[This is a story with a currently unknown-number of parts. This part, introducing Dreamland and our protagonist, is a bit of a slow burn beginning, without explicit sex. This series features the same character as my earlier story, "Working Late." As the story progresses, there will be characters that explore every possible combination of gender and sexuality; fluidity is fun].
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In the end, I kept the crotchless fishnet tights on. I changed my top, though, and instead put on a simple black sheath dress, a denim jacket for the chill (and the pockets), and simple flats - I didn't know how many stairs there would be at my destination. A nice lacy bra, the one that made my tits look not just massive but well-rounded, higher, a bit dramatic; the dress strained a bit over them, and then smoothed back over my stomach. Not too much makeup; just some lipstick, some light eyeliner. I've never been good with eye makeup. What to do with my hair? In the end, I couldn't decide, and it stayed loose, just past shoulder length, a soft dark blond, a bit of curl to it naturally. A scarf? too formal. A small necklace instead. My nails were painted a dark blue. I picked up the small bag I'd packed and re-packed already three times. I should go. It was already past the opening time.
I was nervous, of course. How could I not be? This was crazy. But I was reassured by what my friend had said, in a glowing (if drunken) testimonial, and by the invitation process itself: thoughtful, detailed, precise, with a lengthy FAQ. I still had to disassociate myself a bit from reality to make myself go through the motions of actually leaving my house. Pretend you are going to just another conference party! I thought. Or maybe this was more like a field trip, an excursion? I suppose both were true, in a way.
The air was cool but not too chilly yet, just a touch of early fall. A slight touch of crispness, just enough to awaken one's senses. A hint of apples, the promise of woodsmoke, even though we were in the city. As I waited for my rideshare car to round the corner, I drew my arms close around me and looked up at the lights of the apartment buildings that lined this block, soft yellow against the dark, streetlights softly humming. It was quiet on my street.
A ride. I checked my phone reflexively. The driver said hello, but nothing more. The radio was playing a vocalist, singing in what sounded like Arabic; maybe one of the great Egyptian singers. It was melancholy, atmospheric, transporting. I stared out the window at the buildings we drove past, the freeway, an exit. Past some warehouses, back into a residential neighborhood, then a nicer residential neighborhood. I'd never been to this end of the city before. I couldn't believe I was doing this. My heart was pounding. I kept my hands still, tried to clear my mind.
A few minutes more, my driver pulled in front of a stone building. Gray stone, four stories, an entrance up a few steps. I glanced at the building, but I didn't know if it was where I was meant to be. The number matched, though. I left the car, thanked the driver, shut the door, and he pulled out without waiting.
Left exposed, alone, I stood on the sidewalk getting my bearings. Like my own neighborhood, there were rows of apartment buildings, but these were older, grander, richer looking, with heavier stone and finer details. There was an occasional tall house in between that hinted at a past - or maybe a present - as a mansion for the blue bloods of our city. There were mature trees lining the sidewalk, but the sky was open and cloudless, and I saw some stars; fewer streetlights here. It was absolutely quiet; I didn't see anyone else.
I walked up the steps, slowly. The door was heavy looking, wooden. For a minute, I just stood there, and considered calling another car and going home, putting on some Netflix and pajamas and have a cosy, safe night in. It sounded like the most appealing thing in the world, as my shyness and nervousness kicked in and my palms began to sweat. But no: I was here. I'd make the plans, gone to the trouble, gotten my clothes on and yes, paid the money. I'd wanted to do this for years. Sometimes, it seemed like I'd wanted this my whole life, as long as I could remember, from the time I first learned about my own body, started to dream of sex. Now or never. I wished I had a cigarette, but I didn't smoke. I wanted one anyway.
Here's the thing. I've had relationships, though none of them truly lasted. I have friendships, companions of all sorts. I consider myself supported and loved. I'm not trying to run from something, and I'm not into pain, or degradation, or being forced. But there's something about disassociating sex from the complications of a relationship, or a friendship, or even a first date, that makes me squirm; strangers make me hot. Like I said, this has been true for practically my whole life. As a teenager, traveling around Southeast Asia in my gap year before college, I slept with an older European man, who I shared a boat with, and then a hammock, and then a bed. I knew his name, but little else. He was magnificent, and he was in awe of my nubile body. I also slept with someone at a beach party on that trip, on the beach. That was terrible sex - we were both drunk and high as kites, too sloppy to try very hard, but the fact that we barely saw each other's faces in the dark, that I never knew his name - well, it was hot then and it still is now.
Here, now, a lifetime (or at least 18 years or so) later, after many more experiences, I stood on this building's wide steps, which had seen a century or two. I clenched my fists, released them, gave myself a pep talk. You can do this. You've done scarier things in your life, with less reward.
On the alcove wall to the left of the door, there was a row of four buttons - only four apartments, in this whole building?! - and one of them, #4, was marked D.L. As I'd been instructed, I rang that one. I waited. A deep and slightly husky masculine voice on the intercom: "yes?" My voice cracked on my first try, but on my second I replied, as I had been told, "I'm here for Dreamland." I gave my name. The door buzzed, and I pulled it open and stepped inside.
I was facing an elevator, and nothing else. Inside, a keypad; I punched in the three numbers I'd been given in my instructions, and the button for the 4th floor. I was nervous, still, but gradually getting more excited. Everything was so elegant, so polished. The air was still and quiet inside, and smelled faintly of lemons. The floors were marble. The elevator was anonymous.
It was a short trip to the fourth floor, and I found once again that my heart was jackhammering as I step off. But there was nothing to see. Just a short hallway, with a wood wainscot, painted above with soft sconce lighting, with a wooden double door at one end. I faced the door. It looked like a hotel hallway. I stood, trying to gather my bearings, and found myself wondering about the architecture of this place. In any other building of this size, this hallway would be much longer, and include many more doors. Here, there was just the one. They must have the entire 4th floor.
Well, hell, I thought, and walked to the door and opened it.
Inside, I blinked in the dim lighting. Slowly, I became aware that I was in a small room, and it was sumptuous. It was all black and red velvet, drapes everywhere, wall lighting, an overstuffed sofa, a Victorian carved mirror. There was a long low desk, and I realized there were two people behind it. One was a woman, who stood up. She was Asian, with long flowing dark hair, and she wore a long black maxi dress with a sparkling wide headband. The whole setup, with her outfit, had the aesthetic of a speakeasy for vampires.
"You must be Susan", she said. "Welcome, welcome so much to Dreamland. I'm Eliza." She came out from behind the desk, stood in front of me, held out both hands. "You look so nice! We are so glad you've come. May I hug you?"
A bit overwhelmed, I nodded, and she did. It was nice, not sensual, just welcoming. She took my hand.
