"Dedicated to my girlfriend and her favorite fantasy."
The wind hurled itself after her graceful ankles, which escaped the rapidly narrowing opening of the front door. The toe tip of her other stiletto shoved the door close. The heavy door shushed the tantrum of the storm rampaging through the trees and bushes like a mad gorilla. In that silence, the skinny black leather vines of the stiletto exuded their power of wrapping around the slender bones, protrusions, and micro-joints of her foot like baby snakes or vines retaining her foot in bondage. Her toenails were painted in gentle baby blue. The head manicurist had painted a thick layer of gloss on top to elevate those marvelous toes to the level of a museum piece in a showcase.
All around her skin was youthful and moistened from the tender care of Korean slave labor inhaling toxic fumes for minimum wage. She was the boss. Daddy had paid for a top of the line art school. A gaggle of fear-paled minions followed her around. The gestures of coffee and gifts handed to her endeared her with herself. People loved her. She was loved. All those nights reading Brene Brown had finally paid off.
She did her evening walk-in dance. Her knee raised as high as the very tight, black pencil skirt allowed. Her hand struggled to reach the stiletto heel. Her torso fought against losing balance. She couldn't care to take the time. The stiletto resisted a bit, hugging onto her foot like a sleepy koala to its favorite eucalyptus tree. There, it went off! The bare foot slapped the cold smooth marble wetly. The tock of the other stiletto stopped as well as she went after it. The stilettos reeled on their sides like dying soldiers in a battle field reaching a hand out for help in vain. They were dropped right where they came off.
The black iPhone vibrated, "Sarah, where are the projections? You were supposed to know that we need those tomorrow morning!"
Her face darkened. Her throat tightened. Aghast, emotion of anger overcame her, a suffocating clasp tightened around her. Her mind blacked with rage. The iPhone shot into the big white sectional and slipped into the gap between the seat and back cushion. She released her long curly red hair to tumble down her shoulders like a waterfall. The red had a deepness. The shaded strands were pitch black. The lighted strands shone in different translucent red colors depending on the angle of the light. There was a rich, full, and solid red in the half shadow. The strands that got hit straight on by light burst into a translucent, glowing red. One could get lost into marveling at the color, a vanity project to determine her true color without all those plays and tricks of light.
She had stumbled into the kitchen without turning any light on. Deep familiarity had bred her sense of navigation in the half-light. She rested her arms on the granite kitchen counter with straight elbows. Most of her weight towered over the counter to ease the pressure on her feet and back. A bolt of lightning lit up the whole kitchen with bright white light. The kitchen was built into a giant alcove with big windows going all around it like a cockpit. The exposure to the outside created a sense of being right in the garden where the leaves of flowers and bushes were dearly tormented. The downpour of the summer storm had just started its deluge. The plants were still in shock by the heaviness of the water and hadn't turned desolate and bored from the constant downpour yet. Nature was filled with electricity and static that was eager to be relieved. The thunder rolled in thirty seconds later. The heart of the storm was still far away. The heavy windows and solid brick walls muffled nature's rage to the gentle snuffing of a baby in its sleep. The air inside was so stolid like the molecules had been parked in the exact same spot for hours.
She pored over the handwritten note on the counter: "Dear Madame Sarah, I am so sorry but the baker missed the delivery today. I could not make you dinner. However, I got one of my husband's Hungry Man microwave dinners. It's in the top shelf in the fridge. Set the timer to 30 seconds. Again, I am very, very sorry. - Maria"
The red crept outwards from her nose across her cheeks. At the outer edges of the cheeks, the solid red turned into blotchy islands. Fierce fingers grabbed the paper by the face and crushed it into a ball. A rough pitcher throw jettisoned the paper ball onto the perfectly cleaned, so clean to be ready to be licked, floor. "Just get it done, you cunt. There are a dozen bakers in the city," hissed her snake tongue with poison. Her green eyes glared.
Her butt spun around to feel the curved hardness of the granite counter. Then she let herself glide to the ground. Her back dragged along the doors of the counter. She could feel the nuances of the doorknobs and carvings. When her butt was touched by the ground, a heaviness came over her and she let it out. Dejected, sad, hopeless, beaten up, worn down, the tears started running down her face. The sobbing overcame her. Her chest was torn and jerked by uneven and uncontrollable gasps.
The house was empty. The beautiful mansion in the countryside right outside the city stood with a prowess. Like the Queen's Guard in London, the mansion always looms majestic, large, exquisitely provisioned and crafted, even in its darkest and saddest, it cannot let down the decorum. The strength of its stone knows that it will last for decades and centuries. Generations will come and go as it stands like a proud soldier. All that pride, all those cavernous rooms, all that unfilled emptiness stared right at Sarah, it stared with a silent accusation that drives the dagger deeper than any word could.
She was all but a small woman by herself. Her laughter could not fill the halls, not even if she'd scream at the top of her lungs. The spaciousness would suck the volume out of the sound like an astronaut suffocates silent like a lamb screaming at the top of her lungs in the vacuum of outer space.
Her tits hung free underneath the white office blouse, which showed her cleavage all the way down to the button at the underside of her boobs. They shivered with the sobs. Soft ripples went across the tissue. They had a titillating contrast of neither being soft but also revealing the pull of gravity on the skin above her boobs. Her sexy body was trim, slender, and tall, a complete contrast to her face. She had an "aw face": "Aw, that puppy is so cute!", "Aw, that is so sad!", and "Aw, you are the sweetest." The well trained facial expression was so heartfelt and endearing to people that strangers would melt at being understood, cared for, and loved. The expression had eaten itself into her resting face. Her sexy body and that aw face were a sweet, delicious, confusing, sex drive crushing, and rock hard cock titillating contradiction.
The tears dried up. She peeled herself out of the constricting office blouse and wiggled herself out of that tight office pencil dress with the deep cut on her way up the kitchen counter back to standing. Walking in her baby blue lace thong, she bent over to pick up the crumbled paper note. Her butt cheeks swelled up big and juicy while spreading away from the thong to show her barely covered freckle. She tossed the note out into the trash.
She walked back into the living room. She searched for her iPhone. She walked up the showcase stairs. The stairs were built to take up visible prominence and create an entrance for whomever graced down to enter a social party. She grabbed her laptop from the bedroom on the way to the workout room. She put her barely naked butt on the $10,000 spinning machine with the laptop on the handlebars. Red Beats headphones stuck in her ear canal. Rage Against The Machine beat with the intensity of steel pipes smacking down on steel at full volume. She powered her anger into the pedals. Her fingers ran over the keyboard like freak on speed. Numbers, tables, and charts popped up and got beaten into merciless submission. Her skin quickly glistened. A steady stream of sweat created a river running down her spine. The vertebras created little steps for the water to drip down. The strong back muscles created high river banks.
