"Miss Lamb?" A timid, Italian-accented voice approached. It was the makeup artist, ready to transform the model from beautiful blank canvas to otherworldly couture creature. Anna usually hated sitting through hair and makeup. But this time, rocking gently in her seat, letting the frisson between her legs build, and imagining how Joey would finish what the panties had started, she relaxed. She allowed herself to enjoy the stylist's fingers working on her scalp, to relish the feathery teasing of powder brushes on her cheeks, eyes, and collarbones where they caressed her, the ghosts of kisses. At one point, the makeup girl had to conceal a love bite on Anna's breast, another leftover from this morning, thought Anna with a delicious shiver, reliving the way Joey had bitten down on her tit while fucking her. Anna savored the girl's soft fingers as she applied concealer to the imperfection on her perfect body, feeling the soft pressure on the faint bruise.

Next up to attend to Anna was her dresser. The first garment Anna was to model was a sheer chiffon minidress with a barely-there skirt. She went braless, and the fabric rubbed against her nipples, making them stand to attention. Anna checked herself out in the mirror, assessing not the designer's work but whether Joey would find her attractive in it. Through the translucent, pewter-colored fabric you could see each nipple and the contours of her breasts clearly. Good. Joey worshipped her small, round tits. This would drive him wild. And her brown hair was tousled, and her eyes had the smudged-eyeliner rock chick look he loved.

The atmosphere backstage was tense and electric. Anna swigged from a champagne flute as her dresser helped her into a pair of vertiginous silver heels. The designer, Alessandro, was a camp, flamboyant Roman who once told Italian Vogue that Anna was the only woman he'd ever consider sleeping with. He came over to check that she was doing his creation justice.