How to Punish Your Playboy (DommeNation #3) (21 page)

The bright lights assaulted me as the cheers rose from the audience. I held my hand over my eyes as if in a military salute, and the girls fell into line. The band played, and we all sort of just bounced our hips in time. The crowd was diverse, much like the car show audiences—families, old dudes looking for some cheesecake, and I could even see other pinups as spectators. The judges’ table was up front, and comprised two of the pinups I’d met the other night, along with the Wayne Newton dude and another older man. I swallowed and gave them my best winning smile.

Then, Nelson ascended the stage and introduced the show. “Welcome to the twentieth annual Miss Pinup Las Vegas contest!”

The audience went wild, cheering, clapping, wolf-whistling.

“This afternoon we have a number of lovely ladies to introduce. First up, Debra!”

I was blinded by the lights, but as he began to read off the names, I searched the audience for Aston. It was hard, since there were so many people, but toward the back I could see a figure that sent a jolt of excitement through my bones. It was Aston; he was here.

“Finally, we have Miss Veronika Kane all the way from Rhode Island!” he said, and I took a step forward to my mark. The crowd roared, and I gave a little dip and curtsey as he continued to read. “Miss Kane isn’t just a pretty face, friends. She owns and operates her own garage, where she restores antique and vintage cars!” There was uproarious applause at this comment. “She can change my oil any time.”

I blinked at the comment and, without missing a beat, I crossed my arms and did the “no-no” gesture at him. The audience burst out laughing and so did the announcer, but I worried that my dominant nature had just shot down one of the judges. But I didn’t want him to get away with the sexist comment!

And as soon as it had begun, the revue was over and we walked in line back to the dressing room.

I didn’t know if I just made thousands of friends and one important enemy, but I didn’t care.

Like Frankie said, I did it my way.

In a frantic rush to get my hair done for the next round, I pulled out all the pins and shook it out wildly. I checked the mirror and saw how the teased waves had fallen. Bouffant, errant, untamed. Perfection.

I watched a giant volcano prop and tiki god get wheeled out onto the stage in preparation for the bathing suit segment and I knew I’d made the right decision. I patted my wanton hair in appreciation.

Then I found my suit and began to put it on. It had a fair amount of straps and it had to be twisted and placed just right. In fact, I repurposed some of Leisa’s tape so that it all stuck to my skin in the right places. While other contestants fidgeted with their bikinis and put on towering espadrilles or platforms, I decided to go barefoot.

Because I wasn’t going to be sacrificed. I was dressed in a leopard bikini that was a mix between Bettie Page and Raquel Welch in
One Million Years B.C.
I was going onstage as an Amazon, not a virgin. A tiki god would never eat a Domme. We lined up again, and I got some interesting looks from the girls. Some were stunned, others looked smug. Good. Question my decision, that’s fine with me. I’m the one with the balls, so just watch.

Each one slowly paraded out, took some pictures for the crowd, posed at the altar in either a cheesecake pose or some sort of body draping. They all did the shocked, scared face made famous in the old
King Kong
movie or pulp comics. This did nothing but embolden me.

When it was my turn, I walked out onto the stage slowly, stalking like a cat. There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

“Well, hello Veronika, or should I say Raquel?” Nelson said.

I didn’t smile, I just continued my Amazon stride across the stage, owning the place. I kept a stoic face and a proud pose, surveying the crowd as if it were my territory. The crowd went absolutely bonkers. When I was escorted up to the tiki altar, I don’t know what came over me, but I knocked it over and hefted my foot up on it, claiming it as my own. Nobody else was after me, so it wasn’t like I was ruining anyone’s chances by taking it down.

The crowd’s whoops and whistles hit a fever pitch, and the judges scribbled furiously on their pads. I had no idea if this was a good thing or a bad thing, but I knew that I enjoyed it and I was making the impression I wanted to, and for now, that was all that counted.

The girls all scrambled to get dressed in the casual wear or costumes we had for the talent portion. Since I had no idea what it was I was doing, I just picked something cute that I always loved to wear. It was a sundress with a pattern of various tropical fruits. Now that I knew it was a luau-themed pageant, I figured nothing could be better. The dress itself was white and Marilyn-style with a halter neck and flowing skirt. I paired the dress with simple white patent leather Mary Jane pumps.

As for my hair, well, it needed some work after being teased and taunted, but luckily I was going on last. I had all the time in the world.

So, I took some time to brush out the snarls while still maintaining the backcombed poof I had worked so long on this morning. Then, I parted it deeply to one side and made a swooping wave that almost doubled as bangs. At the end, I turned it into a perfect curl, where you could see the inside of the barrel I’d just made. Technical perfection, if that was something the judges voted on. I took my curling iron and made huge banana curls with the rest of my hair and pinned a large white flower over my ear.

No matter what Aston had come up with for my talent, I’d be able to handle it in this.

Before long, the fifty minutes of other girls had passed and it was my turn. When Paola brought me to the wing of the stage, however, she held up a small scrap of black.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Your blindfold,” she said sweetly.

Alarms rang in my mind. “Blindfold?!”

The petite girl nodded. “Bend down, please,” she said, and I gave in. I had to trust Aston, and if that meant I’d get blindfolded by a tween, then so be it.

If not, he was going to get the beating of his life.

A hand took mine, a male hand, and I was escorted onto the stage on shaky heels. The crowd gasped, and the announcer began to speak. “Miss Kane here is a car expert,” he said, leading me to a chair. “Please sit,” he said, not in the microphone, but in my ear. I sat, stunned and still reeling. “In fact, Miss Kane is so good at tuning up cars, she can tell the make and model of them just by the sound.”

The audience cheered and my heart seized. I swallowed and continued listening, happily stunned.

“Veronika, we have three cars onstage with you. We will turn each one on and you’ll tell us what it is!” he said. There were more shocked sounds from the audience.

I nodded, confident. Aston was right—I could do this. “Bring it on.”

Shouts, whistles, cheers. I had this.

The announcer turned on the first engine and I heard a gritty purr like an exotic cat. “Is this a joke?” I asked.

“I’m afraid this was the talent you specified—we just provided the cars.”

“I meant are you going easy on me? That’s a fifty-seven Ford Fairlane 500 Skyliner! I thought everyone had seen
Die Another Day
—too mainstream! Hope your next one is more difficult.”

The crowd cheered as the announcer turned off the car and approached the second one, turning the ignition. I listened to it for a minute—it was more rattle than purr. “That’s the car from
Rebel Without a Cause
right there. Forty-nine Mercury Eight Coupe. And it’s in dire need of an oil change.”

Again, wild applause. I wished I could see the judges’ reactions.

“Correct!” he said, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Last one,” I muttered to myself as the Mercury engine ceased and I heard the announcer walk to the third car.

The second it started, I bolted out of my chair. “That’s my car!” I shouted.

“Come again?” the announcer asked.

I crossed my arms. “That is a nineteen sixty-four Shelby Cobra, show quality, and his name is Johnny. He’s all mine,” I said, crossing and uncrossing my legs as the sound in the amphitheater deafened my ears.

“A standing ovation!” Wayne Newton’s mini-me said. “Now, about that oil change,” he said, removing my blindfold. My eyes widened as the middle car—the Mercury Eight—was raised high, revealing a set of tools underneath.

“You were right about it needing an oil change. Will you do the honors?” he asked.

I looked down at my white dress and white heels and patted my perfect hair. “Nothing I’d like more,” I said, and took my spot beneath the car.

I shut out the crowd, the shouting, and did the job I’d done a million times. I loved my job. I ignored the grease that spattered my fingers, that dribbled onto my dress. I forgot about it when I wiped the sweat that the lights were producing on my brow. All there was was me, the car, and some ultra-premium oil.

The band began to play—something to kill time while the crowd watched me change the oil—and out of the corner of my eye I saw the audience begin to sing, clap, and dance to the music. I didn’t feel so bad about hogging the stage since I was doing my job and they were definitely entertained.

Five minutes later, I stepped out from under the car and the audience showered wild applause at my filthy form. My dress was ruined, and I could tell from the sticky feeling on my forehead that there was a giant black smudge on it, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care what the judges were writing, how many calories were in an In-N-Out Burger, or what the hell that asshole Derek was doing right now. None of it mattered, because I was myself and I was happy.

From where I was standing, I already won.

IT WAS THE
waiting onstage that was the hardest. After we had displayed our evening gowns, we simply stood fanned out on stage and awaited our fate. It wasn’t the anticipation of hearing another girl’s name instead of mine and maintaining a smile, it was the fact that the audience was watching us wordlessly as we stood there while the votes were tabulated. It was a sick kind of torture, one this Domme didn’t like at all. Not to mention the fact that I couldn’t completely get the motor oil off my skin. Why couldn’t we just stay backstage?

The band played while we waited. The announcer chatted with the other judges and soon they were all nodding. A moment later, he ascended the stairs and addressed the crowd.

“What a bunch of dolls we have here today!” he cried, and the audience clapped. “But only one can be Miss Pinup Las Vegas. The runners-up will receive a ten-thousand-dollar modeling contract with our print magazine,
Pinup City
, and these prize baskets donated from The Doll Mall.”

More claps.

“And without further ado, the second runner-up is . . . Miss Debra Stacie!”

I clapped enthusiastically. She seemed really sweet to all the girls in the dressing room. No dirty looks from that one, just happy smiles.

“And the first runner-up is . . . Leisa Crow!” he cried. I clapped like crazy. It was so kind of her to have helped me with that tape—she had a chance to take down the competition, but she didn’t. A class act, that one.

A hushed silence fell over the crowd. I blinked in the lights. The smudge didn’t come off my forehead and the grease was still on my hands, so I knew I hadn’t won. Who would pick a dirty pinup queen? But I was up there as myself, proud, and nobody could take that from me.

“This year’s winner has real heart, folks. She impressed us with her bold personality and fearless talent. The winner of this year’s Miss Pinup Las Vegas is . . . Veronika Kane!”

I didn’t want to do the shocked pageant winner face, I swear. But when he said my name, my grubby, greasy hands flew to my mouth to stifle the scream. I saw Aston at the back shoot up from his seat and jump in the air as the rest of the crowd went wild. Tears formed in my eyes, but I kept them in like a champ.

The announcer walked up to me. “We had to find a napkin for the bouquet so you don’t get motor oil on the flowers,” he said, and laughter erupted in the audience. I took the carefully protected bouquet in my hands as they placed the tiny jeweled crown on my head, right behind my curl.

I waved to Aston, to the audience, and the other girls swarmed me. They didn’t shy away from my hugs or my greasy hands; we just all embraced in a happy pile of giggles and lots of hairspray.

The band played, the announcer said his goodnights, and the girls and I shuffled off to the dressing room to get comfortable and celebrate. The Bellagio was throwing a private party for the contestants, former contestants, and the staff of the show. I changed into a spare outfit from Erika—we were the same size and she was just as sweet as the other contestants I’d met—and I walked out of the room and directly into Aston’s arms.

“Hey Mistress,” he said, swooping me up into his arms for a passionate kiss that may have lasted longer than public decency allowed.

“Hey yourself,” I said, squeezing him. “Thanks for that talent surprise,” I said.

He shrugged. “Thanks for being just as awesome at it as I knew you’d be. I mean, I knew you were good, but wow, you really nailed it.”

I pointed to my forehead. “I could have done without this,” I said, and he tried to scrub the grease off, to no avail.

“Just do some bumper bangs,” he said.

I clapped. “You’re learning the lingo!” We walked over to the party room together, arm in arm, floating on cloud nine. Inside I could see a swanky bar, fancy little canapés, and a giant cheese-and-cracker display.

The food reminded me of one thing. “Aston, you didn’t tell me how the interview went!” I said, shaking him. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“You had the pageant; it’s okay,” he said, smile faltering. “I didn’t want to say anything that would bring you down before the show.”

“Oh no, Aston. I’m so sorry. What happened?”

He shrugged. “He said I wasn’t experienced enough, and you know what? He’s right.”

I squeezed his arm tightly. He waved his hand. “Seriously, it’s okay. He offered me a position as a sous-chef since he liked my ideas, and I prepared a few things for him that he enjoyed.”

“Are you going to take it?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine Aston working for anyone, no matter how far he’d come.