Candles lit, champagne poured, and with the naked beauty and grace of a butterfly, you slip from your snug chrysalis, cocoon, abandoning the sumptuous comfort of your Ralph Lauren spa robe, to step into the steaming, decadent, luxury, of a candle-lit bath, filled and foaming with Channel scented bubbles.

Relaxed, your body submerged, you carefully begin to peel open the handwritten letter that arrived for you this morning, and as you tease out the thick manila cotton paper, you pause before unfolding further, to sip some champagne, and savor the words written within:

“My fox, my craving doesn’t end, I need you here, with me, bound and obedient. You have to come. You have to be here. Now.”

You savor the words, hearing my voice speaking inside you as your eyes scroll over my handwriting, following the flowing motion of my pen. These words, they feel so good and welcome, just like the silky, rich, warm water that’s lapping at your skin.

Resting back against the deep bath, sinking further down into the soothing warmth, you reach to finish the wine that’s waiting patiently in your glass, then refill, closing your eyes and letting go of your day, ready to dream of my hot pursuit…

…Your bare knees touch together where you sit, nestled into an over-stuffed button-backed leather couch. Your tiny bodycon cocktail dress sits impossibly short, high above the slender length of your toned thighs.

Your long legs tapering away, appealing to your eyes to follow, the soft light dipping down over the perfect curve of your knees, shimmering down the waxy silk-smooth of your calves, reaching all the way to the exquisite high-heeled leather of your sexy chic sandals.

In your hand a fine cocktail of champagne and fresh mint; and taking a long, cool sip you adjust the masquerade mask that sits saucily on your cheek bones, resting over the bridge of your nose, and provocatively concealing your identity.

Casually you look around the opulent room, where long, dark, Gothic velvet drapes hang vampire like from every window, and gilded mirrors refract a copper-bronze of soft burnished gold light. The low lit luminescence of this Bo-Ho-boudoir-crypt, so warm and inviting.

You catch a glimpse of a stunning woman reflected in a distant mirror. Her thick dark brunette hair, slender body, and fabulous form, fill you more with appreciation than envy. Her true identity, partially obscured, hidden behind an ornate filigree, the delicate work of a lux-masquerade mask.

And you startle with a double-take as her arm moves in unison with yours, and with a whisper of oh-my-god, you realize, she is you. You’re the one reflected, You’re the one who looks so stunning. You’re the one dressed for the night, dressed to kill.

Sipping delicately at your champagne, a sudden pulsing urge warms you from within as two incredibly hot looking men approach. One, who privately you’ll name Aragorn, for he is the spitting image of one of your favored fantasies, Strider, from Tolkein’s the Lord of the Rings.

Aragorn, the Ranger of the North, all dark hair, rugged features, with a blazing dusk burning behind his eyes. His fitted, untucked cotton shirt, ink-black-noir, tailored to fit his firm physique, tight to his slender waist, and where, low on his slim hips, his fitted jeans rest easy, cut in the Italian style, perfectly outlining his tall, taut, lean and capable frame.

And the man with him is equally hot, with a metro-sexual magnificence to rival, if not steal the light from, a young rock god of the 70’s LA scene, a Jim Morrison or Robert Plant, perhaps, his head of hair, a thick mess of golden locks that hang loose over his shoulders, falling in relaxed ringlets and curls, his every movement virile and free.

Below the heavy buckled-belt that frames his tight waistline, boot-cut jeans grip his firm thighs, then revealing, flaring over the age-worn and deep-cracked leather of square toed, handmade, Spanish boots. While up above, the meridian of his tight waist, his broad masculine shoulders contradict the tapering cut of his fitted, floral shirt.