All day long you look forward with a dreaded fascination to tonight. You have difficulty breathing … more so to get up from behind your desk and walk around in pain sight of your colleagues.
Your arousal is painfully visible through the much-too-flimsy fabric of you suit pants. You have been in this state since she had sent you that text soon after you had arrived at work.
I FOUND YOUR MAGAZINES. BE HOME AT 6. DON’T YOU DARE BE LATE. AND EXPECT IT TO BE SEVERE.
Typed in ALLCAPS and everything. She clearly meant business tonight. The last time she meant business you had trouble sitting down for two days afterwards. Not to mention that you got really funny looks from the neighbours the next morning.
You frantically drive home at the end of the day and almost lose grip of this mortal coil as you nearly collide with the rear bumper of a garbage-disposal truck at a red traffic light.
That was very close … way too close for comfort.
You cautiously enter your house and your heart skips a beat as you see her seated at the dining room table wearing nothing at all. In front of her on the table is a pile of magazines that you have carefully saved for nostalgic reasons from your teenage years.
Next to the magazines, neatly arranged, was a heavy leather strap and a long, thin rattan cane.
She was sipping on a glass of red wine while paging through one of the magazines.
You slowly walk into the room. She rises up from the chair and approach you with a funny little grin on her face. Right up to you and then she stops. Her hand starts to explore the contours of your body, very slowly her nail draws down an imaginary trail …
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