Arriving at the foot of those familiar wide stone steps you loiter out front for a moment, watching the doormen meet, greet and bid farewell to the many moneyed guests as they come and go.

Counting the minutes as they tick, tick, tick on by. You’ve been daydreaming about this moment, and the many moments yet to come. You’ve been living inside a glorious fantasy for almost every waking and sleeping second since the very moment you caved in to the seduction of my Spa invitation and said yes to these precious dates.

With a private smile, you reach back into your purse and mischievously pull out a bright cherry red lollipop. It’s oversized, with a glossy hard shell. You playfully unwrap the cellophane and pop it into your mouth, rolling it over your tongue and feeling it stretching the inside of your cheek.

The intense sweetness fills your mouth immediately and you suck on it as you watch my text messages begin to light up your phone.

At first my messages appear to be pleading:

“Where are you, fox?”

And then they seem a little more threatening:

“Fox, you’re gonna get such a spanking!”

Until finally they’re insistent and demanding:

“Suite 312. Get here. Now!”

You smile to yourself, wickedly imagining me standing behind the door to our suite, my swollen cock, growing so hard, aching with waiting and wanting to sink my hot loving into one of your gorgeously wet little holes.

Leaning back against the black wrought iron railing outside the building, you feel the electricity within you, tingling with the thought of my touch, and the heat of our making love in this humid air.

Absently you tilt your hips out, just slightly, feeling the breeze between your thighs as you enjoy the lollipop and savor the mischief of letting a few more minutes tick by.

Your tongue curls around the hard, cherry candy, and your lips turn a rouge of sugared red from your efforts. It makes a loud slurping ‘pop’ sound as you pull it out, twizzling the little white stick between your forefinger and thumb, seeing how its red lacquered luster shines, smothered with your syrupy saliva, glistening gloriously in the humid air.

Your tongue and lips begin to ache with their own addiction, wanting more of the sugar, the cherried flavor synonymous with our sex. You push it back in again.

You confess, you love driving me mad. You can’t help yourself. You love bearing the brunt of my frustrations when later, much later, I get a hold of you.

And you know it’s going to hurt, just the way you want it to. You can already feel the heat of me deep in your core. That unsatiated ache, the mark I’ve left inside you, a carving imprint that can never leave you, the echo of my rub steadily building and begging, an itch, aching to be scratched, with a simmering intensity, growing, since I first emailed with wanting you to lock in these dates.