Quentin spent a while making the necessary arrangements. The kitchen had to be informed, and a message had to be sent via a scampering street orphan to the man himself. Quentin then made sure his dining room matched the one in his plan; cards on the side, a clear area for Zoey's mock punishment and space for just two seats, set adversariably opposite one another.<br/><br/>Then and only then did he return to the side of his slave, where he reached down to stroke the curve of her back. His hand stopped short of her sore ass each time, and instead followed her spine.<br/><br/><span style="color: darkred">"Come along Slave, you ought to be dressed for your father. I have a wardrobe prepared for you, all clothes in your size and suitable for my eyes."</span>A cheeky grin - almost boyish if it weren't backed by a real ability to turn his dreams to reality - spread.<br/><br/>He clicked his fingers to heel her as he wandered off, stalking through the large terrace house. The clockwork lift rumbled as they headed up to Quentins room.<br/><br/>There among the usual furniture she remembered was a new, large wardrobe. It hung open, displaying the wealth of outfits to both of them. From tight leather underwear to cute and frilly dresses, the thing was well stocked. The only constant was that they were all on the revealing side, and counted appearance far above comfort and practicality.<br/><br/><span style="color: darkred">"These are yours, for when you have earned a chance to wear clothes, or when I wish you into them. Tonight you are ruining your father, and for that I want you at least partially covered. You need to look exploited more than you need to look sexy; I doubt your father cares for your tits as much as he cares that I rape and beat you. We won't let him know that his perverted daughter loves it. Pick something suitable, and try it on."</span><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>