We stood at the entrance to the club, and the doorman glanced quickly at us, then motioned for us to enter.
I had one of my favorite outfits - one my friends who don't know the real me would faint if they saw. Glancing in the floor-to-ceiling mirror to my left, I smiled. The curves of my C-cup breasts peek out between the plunging neckline of the black leather vest, nothing underneath. The front was joined together with silver chains, which accentuate my ivory skin. Black studded bracelets adorn both wrists. A black, tight patent leather skirt barely covers my ass, and just barely covers the elastic at the top of my red fishnet stockings. Black lace-up knee-high boots bring me to nearly the same height as Master. My curly hair is up in a tousled ponytail.
He always looks so good. The girls - and some of the guys - always follow him with their eyes when He walks in. Black leather pants, not snug but not loose, frame his trim hips. He wears an ice-blue silk shirt, open low, and it accentuates His eyes. His bald head is always a punctuation mark in a crowd.
Blue eyes meet green and we smile. We find a table. It's time to look.
"How about that one?" Master says, pointing to a blonde at a table across the club from us.
My eyes rake her up and down - curvy, filling out her black patent leather dress nicely, hair tumbling down her back. She held a half-full martini in one hand as she looked down at the dancers below.
"Not bad, but blondes have never done it for me," I replied. "Plus, she must like olives. I hate olives."
Master chuckled.
"How about that one?" He pointed.