Plan B

*This is a fictionalised account, with some basis in actual events.*

He’s not coming.

You check the time again on the clock over the bar. You’d been prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt for the first ten minutes, but then ten became twenty and still no message to say he was going to be late.

He’s not coming.

You flush with anger at the thought. You made a serious effort for this, followed your instructions to the letter: arrive at the hotel by eight, and wait in the bar; wear something pretty but not overly sexual. He likes the idea of you presenting as demure, while knowing that you’re anything but. You went with a light summer dress. Beneath it, a new bra, so flimsy it barely contains you, suspender belt and stockings. You’d tingled when he specified no other underwear, your imagination racing ahead to how he would put that detail to use.

And now he’s not coming.

There’s still an inch or two of wine in front of you, and you tip it down your throat in one gulp, eager to get the hell out of here. It’s only as you put the empty glass down on the table that you notice the man at the other end of the room. He’s holding a newspaper as if reading it, but there’s no mistaking the fact that he’s watching you.

Your eye catches his and holds.

Most men who are caught staring at a woman drop their gaze, pretend to be looking at something else; their line of sight has simply snagged yours as it passes on to the next thing, that’s all. But here, there is no such pretense. He maintains his steady examination of you, and you’re a little embarrassed to find that it’s you who turns away first.

No – why should it be you? If he wants to stare, you’re going to…

He gets to his feet, dropping the paper on the table then reaching down to pick up his drink. It’s almost an afterthought, as if he isn’t really bothered about it. You flash back to the way you guzzled the last of your wine, how that must have appeared to him.

He’s walking towards you now, the heavy, square-based tumbler held down at his side. He’s slim, his dark suit tailored – the closer he gets, the more expensive it looks, the shirt beneath it as crisp and white as if he’d put it on five minutes ago. His tie is knotted to the top, a far cry from the office refugees you passed on the way here, who had seized the first chance they could to loosen their collars before the commute home.

You can’t readily place his age. His salt-and-pepper hair suggests late forties or early fifties, but his features are smoother than that, unlined, as if the years had done their best to erode him but failed utterly.

He puts his glass down, and sits opposite you, without waiting to be invited. His fingers give the legs of his suit trousers a short tug to prevent the knees bagging, an action that’s so old-school it should be funny. Instead, it projects dignity and authority. You’ve known plenty of men who worked hard for the same effect.

For this guy, it’s effortless.

“I’d ask if this seat is taken,” he says, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you’re already way past that, “but from the way you’ve been looking at that clock, I’d guess any prior claims have lapsed.” He takes a sip of his drink, a dark amber liquid that leaves an oily residue on the side of the glass as he lowers it.

“You’d guess right.”

“And does your husband stand you up often?”

“It’s not – ” You catch yourself, but he’s already smiling. His attention drifts down to your left hand, the rings on the third finger.

“Relax,” he says. “You’ll get no judgment from me. I like a woman who transcends her limitations.”

The room seems to shrink around you, the lights dimming and the already soft music fading away. There’s something magnetic about this man, indefinable but almost literally bewitching, so completely does he command your attention. Your lips are moving before you’re aware of what you’re saying.

“And I like a man who pushes them.”

His eyes are steady on you – blue-grey, they contrive to be both hard and soft simultaneously – and a smile quirks the edges of his mouth. “That’s rather bold of you, …?”

“Kay.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, but doesn’t offer his own name in return. Deep inside you, annoyance uncurls, whispers that you should call him on his rudeness. Then another voice cuts in, reminds you of how he refused to look away when you caught him staring. It’s like the rules of polite society don’t apply to him. Like he sees himself as different.

As better?

Your heart beats a little faster at the idea.

“And was the man you were meeting tonight going to push your limitations?”

“I hoped so.”

“That must be frustrating for you.”

“Very.”

“However will you cope?” That ghost of a smile again.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Are you now?”

Without another word, he drains his glass, then stands. His eyes fix on yours for a moment…then he turns, walks out of the bar.

Before you know it, you’re following him.

It’s only as you cross the hotel lobby towards the bank of elevators that you begin to wonder what the hell you’re doing. Sure, you’ve met men in the past, given yourself to them, but you’ve never acted this precipitously before. Never thrown aside caution like this, never committed to a man without even knowing his name.

What is it about this one?

Perhaps it’s the wine, warming you, blunting the sharp edges of your reason. Perhaps you’re punishing your date for standing you up. Perhaps it’s simpler than that, the craving you’ve had all week, thinking of tonight.

You came here to be used.

The doors to the lift slide open and he walks into the car. Silently, you step in after him. He produces a slim plastic card from his pocket, holds it to a sensor on the control panel, and presses the button for the top floor.

Looks like you’re going all the way.

As the doors close, you look up at him. “You were very sure I’d come with you.”

He turns slowly, lifts his hand and rests it lightly around your throat. As his fingers stroke your jawline, it occurs to you that you ought to be afraid, scared of how he already has the drop on you. Perversely, you feel the opposite – your pulse may be quickening, but fear has nothing to do with it.

“Let us be clear about this,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Once we step out of this lift and go inside my room, you are mine to use however I wish. All this…” his free hand drifts down the length of your body, tracing the outline of your breast, flank, hip, the curve of your arse, before settling to hover between your legs, as if he can feel the heat radiating from you. “All this is mine.”

He leans his face in towards you, his mouth millimetres from your ear. He smells faintly of wood, vanilla, like old books. “Do you understand?” he breathes.

For a second his closeness paralyses you, your body refusing to obey…then you nod, once.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“Say it.”

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry as dust. “All this is yours.”

“Good girl.”

Instantly, he steps away from you, and just as immediately you ache for the loss of contact. All sense of reason has deserted you. You need his proximity, this man you barely know. Need him close to you. On you.

In you.

The lift chimes and opens on an empty hallway, doors to rooms evenly spaced down each side. Without waiting, he sets off, and again you follow him, mutely obedient. He leads you to the very end of the corridor, the last room on the floor. He produces the card he used in the lift and swipes it through a reader. A click, and the door opens.

He moves aside, no longer leading, waiting for you to go into the darkness.

These final steps, they are on you. It’s your decision to cross the threshold. Yours and yours alone.

You go inside.

The room is huge, not quite a suite but for all the difference it may as well be. The first thing you notice is the window, a single sheet of floor-to-ceiling glass through which penetrates the only source of light. The vista of the city is magnificent, the towers that stand around the hotel block beaming stark white fluorescence from their empty offices. You wander towards the glass, passing a large table, chairs evenly spaced around it, a briefcase on its dully glimmering surface. Beyond that, a bed that, in the twilight, looks large enough to sleep six.

You reach the window, and are seized by vertigo, the realisation hitting you that the thin transparent sheet is all that stands between you and the street so very far below. In spite of yourself, you look down, but your eyes don’t make it all the way to the ground. Instead they fix on the building across the way. One storey below, a cleaner is wandering an abandoned cube farm, a tank strapped to his back, vacuuming.

Then your focus changes, like a magic-eye picture, and you’re staring at your own reflection in the black surface. The man in the suit stands behind you, having crossed the floor so quietly, you sensed no motion.

“Take off your dress,” he says, his voice throaty, rasping.

You turn towards him, but he grabs your shoulder, spins you back around so you’re facing the window again.

Slowly, your hands move up behind you, fingers finding the zip. You fumble with it, snag it, and gradually draw it down. You shrug it from your shoulders, and it pools on the ground at your feet.

You see yourself in the glass again, in nothing but your generously filled bra, the thin suspender belt and stockings. His reflection examines yours, eyes hungry, and you glimpse something feral there. Something barely restrained. They travel down, noting your lack of underwear.

He makes a sound, low in his chest. Approval.

“Now the bra.”

You reach round again to find the clasps, undo them, and immediately your heavy breasts sag in the loosened cups. You slip your arms through the straps and the bra joins the dress on the floor.

You shiver, painfully aware of our exposure, of the glass just centimetres from your small pink nipples, of the man across the street and how all it will take is for him to look up, just for a second…

Hands brush your neck, one each side, tracing their path past the tattoo on your shoulder blade, upper arms, then circling round to take your breasts in their grasp. You moan as their weight transfers to his palms and he kneads them, gently at first, then harder, squeezing so tightly you might bruise.

He stops. You realise you’ve closed your eyes, open them and see his face in the glass, his expression somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

“A little unresponsive, I think.”

You wonder what the hell he’s talking about, your knees already so weak from desire that you’re ready to drop. Then, as his fingers find your nipples, pinching and twisting, and you gasp from the exquisite pain, you understand what he means…

“That’s better,” he murmurs as they crinkle and harden under his attention. He grips your breasts so hard you have to focus not to cry out. “But still lacking in sensitivity somewhat.”

The air behind you shifts, and he retreats into the dark of the room. You itch to turn around, see where he has gone, but know instinctively that would be a mistake.

Two soft clunks. It takes a second for you to place the noise.

The catches on the briefcase.

You hear him humming softly as he searches for something, then he’s walking over towards the bed.

“You know the secret to good sex?” he says. “A willingness to improvise.”

A gentle sucking noise and light floods into the room. In the reflection, you see he has opened the mini bar. He withdraws a small mixer bottle, the size you only find in hotel fridges. Tonic water perhaps. He unscrews the cap and takes a small sip before resealing it and putting it on the bedside table and crossing back to where you stand.

He holds something up in front of your face, too close for you to see. You refocus.

A bulldog clip, the kind used to hold together the pages of a document.

“Oh God,” you murmur, and then the pain comes, the exquisite throbbing as he attaches the clip to your nipple. You have just enough time for one soft wail before your other nipple receives the same attention, and you sag, your hands on the glass, tormented by what you feel in your breasts and what you feel between your legs.

“That’s better,” he says. “We’ll see how much more sensitive they are when we’re done.”

You try to straighten up, but a hand in the centre of your back stops you, pushes you down further. Hands still on the window pane, you bend at the waist, like a criminal being searched by a cop. Beyond the pulsing of your nipples, you’re aware that your arse is now presented to him, totally exposed without underwear to cover you.

Hands grip your cheeks, squeezing them like he squeezed your breasts, with no regard for how pained and degraded it might make you feel. He spreads you with one hand, and the other travels into the gap between your legs. Without preamble, fingers slide into you, one then two, thrusting into the slippery wetness, meeting no resistance. He fucks you with his digits for a moment, and your knees grow weaker still. God, you’re aching to be filled, a deep, debilitating need you’ve fought with for days. His fingers aren’t enough, can’t fill the hole in your body or your chest. You push back to meet the thrusts, moaning, “More.”

He stops, and you cry out in frustration, tears welling in your eyes. His fingers trail a slick path from you, higher, to your arsehole.

Roughly, he pushes the digits inside you.

Now your cry is of pain, the lube from your sopping pussy helping but the sudden stretching still a hot instant of agony. Then you settle, closing around the fingers, and again you can’t stop yourself, shoving your arse back to take them deeper.

He withdraws them, and steps back from you. “Turn around,” he says.

You take your hands from the glass and do as you’re told.

“Get on your knees.”

You comply, lowering yourself to the thick carpet. You raise your eyes to him and see him dip into his pocket, withdraw something.

It’s a small mask, the kind hotels supply guests to shut out any brightness when they sleep. He must have picked it up when he was returning from the mini bar.

He places the improvised blindfold on your face, hooks the elastic straps behind your head, depriving you of your sight. You strain with your other senses, seeking stimuli. Your flesh is prickling with goosebumps under the air-conditioning, the pain in your nipples receding to a dull, persistent throb.

Hands grip your shoulders and turn you to the side. The clink of something metal.

He’s unbuckling his belt, slowly. He has all the time in the world for you to service him. And he knows it.

“Well, aren’t you a good girl,” he murmurs, and you realise that at the sound of the belt you’ve automatically placed your hands behind your back. “You’re going to give me everything I want, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

His hand clamps around your throat. Tight, but you know it can – it will – get tighter. “I beg your pardon?”

“Yes…sir.”

“Better. Open your mouth.”

You do as he asks, opening wide, and immediately his engorged cock pushes inside, deeply and with no regard for your comfort. You gag a little, loosen your throat, and begin bobbing your head on him, sliding back and forth as far as you can tolerate. He murmurs gently, and his fingers tangle in your hair, but he seems happy to let you keep your own pace. For now.

You settle into a rhythm, fucking him with your mouth, your tongue working on the hard flesh. Pre-cum leaks from him, and you wonder if he’s about to blow already. You’re quietly pleased at this, that you’re servicing him so well he can’t help himself.

“You put on quite a show,” he says, stroking your cheek as you take his full length inside your mouth again. “You work well with an audience.”

You falter, the rhythm lost, then it strikes you.

He turned you to the side before pushing himself between your lips. Side-on to the window.

The cleaner across the street.

You pull away, his cock slipping free. “I-”

His hand seizes your hair, tugs your head back hard. “Did I tell you to stop?”

You hesitate. The idea of someone watching you suck this stranger’s cock…

It crosses your mind that he’s lying, that the cleaner is still vacuuming, eyes to the floor, oblivious, and that the man is just saying this to get a reaction from you.

It works.

Imagining yourself on display to the cleaner, his eyes on you, rubbing the bulge in his trousers as he witnesses your submission… the heat between your legs grows, and a reckless madness seizes you.

If he wants a show, you’ll give him one.

You attack his cock with renewed vigour, plunging your head onto his rock-hard penis again and again. He returns his hands to your hair, but now he assumes control, dictating a ruthless pace as he pulls you onto him, impaling you, fucking your face. You gag, drool leaking from your mouth as he plunges to the root, holds. You struggle for breath, thrash under him, and he groans appreciatively before releasing you to gasp in precious air. Then he begins again. Hard. Fast. Relentless.

All thought of your impromptu audience is gone now. You can’t move, can’t react – all you can do is kneel as he takes what he wants, over and over again.

His cock twitches on your tongue, and you know he’s about to lose control. An instant later, he pulls free from you. Muscle memory opens your mouth, extends your tongue and then thick wads of hot cum are spattering your face. The first shot stripes you from forehead to chin, some finding its way into your mouth as the next spurt hits, then the next. You’re briefly grateful for the mask, as you feel ropes of semen hit it.

Then nothing, except the harsh panting of a spent man catching his breath.

“Thank you, sir,” you murmur.

A hand strokes your hair. “You did well. Clean yourself up.”

You consider asking for a towel, but know that’s not what he means. With your fingers, you scoop at the cooling, sticky fluid on your face and direct it into your mouth, rounding up every drop you can and swallowing it in front of him.

A growled chuckle. “You really are a little whore, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My little whore now.”

He seizes you under one arm and hauls you to your feet. You stagger a little, then he’s dragging you across the room. A shove and you bounce face down on the bed.

“On your back.”

You comply, and no sooner have you done so than he takes your hands and raises them above your head. When he releases them, you remain in position; moving would meet with more punishment.

Another new sound, the rasping slither of something being drawn across cloth. Then your wrists are looped with a silken ligature and bound above your head.

He’s used his necktie.

The thought is lost as the clips on your nipples are twisted, corkscrewed mercilessly. You yelp, but a palm settles over your mouth. You smell old books again, and it’s perversely calming.

“I imagine you’re wanting some kind of reward for your efforts,” he says. “And you shall have one. But make no mistake, this is going to be a long night, and your reward is far away. Understand?”

You nod.

“Good. One rule now. No talking. Moaning, whimpering, you can even cry if you need to. But not a word.”

Cold dread creeps up you, then dissipates. You trust him. God alone knows why, but something about him inspires you to calmness. To service.

You nod again.

“Good girl.”

Movement to the side of you, more rustling of material. Is he getting undressed?

Feather-light touches on your skin now. Fingertips travel your cheeks, neck, chest, then trace the outline of your breasts. They continue down, over your stomach, hips, thighs. You tense as they brush between your legs, but they continue on, not stopping, not making any contact with your aching pussy.

Your moan of frustration elicits another chuckle. “Not yet. Not nearly yet.”

A hand encircles your breast, squeezing it hard, then a rush of pure agony as the bulldog clip is removed from your nipple, blood flooding back into the tormented area. Immediately a tongue is flicking the soreness, wetting it. He sucks you into his warm mouth, and the sensation, the gentle attention melts you. Then teeth are nipping, biting, closing harder, and you buck under him as he tugs at the bud. You suck in your breath, bite your tongue so you don’t cry out the one word you need him to hear.

Harder.

The twisting has resumed on the other clip now, tearing at you as he works with his teeth. His mouth travels from the nipple, to the swell of soft breast tissue beside it, and he bites down. Your back arches at the pain, and you’re convinced he’s drawn blood, but when he steps away, granting you temporary respite, you can feel no telltale trickle from the wound.

He’s marking you. Asserting his ownership.

The clip returns, another flash of agony as it settles into position. Then his weight is off you and you’re alone on the bed.

As you lie there, breathing heavily, you are dimly aware that something is different in the room: the whirring clunk of an extractor fan – he’s in the bathroom. Running water confirms it. Then he’s back beside you, his presence obvious even with your eyes covered.

Something rolls up your leg. It’s warm, unyielding. It feels like…glass?

He touches between your legs, one hand drawing back the hood of your clit, the other drifting around the sensitive nub. It’s the briefest of contacts, but enough for you to arch your back, seeking more. His fingers stroke around it, teasing, indirect, and again you want to cry out with the frustration, but still he won’t acquiesce.

Fingers hold your lips apart, and even though there’s no way the cleaner can see you, you have the unmistakeable feeling that you’re being studied, examined. Tested.

Gradually, he sinks two fingers into the swampy heat, then a third, and you thrum with need for more. He’s exploring you by touch now, searching, seeking. Finding.

His digits locate the thickened spot on your vagina wall, and immediately his pace increases, thrusting his hand into you, a blur of sensation as he rubs viciously at your g-spot. The orgasm that’s been hovering at the edge of your attention all week swells, builds, grows, and it’s all so easy – the way he controls you, the way he locates your need and -

He stops.

“Noooo!” you gasp, before remembering his one and only rule.

A hand clasps around your throat. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear.”

He stands, and there’s the tinkling of metal again as he picks up his belt.

“No.” CRACK!

The strap comes down, whipping across your breasts in a hot line of pain.

“Talking.” CRACK!

You sob a little as the fierce heat subsides, and then all thought flees, as his fingers set to work on your clit. Fast, slow, fast, he manipulates you with masterful strokes, tickling and pinching and rubbing and pinching, and propelling you closer and closer to the edge. Again, the orgasm builds within you, like water behind a dam, pushing, pressuring, cracking the walls of your very being.

Your breathing is all ragged panting now, quick, heaving gasps. A yell rises from the back of your throat.

Again, he stops.

“Nggggggggggaaaaaah!” you scream, denied at the exact moment of release.

“Shhhh…” he says. “I told you it was going to be a long night.” He strokes your face. “You want something inside you, don’t you? Something to fill that achy wet hole…”

You nod, sweat trickling down your face.

“Very well.”

He shifts position, then resumes his place again. Hands touch between your legs, forcing your thighs further apart.

Your breath catches in anticipation of him penetrating you…

But whatever enters you, it isn’t his penis. It’s smooth, unyielding, and thick, stretching you out as it presses inside. As it begins to slide in and out of you, you cast around in your mind for what it could be, what he could be using-

The bottle of tonic water.

Your head tilts back as he ups the pace, fucking you with his improvised glass dildo. Its shape is strange, filling you while at the same time failing to hit the spots you so desperately want to be hit.

And without a doubt, you know he’s aware of this. He’s giving you precisely what you asked for, but still finding a way to deny you.

Faster, almost brutal, he thrusts again and again, and you’re dismayed to find yourself grinding into it, trying to vary the angle, yearning for release.

He starts to work on your clit again, flicking and stroking, and in seconds you’re on the edge, the combined stimulations working in concert until he withdraws his finger from the throbbing button and concentrates on the bottle. But now that’s enough, the humiliation of being spread open and used like this triggering the response you desire so badly.

He senses your impending climax, and the bottle stops moving. Withdraws.

You want to wail, to howl, to beg him to go on, but the rules are the rules and your burning tits remind you of the price of transgression. You lay on your back, hips raising and falling of their own accord, trying to bring you into contact with something, anything against which you can rub yourself, finish the job.

“Uh, uh,” he says, pushing you back into the mattress. “Not yet.”

The bed sags beside you as he sits by your head. Instinctively, you open your mouth expecting him too fill it, but nothing comes.

“I’m revoking my rule now,” he says. “You may speak.”

“Thank you, sir,” you say, your voice little more than a croak.

He presses something to your lips – a cup – and you drink, the water slaking the thirst from your exertions.

“You really do need to be fucked, don’t you?”

“So much, sir.”

“And you will be. But first, you’re going to perform for me.” Even behind the blindfold, you can tell he’s smiling. “Don’t think I didn’t notice your reaction when I told you that you were being watched. Such enthusiasm…”

He strokes your hair again, smoothing the damp strands from your face. “I think you like being on display. And I think you’d like to show me just what a needy little girl you are.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” He leans across you, fumbling, and the restraints around your wrists loosen. “Turn over.”

Obediently, you roll onto your front and push yourself up on all fours. He presses something into your hand.

The bottle.

“Head down,” he says. “Arse in the air.”

You comply, knowing what’s coming next. The tingle you feel could be nerves or excitement, but either way, you’re going to do as he asks.

“Open those legs a little. That’s right. Now…begin.”

Grasping the neck of the bottle, you ease it into yourself. And feeling his eyes on you, spread and exposed and as vulnerable as you’ve ever been in your life, you start to masturbate with it.

You take your time, slowly taking each centimetre before pulling it back and slipping it in again. Your free hand drifts to your clit, starts to play.

“No,” he says from somewhere behind you. “Bottle only.”

You move your hand clear, concentrate on establishing a rhythm, writhing on the fullness the bottle brings but utterly unable to cum from it.

“Faster,” he says, and you immediately increase the speed, but it brings you no nearer to orgasm. Denial drives you on and you pump harder.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

“I want to cum, sir.”

“How much?”

“So much. Oh God, please. Please let me cum. Please.”

“Shall I fuck you now?”

“Fuck me, sir,” you almost howl into the pillow. “Fuck me hard, let me cum, please let me cum, I need it.”

“Very well. Keep working that bottle.”

You pound your aching pussy, frantic that he replace it with his cock.

You hear him move the to side of the bed, smell the familiar odour of latex and lubricant, then he positions himself behind you, grasps your hips.

Your thrusts slow, and you start to remove the bottle, but he grips your wrist, keeps it in place.

“Continue.”

You resume, your thoughts so consumed by need that you don’t grasp the import of the command until you feel him pressing against your arsehole.

You give a little scream as he pushes himself into your anus, without warning or ceremony.

Taking what he wants. What’s his.

And then he’s thrusting. There’s no time to get used to both your holes being filled; he pounds at you with all the force of his body behind it, his flesh slapping into yours, loud enough to fill the room, if not for your howling. Stretched out by the bottle and hammered by his cock, your senses overload.

“Please!”

“Please what?” he grunts.

“Please, sir! Let me cum!”

Still driving his cock into you, he leans down to speak, his hand snaking to your clit.

“Cum for me.”

It hits you like a truck, the force of it robbing you of all senses except the one. Wave after wave of it crashes over you, and when you think it’s over, he works harder, fucking your arse and flicking your button.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-”

You black out for a moment, your capacity for sensation overloaded. When you regain your senses, he’s flipped you on your back, head hanging backwards over the edge of the bed. Hands take hold of either side of your forehead, tilt you backwards, opening your throat, and then he shoves inside. The condom is gone but the taste of lubricant remains, and you gag on it for a moment before your focus shifts to accommodating his girth. He fucks your throat like he fucked your arse, unremittingly, selfishly, taking what’s his.

He cums, so much seed gushing forth that you choke, coughing it out until you regain the ability to swallow. He holds his penis in your mouth as you suck down the last drops, blearily cleaning him, an automatic response from a brain that’s close to shutting down entirely.

And then he’s gone, walking away.

You lay for a moment, coming slowly back down to earth. Your body is taut, muscles burning, the pain from your breasts and rectum blurring into the afterglow of your orgasm.

“You did well,” he says from behind you. “You’ve earned a break.”

A break?

“Get your breath back. We’re just getting started with you.”

Limp and exhausted, you can’t muster a response.

Footsteps pad across the carpet. You catch a sniff of something, but your frazzled brain struggles to identify it. It’s musky, with a hint of spice, and it’s familiar, but you just can’t place it.

Aftershave. But not old books…

*We’re just getting started with you.*

You shiver as, from nowhere, lips press close to your ear, whisper.

“Sorry I’m late.”

NOT THE END