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Monday, February 19, 2007


Making a final adjustment to my stockings and suspenders, I lay back on the bed and waited. Soon I would hear the lock being turned and the door opening, announcing his arrival. Until then, my heart would beat in anticipation and suspense.

It had been a long time coming this night; it took some planning to organise. The first he knew of it, was my text sent seven days prior, requesting his presence. With his availability confirmed, I told him to await further info, and wanting to build his intrigue, enforced a three-day phone silence.

The next communication would be to tell him the location, time of arrival and the window of time he was to be available, but nothing more. He responded, with excitement, but I refused to divulge anything else.

The day prior to the date, I sent him an email with a list of instructions and requirements. A map of the area was included, with details of transport and estimated journey times, and his required time of arrival, but I omitted the final destination: I wanted that to be a complete surprise. The last item on the email was an order:

“Bring your delicious self, and a smile. I will be waiting.”

And wait, I did.

On the day, I left no stone unturned. I had covered every angle, every detail, and every possible variable, to make it right: my film-industry-based organisational skills fully utilised. I wanted the stage to be perfectly set and I knew it would, because I had been busy behind the scenes to ensure it would all run smoothly.

When I checked in at the hotel I prepared a carefully chosen card for him, even spraying it with the same scent I was wearing (vanilla) before placing it in its envelope. My intention was that by providing him with an olfactory connection to me – the aroma of my body spray – he would make a subconscious link to my awaiting desire, which would then help to excite and prepare him all the more. All it needed to further extend his suspense was the room number and key attached, with “I’m upstairs waiting for you”, neatly scribbled on it. I left the card at the desk, and smiled to myself as I walked down the atmospherically-lit corridor, imagining his reaction when he was handed the envelope.

The room was impressive: soothing neutral blends of beige and brown; large windows stretching from floor to ceiling; and a bed so huge you could get ten people on it. But I wasn’t planning a rampant sex orgy: it was just to be him and me – rampant though our meeting may be.

I busied myself placing the champagne on ice, obtaining glasses, and cooling the mineral water in the fridge. I lit my favourite incense (lavender and vanilla) and placed bunches of the sticks to burn in the plant pots. I selected some soft music for the CD player, adjusted the lighting, fluffed the pillows, and placed condoms and lube on both side tables, so they’d be within reach of either of us. We would not want for anything - I had covered it all - but there were still some finishing touches that needed to be made – to myself.

On the bed, I laid out a new matching black lace bra, pants and suspender set; alongside, a pair of sheer black stockings. On the floor, my only-for-very-special-occasions black leather peep-toe ‘fuck me’ heels. I picked up the bra, slinging the arms over my shoulders and attempted to squeeze my breasts into the cups. Damnit, they were now a little too small for me: overspill was the only option. Still, perhaps in this case, not a bad look - and the bra wouldn’t be on for long, I was sure of that. Doing my utmost to be careful I then slid on the stockings, attaching them to my suspender belt. Next, the knickers – and a dilemma: should they go over the suspender belt and look stupid, but allow for them to be easily and quickly removed to be able to a) take a pee, and b) have sex? Or should they go under the suspender belt and a) look good, but b) make for frustrating finger/cock access? Oh god why aren’t there rulebooks for lingerie wearing? I felt like such a novice... (I ended up opting for the former, given I have a weak bladder.) (And a disposition for fucking.)

Wobbling in the high heels, I stood in front of the mirror and observed my reflection. I liked what I saw: the way the lingerie clung to my skin highlighting and smoothing my body made me feel sexy, feel horny, feel excited. But I also felt nervous for some reason. I was anxious that out of everything I had planned so carefully, this final piece of the puzzle might not fit; that somehow I wouldn’t fit the situation. It wasn’t that I thought he wouldn’t like what he saw, or that we wouldn’t have fun together. It was more that by the very fact that I had invited him to a hotel and was waiting for him whilst dressed so sexily, it made my desire to fuck him blatantly obvious. And this transparent need to have sex with him suddenly made me feel insecure. As I looked at my reflection, I wondered if the confident, assertive, sexually desiring woman I saw was really me standing there, or instead, an approximation: Abby Lee. And even though I am that person, with him I didn’t want to be her: I wanted to be me.

Fuck it. It was too late for introspective psychoanalytical theorising: this was not the time for self-doubt. I was horny and wanted to fuck him and I knew that very soon I would be. Making a final adjustment to my stockings and suspenders, I lay back on the bed and waited. Soon I would hear the lock being turned and the door opening, announcing his arrival. Until then, my heart would beat in anticipation and suspense.

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