You get up, feeling like a million dollars. Stretching and yawning, you feel a grin spread across your face. No wonder I feel like a million dollars. You reach down to the floor scooping up an armful of cash. We slept atop a whole pile of the green stuff!
Throwing it into the air, watching it flutter down across the prone body of your beloved, your grin softens into a wistful smile as you take in the beauty of the man sprawled on the money. We did it, Puddin. We beat the House. Literally; there was an awful lot of blood in Thorne.
Your boyfriend turns over restlessly, throwing money out from under him like its so much paper, dragging the fur coat that you wore for him the night before over himself and mumbling. “Goddamn flying rodent.”
Oh dear, he’s dreaming about that idiot again. You rub your hands over your face and glance at the smears of makeup on them. He’ll be waking up soon. I’d better make myself presentable.
You head into the ensuite. First a quick shower. You lather up your hair with that strawberry shampoo your boyfriend gave you and use the matching shower gel, watching the remnants of your body paint and makeup drain away with the bubbles as you rinse off. A quick towel down later and you’re ready to get dressed, your long blonde hair wrapped up so it doesn’t get into your face.
The steam on the mirror fogs your face’s reflection, giving it a healthy glow once more. I should have known that any makeup that He made would be dangerous… but then he really was trying to make me more beautiful and he seems to like me like this. You wipe the mist away, smiling into your reflection’s blue eyes as the bleached parts of your skin appear. And it makes my routine a lot easier now. I only have to steal black paint now. And my lipstick. After a quick exfoliate and moisturise, you’re ready to start getting dressed.
You fix your hair into two ponytails, high on the sides of your head, the hair bouncing and fluffy. I wonder why he likes my hair like this? You remember how you used to put your hair up; a smooth, tight bun so that patients couldn’t grab at it while you were treating them. Of course! He loves to grab them now, calls them his handlebars. A tiny giggle escapes your lips at the memory of last night’s celebrations. His face might have been scarred and twisted, but there’s certainly nothing wrong with the rest of his body.
A grunt and a scream from the bedroom stop you in your tracks for a moment. “You all right, Puddin?” you call out softly, just in case he’s still asleep.
A snore answers you and you breathe a sigh of relief. As much as I love him, he’s a real handful to have around. Another giggle works its way up out of your mouth as you remember the last time you had him in your hands. Focus, Harleen girl, focus. You have to have your mask in place before He wakes up, remember? He doesn’t like it when you look normal.
Smearing the lightest layer of white over the bleached parts of your face, just enough to hide the bruises, He’d given you yesterday, you use a brush to paint on the black, adding a playful swirl into the white on one cheek as an experiment.
I have to admit, this face paint really makes my eye colour pop. You finish with a thick slick of dark red over your pale lips. I wish I could wear normal makeup around Him; there was the most gorgeous eye colour compact in the Jezebel Centre, yesterday and I just love that bright red lippy I saw Selina wearing. Satan’s Kiss, I think it was called. She’s so lucky… you bury the thought’s ultimate conclusion as another grunt and growl from the bedroom tells you that your time is limited.
Wrapping a towel around you, you tip toe past your boyfriend’s prone form, skirting around the pile of cash and into the walk in wardrobe on the other side.
Looking through your outfits you pause briefly on the skin-tight PVC jumpsuit you used to wear. I’ll never be able to wear that again. I’ve had one too many cakes recently. You glance down at your belly and spread the towel out so that you can see yourself in the mirror.
Hmm. I really ought to do some training and whack a few of His goons around; I don’t want him getting tired of me. He might kill me. Dropping the towel completely, you rifle through the clothes hangers. Not that, I’ve worn that way too often. What about this skirt… and this corset… and these boots… and that shirt.
Scrambling, you find a red and black lace bra and panties, throw them on and then assemble your outfit. Hmm. What about jewellery? Oh, yes, the diamond studded leather choker and matching cuffs. Maybe with those long fingerless lace gloves.
Doing up the buckles on the boots takes a while, but the final picture when you look into the mirror is breathtaking. He’ll like this.
Strutting out into the bedroom, you pick up your baseball bat and stand over the money covered bed. “Oh Mr J!”
He rolls over and opens his eyes. “Harley what have I told you about… Oh my.” His grumpiness disappears fast as his trademark grin appears. “Why Harley, did you really dress up for me?”
“Puddin, didja really think I’d do this for anyone else?” you smile. “How about we go find us some fun?”