You look at the card with some degree of curiosity and a quiver in your belly, just north of your lonely clit. It is a brilliant white business card, with gold lettering and a professional, elegant border in the same color. It's perfectly centered on your desk, mutely beckoning you, and you lift it from the desk, almost sorry to move it, so perfectly it was placed. Peering furtively inside three or four adjacent cubicles, you see nothing similar there, then look more closely at the tiny message.
The letters are a fancy, bold serif font, massive and...masculine, you realize. The message is tantalizing in its brevity, and what it hints at.
"It's All About You. No Names, No Commitments."
The number warns it's for texting only, and you think about what the card's message means, certain that you already know what its intent is.
Who left it? Likely a friend in the office, or someone setting you up for a cruel prank. No-one would ever have a card like this, dare to creep in and put it on your desk, carry through with the unspoken promise. It must be a joke, you decide, and put the card in your desk hurriedly as your co-workers file into the office.
Throughout the morning, you work at your reports and e-mails, pushing the mysterious note almost but not entirely out of your mind. No-one seems to be watching you, no-one is waiting for you to peer inside your desk for the card, no-one seems to be snickering to themselves at their cleverness, or contemplation of your deep embarrassment when you discover it was really all a trick.
At lunch, you barely taste your salad, savoring the thought of what you think that card might lead to. The rest of the day goes more slowly, but you doggedly press on, forcing your thoughts away from your wants. At the end of the day, you pull the card from your desk, and conceal it in your black leather wallet, a gift from the last man you slept with, nearly two years ago.
********
In your room that night, you hike your oversized shirt over your breasts, and touch yourself, massaging your tits the way he used to, feeling the nipples harden and curdle beneath your palms. Now you rub your clit, and pop your dildo inside the waiting warmth, but you feel as empty as always. Your orgasm is almost a reflex, but you have no-one else yet to bring that out of you. To tell the truth, you haven't really been looking.
So, why the card? You drift off to sleep thinking about its origin, whatever that might be, and who it was that placed this temptation for you. The more your drowsy thoughts turn to the mystery of it, the more you convince yourself that it is only a joke. You pull down your nightshirt, pull up the covers, and sleep.
********
The next days are crisp and cool, and you feel the air whip past you, your nipples stiffening with each fresh Northern gust. You've gotten yourself off every night since you discovered the card on your desk, and still feel unfulfilled. Determined not to be the butt of what you know now must be some elaborate practical joke, you have whispered nothing about the business card to anyone, and kept it tucked away, sleeping like a predator in the daylight, pretending nothing has changed.
Twice you've pulled the card out of its lair, turned it with your fingertips, felt the precisely hewn corners and edges. You even scraped the long edge across your lips, telling yourself you're only looking for a hint of some perfume or cologne, to help you catch your prey.
The day drags on, and you ignore the now-commanding siren of the card. No reason to think about it, you tell yourself, even as you know you want to be plunging your dildo deep inside you tonight, rubbing your clit and trying to surprise yourself with the inevitable orgasm.
It's nearly five o'clock, and the card is insistent, crouching, waiting in your wallet for the past three days. Sliding it out of its pocket with almost sexual slowness, you weigh its almost sinful weightlessness in your hand, run your thumb over the sharp corner, almost a tiny erection ready to gouge your flesh. Should you call? But you've already decided you will.
Lingering behind the others, you head back to your desk with a feigned look, insinuating that you've left something behind. It takes fifteen minutes for the last of your colleagues to set out for their Friday night revelry, leaving you alone. A thrill of sensation runs from your throat to your clit, and your heart pounds while you contemplate the card. You start to put it away, and then snatch your phone from your purse, starting to text a message to my number.
Unsure what to send, you fumble through questions and greetings for several minutes, erasing each one as more amateurish and lame than the last. Finally, you go with the simple. "I want to meet." Nothing happens, and you feel idiotic, naïve, tricked.
The answering text arrives in a few minutes. "Date and Time?"
Not convinced this is really happening, you reply, "Tonight, at eight."
My reply is immediate. "Tonight at midnight. Details to follow."
You notice for the first time that you are panting, excited, and your pussy lips are warm and wet. Forcing yourself to tranquility, counting your breaths down to twelve a minute, you caution yourself that this is still an experiment. You've revealed nothing to me about yourself, no faintest hint of what you expect, how far you are willing to go to get it.
The danger of it thrills you, meeting someone new, mysterious, invisible. I'm no-one you've ever seen or met, and your heart quickens before skipping a beat. You want me, and we haven't even met.
