You are out at lunch with some family members, rather large group that you hadn't seen in awhile...while you're laughing, joking, smiling, and reminiscing, you get a text from me.
Curious, you excuse yourself to the bathroom, open it, and it reads, "You wanna play?" Your thoughts rush back to the night before...where you laid me down, softly took control and rewarded my full submission.
You're confused...kind of scared, kind of excited, mostly intrigued. You're not used to surprises. They make you feel unprepared...naked and exposed. You told me that from the beginning. No surprises.
Despite the little wave of panic in your chest, your curiosity won out. You replied, "Play what?" Thinking more, "What are you up to?"
You wait, nervously looking at your phone every 5 minutes for a reply, just in case you'd missed something. You hadn't.
Reluctantly, you put your phone back to it's pocket, and try to rejoin conversation, however, you're only half engaged, as you can't seem to get my cryptic message out of your head.
"Wanna play?" What could that possibly mean? You rack your mind and come up with an infinite number of possibilities, your head wrung with ideas.
At last, lunch is over, and you must part ways. You wait in line to pay the tab, still conversing with a family member, and you receive another text from me.
It states: "My game." You're partially aroused, yet still nervous, as you fumble with some cash, dropping it on the floor.
Thoughts collide inside your head, you can't wait to get out of there to send me another text, searching for more information...something, anything that would clue you in on what I was talking about, planning, no idea what was to unfold.
You sit in your car, and catch a whiff of my perfume. You look around frantically, knowing that I'm there somewhere, half wishing that I'd cut it out and get it over with already, half wanting to continue this game of cat and mouse.
Your thoughts turn back to the phone and my message. You try to call me, and hear my message on the phone...personalized for you..."Not so fast, mister. You have to play by my rules, this time."
You type, "What game? What's this all about?" Again, no answer.
You drive in traffic home, unable to rid your mind of my scent or my game. You come inside, and get another text from me. This time it's a picture.
You greedily accept it, curse the phone company for being so fucking slow. Don't they know the urgency that sits in the pit of your stomach?
After what seems to be like an eternity, the message reaches you.
You open it up and see a picture of my hazel eyes with "I" typed underneath, followed by my soft, pink lips biting into a piece of green apple, a spot of juice by my freckle on my chin, with the word "want," typed underneath.
"God, do you know how much this is killing me?" you say, as if I were standing there in front of you. Your cock throbs as you yearn to lick the rogue juice from my mouth.
The third slide flashes a picture of you sleeping. It states "You." You search, trying to think of a time when you were asleep, when I was not, and it drives you crazy that you can't.
You try to call me again, and get a new voice message, "Nope, James, now I told you, this was my game...we can play yours later...but tonight, you belong to me." Despite your anxiety, this turns you on even more.
You start looking through the house, scouring every nook I could be hiding in, looking behind every door. Nothing. You decide to sit on the bed and wait, and plot the dirty, unforgivable things you want to do to me, you know how to make me beg...and you drift off to sleep.
You awake to the door closing, and your nose is sweet with Clinique: Happy, my signature fragrance. You sit up scanning, once again, but all you see is a note on the chair, written in my loopy penmanship.
It says, " Get dressed."
Your eyes distinctively look to the closet where you see I've laid out a pale green shirt, with a shiny off-white tie, your dark jeans, and my favorite black pinstriped suit jacket-decidedly dressed down.
You let out a belly laugh when you see a new pair of red Chuck Taylor's hanging from the handle of the closet.
"Go figure...she always has to toss something else in there just to make it her own." You go to put them on and find another note stuck in there.
It says, "Meet me at the studio."
A wave of relief passes over you, as you get to finally talk to me to see what this is all about...but then just that thought hits you, and your relief is replaced by intrigue, arousal, and there's always that small little panic, greedily gnawing away at the base of your skull.
You hop in your car, and are once again, greeted with the olfactory confirmation that I've been there. You shake your head, as this foreign hunger fills you. You're pissed that I'm playing with you like this...like you're my goddamn puppet, little children's plaything.
Yet, you also are strangely intrigued as to how long I'd been planning this, how I could have kept it from you, what game I'm talking about, what you might be walking into once you get to the studio.
My scent snaps you back to reality, and the fucking traffic that is keeping you from getting to the meaning of all of this.
You arrive at the studio, a charming 2 story Victorian with a Widow's peak and multicolored hydrangeas in the front, and pull to the back, park, and sit in your car for a few seconds, you see no one else's car, and the studio is dark. Naturally.
"How else would it be?" you think, as you pause to collect yourself, allowing the rage slip away, in your controlled, regimented way.
You decide that you will play along...to a point...you still don't like the idea of walking into something you don't know, and that strange, panicky, urgent arousal threatens to escape as you stop to pick me some roses, lilacs, and lavender with the gardening shears that just happen to be laying there...
You fumble for your keys, taking the shears with you, and find a simple, hourglass-shaped cobalt vase sitting near the sink. You now know that the shears were not there because I merely forgot them.
You realize at that moment that I'm into your head. I know you, almost more than you know yourself, which both scares the shit out of you, and gives you this odd, satisfying, sense of relief all at once.
You finish cutting the flowers and you're sick of all of this nonsense that keeps fucking with your head, and you're ready to see me...finally.
You wash your hands as you meticulously retrieve every piece of greenery out of the sink into the trashcan.
You carry the flowers and arrange them in the vase, leaving them on the table.
Fixing one stray, uncooperative lilac, your eyes focus on the vase, and you think back to the last time you ran your fingers down my fleshy, ample form, lingering in the curve of my waist, How your fingers traced the fullness of my hips, and you find yourself absentmindedly stroking the side of the vase, getting hard, once again.
You snap back and realize that as soon as you find me, your fantasy can become reality. The urgency returns, boiling low in your gut, increasing as you find a trail of the pinkest rose petals-the exact hue of my lips you long to kiss- as you descend the stairs, deciding to follow it.
It leads you to the great room, dark, and deserted, except for my large, white backdrop on its stand, and in front of it...your chair. A smile crosses your lips as you remember the acts performed on private display in that chair, how you bent me over and took control, once again, watching my face in the mirror, as you filled me, asking for my submission, which I freely gave on that night.
As you creep nearer, you see a 2 pairs of handcuffs, sitting there. Beneath them, you find a note.
It says, "I've submitted to you time and again, freely, willingly, greedily. You have opened my eyes to so many things. But tonight is your night to surrender yourself to me. You must do this first, willingly, in order for this night to progress. Do I have your submission? If so, I'll know when you fasten these handcuffs, first to the chair, then to your wrists."
You suck in a breath and freeze. Your eyes scan the room, looking for somebody watching, and find no one, but once again, the slight hint of my perfume ignites your senses. The internal struggle is enough to make you scream. You want to finish what I've started, this burning, aching in your groin, but it's murder for you to give up control...and I know it.
You sit in the chair, curiosity winning out, and no sooner than you'd sealed your fate with the last click of the cuffs, a blinding light pierces the darkness. You shut your eyes, reflectively and suck in a breath. You hold it for a second, and are suddenly aware of a flickering light. Startled, you realize it's reflecting off the sheet in front of you. You open your eyes and see that it's a silent, black and white 8mm home movie.
I'm blowing kisses at the camera give it a quick wink, and pull a man's hand from out behind the camera. You see me walking to the bedroom, playfully kicking off my patent stilettos, smiling and laughing, you know in an instant that the hand you saw was not familiar.
You are instantly hardened as I wiggle my hips, the way I always do, to get out of my black pencil skirt.
Bending over, I kick it off, following it to the floor, revealing my famous boy shorts, lace, lavender and sheer this time.
I pause and give the camera a wink behind me, allowing it to survey my perfect, round ass, before drawing myself back up to work on the buttons of my black silky, polka-dotted blouse, complete with bow at the neck, which allows the blouse to be held up, as it's sleeveless and bares my shoulders, revealing the indentations of my collarbone.
I slowly pull the tie loose, and the silk yields, falling open, exposing the top of my cleavage.
