copyright 2004, by Ladi Jasmine
Gil knocked at the door impatiently, a smile bringing out the dimples at the corners of his mouth. Third time lucky? He doubted it, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
“Who is it?” A naturally husky voice came from the other side of the thick barrier.
“Delivery?” He replied hopefully, though it occurred to him that, aside from himself, he had nothing to deliver.
“Leave it at the door.” The voice now held more than a touch of amusement, “I’ll pick it up in an hour or two.”
“It’s marked personal.”
The door opened a foot and Gil caught a tantalizing glimpse of what appeared to be white leather before Catherine’s frame blocked the opening, arms crossed casually across her chest, “Nice try Gil,”
“I’ve always given him credit for being trying.” The voice came from somewhere behind Catherine’s left shoulder, “Rules are rules though.”
“But isn’t the submissive supposed to have the power?” Gil said, an uncharacteristic note of pleading in his voice.
“Not in this case.”
Catherine shrugged and smiled sardonically, “You heard the lady: no seeing her before the altar.” Catherine held up her hands in mock submission, “ ‘Fraid my hands are tied.”
“Possibly literally if she’s not careful.”
“You’re a cruel woman Heather,” Gil called over the barricade of Catherine’s shoulder.
“You, Mr. Grissom, are an anthropologist,” She replied, standing near enough to the door that he could smell her perfume, yet managing to remain out of sight, “But flattery won’t get you past Catherine.”
“Bye Gil,” Catherine smirked.
And Grissom found the door shut politely, but firmly, in his face; neatly cutting off any protest he may have had.
Catherine turned away from the door and looked at the woman before her, who was coolly checking over her hair in the mirror while another younger woman fastened a velvet and diamond choker about her throat. Catherine, having been in the preening woman’s state before herself – recognised the inevitable signs of nerves, though hidden much better than was usually expected.
“He’s right you know.” Catherine said matter-of-factly.
“Traditions should be observed,” Heather replied, emerald eyes twinkling as she looked at her maid-of-honour.
“Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue?” Catherine replied, suppressing a laugh.
Heather flashed her a reproachful glare, “Blue’s not my colour.”
“Seriously,” Catherine said, leaning up against the doorframe, “Since when has anything to do with this been ‘traditional’?”
Emphasizing her point, Catherine’s gaze swept over the masterpiece that was Lady Heather’s wedding gown – wondering how many burn-marks the dominatrix’ designer now sported in exchange for creating it. If anyone were expecting ‘traditional’ white chiffon and fairy dust, they’d best turn their eyes from this dress. The corseted shell bodice was of supple white leather, so smooth and carefully worked that it clung to its wearer’s figure like a second skin – it’s neckline swooped and scalloped to reveal a generous but tasteful amount of cleavage. The lacing in the front backed by a shimmering inlay of silver-white satin, the whole thing tapering to a narrow waist that lapped over the top of the skirt, where it was attached by a delicate leather lacing. The skirt itself flowed to brush against the floor, a rippling fantasy of alternating white leather and satin panels that allowed the skirt to move with it’s own weight. The leather was so well worked and so light that the two materials were barely discernable by touch.
All in all, it was a gown that Lady Heather - and probably only Lady Heather – could wear with successful results. Results that she achieved admirably. Catherine only hoped that someone would have a camera close at hand for the look on Gil’s face.
“I didn’t say all traditions,” Heather smirked, as she slipped in her earrings.
“Point taken.” Catherine glanced at the clock and smoothed her own skirt prepatorialy, “Five minutes till show time,” She smiled broadly at the dominatrix, “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Heather replied, sweeping a strand of her carefully prepared hair behind her ear, “Foolish as it seems, part of me still can’t believe I’m doing this again.”
“We never can.” Catherine scoffed, “Can’t think of a better person to keep Gris in line though. Promise you won’t beat him up too much.”
Heather quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing. Catherine smothered another laugh. Outside, the pounding chords of Billy Idol’s ‘White Wedding’ began to fade into hearing range.
“That’s your cue.”
Heather nodded and followed her down the hallway.
Catherine was pleased to see that several camera’s flashed in the direction of the candle-light, draped altar as the doors swung open; because the look that passed over Gil’s face truly was beyond price. She was amazed she didn’t find herself trampled in an attempt to reach his bride’s side more quickly. Instead, she moved to her place at the side and smiled broadly as Heather inserted her arm into Gil’s.
“Well,” He murmured as he led her down the remainder of the aisle, “That was worth the wait.”
“Once in a while, Mr. Grissom,” She replied smiling up at him, a mischievous knowing playing in her eyes, “I do reward needy little boys.”
Graphic by Hannah
copyright 2004, by Ladi Jasmine