Page 13 of Start With A Slap

“It’s not stupid, you can tell me anything...Anythingyou feel, it doesn’t matter how it comes across?—”

“STOP!” he shouted over her, clenching his fists. “Just fucking STOP!” It was disproportionately loud and... angry. Ather.

She stared at him, stunned. She’d never met this man before.

He winced. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He brought her close again. “I’m so sorry.”

It took her all day to forget the uneasy feeling that gave her.

Ivy assumed,as anyone would, that she was being driven to a dress boutique. Instead, when they got to Beverly Hills, her reticent driver let her out at a nameless unremarkablestorefront with frosted windows and a buzzer. Before she could press the button, the lock clicked.

His world was so weird. All this for a dress?

Upon walking in, she was struck by the fact that there were no dresses in sight. It was a luxe reception area that smelled like a spa.

She was met by a serene white woman in a LuLu Lemon-style version of a sari who said, “Om shanti.” Or maybe “I’m Shanti”?

Ivy said, “I think I’m in the wrong place. I’m supposed to be picking out a dress...”

“You are exactly where you should be, Ms. Tyler,” the woman said, closing her eyes and nodding at her own wisdom. “Your journey has just begun.”

If they knew her name, she had to be in the right place, but what in the actual fuck was going on? As she trailed the woman through a passage of sheer hanging curtains, she had a thought: Was this a cult? Was Sever Mark a cult leader? It made so much sense?—

But no, it was a spa. Of sorts. There seemed to be no other patrons, just her, and a handful of women waiting for her. Cultural Appropriation Lady bade her anamasteand the women descended, setting into motion a multitasking tornado much like the dress scene inCinderella, but set to new age music. Touched by no less than four hands at once, she was measured, manicured, highlighted, styled,stripped naked, and at the end of it all, she was sewn into a satiny, pale pink frock with an open back so low she wasthiscloseto indecent exposure. That was humiliating enough, but what really took the cake? They’d given her a barely-there wax despite her protests, then provided no underwear. Not even her own. When she demanded they find hers, they ignored her completely.

This was worse than a cult. It was a Mistress factory.

Ivy was livid. If Sever Mark wanted a fembot, he was in for a big surprise. Perhaps she couldn’t control the attraction she felt for him, but she would never allow herself tobe controlled. No man in the world was attractive enough to take her will.

Her ire with him and the entire male species only grew when her boutique shopping bag full of work clothes got caught in the door on her way out. As she yanked it free, one of her pumps tumbled out onto the sidewalk. The stripper shoes he’d dressed her in were testing her balance and her dress had delicate spaghetti straps that could pop with a swift tug, so she hoped no one was watching as she indecorously went after it.

“Well,well,” she heard, and there was only one voice like that in the world. She stood and smoothed her dress—not for him, but for her dignity.

Standing with one arm draped over the door of a classic Rolls Royce, Sever rubbed his chin and said, laughing a little, “Don’t you look made to order.”

She marched toward the car — as resolutely as she could in five-inch slingbacks and a newly-waxed vulva — and said, “Looks are deceiving, Mr. Mark.” She made sure to use the formal salutation so he’d understand that they weren’t close. And that he was her elder. And also her father-in-law. “This is ludicrous.”

As she struggled to enter the back seat without revealing any skin, she saw him smile to himself before following her in.

The doors locked, and she was suddenly alone with Sever Mark in the back seat of acar. For some reason, she hadn’t thought about how close they would be on this ride to the event—and this was Los Angeles, where a trip from Beverly Hills to Miracle Mile could take anywhere from 45 minutes to three days.

“I thought I was picking out an outfit. I didn’t agree to be your dress-up doll.” She adjusted her halter, slid across thebuttery red leather seat to the far window and crossed her arms and legs. But then her labia tingled thanks to the forcible hair removal and subsequent mint balm, so she had to uncross. “They took my underwear!”

“Did they,” he said without inflection as he lifted a champagne bottle out of a bucket of ice and considered the label.

No one had ever made her feel this irritated, and not just physically. “Don’t act like you didn’t orchestrate that. I highly doubt any of those women have a debilitating panty fetish. They were automatons doing your bidding, and maybe you think everyone is, but guess what, Mr. Mark? I’m not. One scrap of clothing won’t change the fact that I’mne-versleeping with you.”

“Now, now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, pet.” He poured a glass and offered it to her. “And please, call me Sever.”

“Please, call meIvy,” she said, recrossing, uncrossing. She hated the way he batted away her outrage as if it was of no consequence to him. “I’m not yourpet. And I’m not thirsty.”

He arched a brow and said suggestively, “Afraid you might lose your head?”

She scowled at him and took the champagne flute. Then she reconsidered and held it up to inspect it. How farwouldhe go to get what he wanted?

“Oh, come on,” he said. “What do you take me for?”

“Should I answer that alphabetically or chronologically?”

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