My name rolls on your tongue as you walk along a strip of black asphalt that’s still steaming from the warm August rain. You can feel it wet along the edges of your freshly painted toes as they push forward into the straps of your red Ralph Lauren heels, the leather damp and just beginning to stretch.

Today London feels tropical, the moisture is everywhere, and the humidity is high. It’s climbing under your skin. The back of your neck is hot under the weight of your long dark freshly cut and layered brunette hair that’s quickly losing its glossy perfection and becoming tousled and wavy.

In the curve of an Arcade window, off a Whitehall side street, you catch a glimpse of your reflection. You’re Corinthia bound, cutting down Craven Street, heading south away from the Strand, and back toward the river.

You can see the harsh humidity has already plundered your hair such that you have a just-fucked calling card look about you, one that causes passersby to snatch at a second glance, their eyes revealing their inner thoughts, be they judgmental or jealous, but the truth is you haven’t been fucked. Not just yet anyways.

Still, as you draw closer to our Corinthian retreat, maybe they’re noticing the flush in your cheeks, the vague smear of anticipation and the lusty rush of arousal brightening your eyes. Maybe it’s the way you’re walking, taking the opportunity to press your thighs together as you slow your pace so that you can feel the deep throb right down in your core.

You confess you’re guilty, enjoying the way the thin lace string of your sexy Stella kickers rides tightly against the curve of your slit. Their featherweight cut, sitting so high, cresting over the curve and swell of your slim hips and the tiny tightness of your ass.

You feel the warm sultry breeze slipping under the short hem of your tight fitting A-line skirt, the outer peachy-keen flesh of your freshly waxed labia feels so smooth and light, caressing delicately against the snug silk crotch of these intimate panties, their lacy elasticity nestling and tugging firmly in between your swollen pussy lips, rubbing back and forth against your clit as you walk, teasing you and keeping you constantly aware of your own sexuality.

Inspired, you reach into your tiny purse, finding your Samsung smartphone, before ducking in between two buildings. The tight, narrow alleyway is all shadow and vice, a dark Victorian vestige, edgy and rough, a remnant of a noir Dickensian saga, dank, and altogether unsavory, but you don’t care. You squat down low, leaning back against the dirty wall and pushing your phone up under your skirt.

Your freshly manicured fingers pull at the soaked fabric of your panties, exposing your sticky wet sex for the lens. you hear the quick click, click, click of the camera app, your grip pressed to the phone’s shutter button.

With a quick burst of sexting shots, you slide your fingers along the silky smooth of your wet lips and feel them purr with hunger. You push the smooth pad of your finger and then another, just dipping them inside, feeling the familiar hot warm gush of anticipation and loving the way your pussy pulses, tight and eager, mouthing against your intrusion like a carnivorous little flower, greedily sucking on your fingertips.

Your heart pounds as you climb to your feet, there’s a light dizziness, a rush and a flush as you decide on the best picture to send me. And when You’re satisfied, you attach it to a quick text that gets right to the point:

“Your fox needs some good fucking x”