A little tense, I walk on my high heels into the spacious hall where the reception is taking place. I look around me, see chicly dressed men and women, glasses of champagne on high tables with spotless white tablecloths. A waitress hands me a glass; I carefully sip the fresh, sparkling wine while I scan the room. At the back I see a tall woman dressed in black with short snow-white hair, talking, gesticulating, in the center of attention. That must be the artist whose work will be on display here in the coming weeks. I don't see Dylan yet. Early this morning I received a message from him with the invitation to this vernissage. And as always, a message followed with detailed dress codes. Quite daring dress codes. When I read the message I already got butterflies in my stomach.

I am wearing a mid-length black trench coat, with only lingerie underneath. A push-up bra, thin, shiny stay-up stockings and a spicy pearl thong. A beautiful lace panty without a crotch, with only a string of pearls stretching from my lower abdomen through my crotch to my buttocks. The hard balls give a delicious, slightly tingling sensation with every step I take. The neckline of the trench coat shows a lot of my full cleavage: the extra padding in the cups of my push-up bra creates a breathtakingly deep gap between my natural curves. Through the slit in my coat I show my long legs with every step I take and sometimes a glimpse of the lace band of my skin-coloured stockings can be seen.