifferent, was, in fact, listening to her every word.

"Nothing. I'm wearing a garter belt to hold up my stockings. That's all." The words came out in a low, breathy voice.

"You're not wearing underwear?" The voice was tinged with mock surprise.

"That's right," she nodded, her back carefully turned towards her curious guest, as she hunched over the phone.

"Say it!"

"I'm not wearing underwear," the girl breathed into the phone.

"No brassiere?" He was goading her, forcing her, not for the first time, to humiliate herself by using her very own words.

"No brassiere." Renata felt herself warm with the flush of embarrassment.

"And no panties?"

Renata took a deep breath to steady her labored breathing. With her free hand, she raked clawed fingers through her close-cropped shag.

"No panties," she acknowledged in a hoarse whisper. There was another pause.

"What's he doing now?" The pace of questioning quickened; Renata smiled to hear the eagerness her controller was unable to suppress.

"He's sitting here... not far from me, just across the room, in the chair by the windows." This time, when she glanced over her shoulder, she found the young man grinning at her, his eyes sparkling with interest. She realized he was starting to catch on, intrigued, clearly enjoying the unfolding game. She quickly looked away, ducking her head to hide her embarrassment.

"And he can see you clearly, from where he's sitting?"

"Yes."

"Good! I want you to turn your back on him, and then lift up your skirt."

The woman closed her eyes as the shudder of lust slammed through her, leaving her weak in the knees. She swayed forward, had to put out a hand on the desk to steady herself.

"Do it!" he hissed.

"Renata pulled herself together; straightened. Keeping her back towards the boy, she cradled the phone in the crook of her neck and reached behind her to gather up the back of her dress, grabbing handfuls of material to hoist the skirt up, uncovering the entire lengths of a pair of slim, tapering legs, set close together in their sheer, white stockings.

"Have you done it?" he wanted to know.

"Yes." Her whisper was barely audible. She felt her insides go soft and mushy as she stood there, holding her skirt up, knowing she was brazenly baring herself; showing her buttocks to the young man's astonished eyes. Renata obeyed...did it because she had no choice. Months ago, she had surrendered her will to that raspy, hypnotic voice -- her "controller." The name came to her, as she thought of his phone calls, his remote, clinically-detached voice. That was how she thought of him now, and would always think of him -- "her controller," somewhere out there.

 

 

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