You imagine me, waiting in the lobby, sitting beneath that huge chandelier.
Imagine me reaching for my phone, seeing your text arrive, glancing at the time, wondering why you’re so late, eager to see what the message says.
You know my Scorpion cock will stir, reacting to the X-rated image of your Piscean pussy, my realizing you’re alone and vulnerable on these dirty city side streets.
And my unrivaled Scorpion jealousy will burn, bringing my cheeks to a blush, as I bear witness to the brazen way you’re shamelessly spreading your thighs for me in the shadows of some nearby alleyway.
Fuck, you feel so good and naughty, confident and assured. Just the thought of showing me your juicy little cunt, knowing full well your daring whets my appetite.
And besides, you’ve been playing my games, by my rules, for weeks running up to this. Me emailing you pictures of my big hard cock, all slick and wet with cherry lube.
Sometimes I’ll share intimate candlelit scenes of spirit stones, entwined energies and mirrored light, set within a circle of Tarot cards. Teasing you with the Ace of Wands, the Priest and Priestess of our Higher Arcana, spread and turned over in a dark and delicious tantric ritual.
In private I’ll confess to harboring a hunger for your utter pedication, sodomy and sacrifice. Placing your image at the centre of my séance, summoning a moaning mantra of your name, until the hot spunk of my fantasy spatters rich and thick over the savored image of my chosen Goddess.
Your pulse quickens as your phone beeps. You’ve pushed down your skirt and returned to the haze and heat of the open street, and now you’re anxious to stop again and check my reply.
“I think you meant to say: your Mistress is so sorry she’s late and she’ll do anything I tell her to, to make up for it x”
You try to suppress a mischievous grin while a teenage boy, deliberately crosses the road in order to pass by you. He takes an extra-long glance at you, surely knowing you’re up to no good. Like spilt blood to a hunter, his hormones no doubt on high alert, and he can doubtless smell the pheromones pouring off your skin.
You deftly type back:
“Go to your room, naughty boy!”
Slipping your phone back into your purse. Shrugging innocently as you meet the teenager’s smiling eyes, giving him a quick wink before utterly ignoring him, just as he’s about to take an opportunity for an ‘in’ to talk to you.
And you’re certain he’s watching you, with his mouth hanging open as you walk away, then hearing his low-wolf whistle, approval for the long, smooth, deep tan, of your toned, bare legs.
And damn, they do make for a compelling visual distraction, tapering down from the tug and stretch of your tight A-line skirt, the very sight of your stride in those sexy red shoes.
Well, let’s just say they’re more than enough to make you look like every teenage boy’s wet dream. And just the way I like it!
And honestly, you can’t help yourself, for truth be told, there’s something about this particular pair of heels, a power that can reconstruct your stride into a look-but-don’t-touch strut, along with matching attitude, and with an extra sway and swagger, now locked and loaded within your slender hips, you amble across the street and make the final approach to our secret rendezvous, Corinthia.