Friday.
The day dragged like a stubborn child being pulled into church. Every meeting at work felt endless, every email a distraction from the storm brewing in my body. My hands couldn't stay still—typing, erasing, fidgeting. I barely tasted lunch.
By the time I drove home through the Equestria traffic, my chest was buzzing. My girls were packed off for the weekend—thank God. The townhouse was mine alone. Silent. Waiting.
I showered early, letting the hot water beat into my skin, shaving, scrubbing, lotioning, re-lotioning. Every few minutes I checked the time. 7:45 p.m. The knock could come any second.
I poured myself a cider, the cold glass trembling against my palm. The house smelled of vanilla candles. My nerves were a tangle.
And then—
Knock. Knock.
My stomach dropped. My heart ricocheted.
When I opened the door, my breath caught.
He was taller than I'd imagined. Dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, dressed in black that clung to his frame with a quiet authority. His eyes met mine—steady, unreadable—and I felt exposed even before stepping aside.
"You're early," I managed, my voice trying for casual but landing somewhere between nervous and giddy.
"I had grace finishing some errands." His voice was a low vibration, almost too smooth, the kind that settles in your thighs before it reaches your ears.
As he stepped inside, the air shifted. My little townhouse, once just home, now felt like a stage.
I offered him a drink to steady myself. He chose a lager. For a moment, it was almost ordinary: two adults in a lounge, making small talk. Until he reached into his satchel and pulled out a tablet.
"Admin first," he said.
I laughed too loudly. "Admin? What is this, SARS?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Not SARS. Safety. You'll sign a consent form. It's for both of us."
And suddenly it wasn't a joke.
The document was laid out in careful sections—limits, safe words, expectations, health disclosures. He explained each in a calm, measured tone while I nodded, my thighs pressing together. Every click of the digital pen felt like another door closing behind me. No escape.
By the time I scrawled my name at the bottom, my hands were damp.
He looked at me then—not just at my face, but into me. "Now, I'll give you ten minutes. Go and change into something comfortable. Something that makes you feel ready."
"Ready for what?" I whispered.
His smirk was the only answer.
I nearly sprinted to my room, heart hammering. My order from DivineTouch Online had arrived that very week: a black lace bodysuit that hugged every curve, a sheer kimono, and my tallest heels. I slipped them on, palms slick, knees weak.
When I re-entered the lounge, my breath hitched.
He was setting up. Not flowers. Not a massage bed.
A bench. Straps. Candles flickering against polished leather.
He turned, eyes raking over me, deliberate and slow. "You look stunning."
Heat flared in my chest. My lips parted but no sound came.
And then—he reached for the cuffs.
The session hadn't even started, and yet I was already gone.