They had talked about it a week ago. Light conversation while sharing a bottle of wine, easy laughter in a cozy room. She had shared her fantasy of abduction and rape, a little embarrassed, but helped by the wine and his encouraging smiles.
He talked equally lightly when he told her what she would wear, where she would be. Somehow it was neither a suggestion nor an instruction, but merely a matter-of-fact description of how things would be. He had told her that a former partner described his play style as a steel fist in a velvet glove, and this was her first hint of the hidden steel: he simply took it for granted that what he had described would come to pass.
Yet the moment passed and his ready smile and twinkling eyes made it seem almost absurdly theoretical, as if they were idly discussing what some other couple in some other place might be planning.
The same feeling was with her now, as she checked her watch for the 15th time in as many minutes and decided that it was time to prepare herself. Even as she set out on her bed the uncharacteristically sleazy clothing she was to wear, there was the feeling that he was merely waiting in the other room and that they would laugh and joke about what fun it had been pretending that they were really going to act out the fantasy. They would tumble on the bed, he would tear at the cheap clothing bought for the purpose, and they would have some slightly rough sex. Perhaps pinning her wrists above her head, maybe a playful name or two. Then they would snuggle in bed together afterwards, and the fantasy would be forgotten.
Except he wasn't in the other room. He had left some time ago, talking of things he had to prepare. So now it was just her, the clothes and the note he had left.
She had bathed, and she smiled at the ridiculous thought that she had cleansed herself ready to be pushed down into the dirt in some woods! But that was only a concept, still not real.
She finished dressing, then began to apply the make-up. Not her usual subtle touches, enhancing her natural looks, nor her usual brands, but rather some decidedly unsubtle colours applied with a heavy hand. There was an almost childlike sense of dressing-up about it.
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, and hardly recognised herself. The sophisticated and successful businesswoman was missing, replaced by a cheap slut whose only asset was her body. She was at once fascinated and repelled by what she saw. It was so completely at odds with who she was, and yet there was a sense of freedom in that. This cheap tart had none of her responsibilities, none of her cares, only a simple-minded seeking of ... She realised that she didn't really know what such women sought. Simple-minded was understanding enough.
She was glad about the coat. A long coat, he had said, to give no clue as to the clothing beneath. He seemed to have forgotten about the make-up: there was no disguising that! Or perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps he was enjoying the thought of the embarrassment that would cause her. She prayed she didn't bump into anyone she knew on the way to the car.
He also hadn't considered the shoes. There was no confusing their cheap nature, nor the 3" heels. But perhaps he knew that too. Men don't usually consider such things, but she had a small suspicion that this one might.
It would take about half an hour to drive to the agreed place. Agreed. Hmmm. Well, she had agreed to it, of course, but the word made it sound like something they had worked out between them. Her part of the working out had ended with the conversation about fantasies.
It wasn't quite time yet, but dressed as she was, made up as she was, she felt out of place in her own home. Like she was an uninvited stranger. She looked at herself in the mirror again. The reflection seemed just slightly less alien; she wondered about that for a moment.
Finally it was time. Only car keys and her phone, he had said. Nothing else. He had her house keys, and her purse with all her cards was sitting on the table, to be left behind. There could be no retreat, no losing her nerve and scurrying back home.
She opened the front door and stood in the doorway for a moment. Then quickly, before she could change her mind, stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind her. So now it was real.
She made it to the car without encountering any of her neighbours, and she quickly pulled away. It was ironic, really: breaking down on a lonely road late at night was something most women feared, and here she was setting off to engineer precisely that experience.
When she got there, it was as he described. A small dirt layby on the edge of some woods, no street lighting. No sign of him. She switched off the ignition and killed the headlights.
