I really don't mind going out alone. Actually, I prefer to. It beats hanging around with a bunch of women who are just bitties trying to get the latest scoop so they can talk about you behind your back. The only thing they're good for is a good fucking every now and again. Otherwise, I can live without them.
So, I go out on this particular night, feeling good, and a little buzzed from the couple of Melonballs I had before I left the house. I am ready to party. I enter the bar through the side entrance and glance around for a place to sit. Finding none, I amble over to the bar to order a drink. Going out alone so often teaches one to be aware of their surroundings. As I scan the room, waiting for the barmaid, my eyes settle on you. I take in your physique and a surge of electricity rushes throughout me. Your tanned skin and your longish, blonde hair set you on a classic Harlequin cover. Your shirt has the sleeves cut out, and your muscles bulge as you stand with your arms crossed waiting for your shot at the pool table. I think that I will have a couple more and introduce myself.
My opportunity didn't come quickly enough. I am half-way through my first one when you saunter over to me. There's something about your eyes. Something mysterious. Something terrifying. They are a deep green. I see passion there. Yes, passion, but something else. I can't quite pin it down.
I say, "My name is Lori. What can I call you?"
"You can call me master," you say, only half jokingly.
We chat for a good half hour and decide to head to the café down the street so we can talk in a quiet atmosphere. I find you to be incredibly charming, and can't wait for some alone time. My black four inch heel is caught in a crack in the sidewalk and breaks off. I am too tipsy to care at this point, but it makes it rather difficult to walk. The roughness of the cement is ripping my thigh-high stockings to shreds. You offer to carry me, and I am only too happy to let you. We never make it to the café. Instead, you put me into a truck, saying you know of a better place where we can go.
I become a bit nervous at this point, and tell you that I'd rather just go back to the club. Fire blows across those green eyes and I realize that I am in trouble.
We end up at an apartment on the East side, near the river. You carry me up the stairs to the second floor. At this point I am repeatedly saying I need to get back. You seem not to hear me.
Once inside the apartment, you toss me onto the bed and command me to take off my leather mini skirt.
"No," I said. "I don't want to do this."
"You'll do it or else," you reply with a shadow crossing those green eyes again.
Reluctantly, I slide the skirt down my legs, only to be told I wasn't doing it quickly enough. I begin to cry.
