Dirty Talking Man

“When are we talking about doing this?”
“Now”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I close my cell phone. The thrill of anticipation shoots through me. I’ve read this man’s blog and we arranged to play out a scene that he described in one of his blog posts. I’m going to walk into a room with a man who has described the most depraved acts I’ve ever read. A normal person ought to feel some fear, at least some anxiety. I feel only exhilaration, the pure and distilled essence of being alive. It’s a feeling that comes close is the sexual rush of hyper-awareness that precedes an orgasm.

I’m standing at the bottom of stairs the lead to his office. Now that I stand on the threshold of meeting, reality has dampened my earlier excitement. I feel as though I’m about to enter the cage of a tamed tiger. The beast might be conditioned to show docility but anyone who believes that savagery can be removed from a predator is kidding themselves.

This is a compulsion for me to make a dominant male want me. Silently I repeat the safety phrase he’s given me, “Raw Meat.” I climb the stairs in a steady effort and open the door before second thoughts can stop me. I find myself in a dimly lit hallway.

“Hello, is that you?”

“Yes,” I answer embarrassed by the smallness of my voice. The door is partly open. I walk to within two steps of it and pause. I flatten my skirt against my thighs. It wrinkled on the drive over. Oh well, it won't be on much longer.

“Come in. Nothing to be afraid of…”

“Right,” I say silently and walk through the door. He sits at a large table facing the doorway. He is a big rugged looking man, but there isn’t a spare ounce of fat on his tall muscular frame. In a single fluid movement he stands and gestures at a day bed opposite his desk, black leather squares on a tubular frame, a Mies van der Rohe or perhaps a knockoff.