“I…” Lydia looked again at the tiny scrap of fabric on the bed.
Evgeny sat up, grinning.
“And the food is amazing,” he said. “It’s an old palace from the days of the Hapsburg Empire. You feel like old-fashioned royalty when you’re there. Old-fashioned, decadent royalty.”
“Do you?” Lydia’s curiosity began nibbling at the edges of her reserve. This sounded less like the pit of sleaze Milan had painted.
“Absolutely,” said Evgeny. “It’s not some backstreet brothel. You might even find somebody famous at the table with you.”
“More famous than me?” Milan pouted, then grinned devilishly.
“Well…okay,” said Lydia. “It sounds interesting, at least. But do I have to wear that?”
“Well, you can’t wear a fleece, milácku. Not to take supper with the Crown Prince of Mauretania.”
“Okay, okay, but I could wear my concert gown.”
“That thing? Drab black sack. No. This is what you wear if you go.”
Milan’s word was final.
Lydia shrugged and picked up the dress. It would skim the very tops of her thighs and the neckline plunged as low as was decently possible.
“You can’t wear anything underneath,” said Milan helpfully.
“What? Not even a thong?”
“Nothing. Just that and a pair of heels.”
Lydia, feeling a little like a lamb being prepared for the slaughterhouse, allowed Evgeny and Milan to lead her into the shower.
They washed, lathered and perfumed her, lotioned her naked body, then rubbed it all over with golden sparkly gel that made her skin gleam in the light.
Evgeny treated her breasts, while Milan helped the unguent sink into her buttocks, working them thoroughly with a cupped palm.
“Do I really need a golden bum for this?” she asked aloud.
“Oh yes,” Milan purred into her ear. “For us, if no one else.”
Breathless and aroused by her lovers’ attentions, Lydia tried to draw their attention to the wetness between her legs, parting her thighs a little and pressing them into Evgeny’s groin.
He laughed and patted her hip.
“Later, darling. We must all wait our turn.”
She was short of breath and flushed beneath the gold flecks by the time Milan wrestled her into the dress. If you could call it a dress. A scanty sheath of almost-sheer gold stretch material, it outlined every single curve and left her erect nipples plain
ly visible. The plunging neckline reached almost to her navel—a hand would only have to brush against her lightly to draw the fabric aside and expose a breast. The flirty, flippy skirt rustled just beneath the swell of her arse cheeks—the most minimal pivot of the pelvis would lift it up and reveal all.
“You look like a whore,” said Evgeny admiringly.
“I know,” said Lydia, dubious at her reflection in the mirror.
“You look like our whore,” expanded Milan. “Which is how we want you to look.”
In the mirror, Lydia watched as Milan stepped up behind her and clasped her around the waist, his long, white hands crossed over her belly, fingertips resting lightly at the top of her pubic triangle. Move lower, she silently implored, but he simply rested his chin on her bare shoulder and turned to kiss her neck.
“What do you think, Evgeny? Too fresh-faced. We need to plaster on some makeup.”