Master the Saunter


It’s Wednesday,  my Dear.  Distract me over lunch, please.

After my workout and a pot of coffee I also have last night’s warm gin, no ice, for breakfast.   It set the tone for the day. Buzzed up and showered, the blue satin 4 inch sling backs were the obvious choice.

Sauntering into the office is never advised. Unless one is The Mistress.

Then, it is a statement.

Your  Wednesdays are my Friday nights.   My job is to heat them up. And bring the band.

If this requires extensive preparation all the better.  I shop with abandon over the weekend to find the black panties and garter set you admired in the window while we were gallivanting together, laughing at this,  through the streets of Prague.

They will be locally purchased yes. But no matter.

You’ve come with me to the  shops before and they wisely ask no questions when I escort you to the dressing room and arrange you just inside by the mirrors on the wing back chair.   The little brunette brings a bottle of water.  Does no one have Champagne on hand anymore?

I wave your card at the attending manager.  She knows me well.  

It’s not a chore to please you.  I adore dressing for you. 

Damn straight, I’ll distract you.  I believe I have found the local equivalent to what we saw overseas.  My perfume follows me through the room, the lovely underthings are arranged for maximum surprise.  Allow me to fold myself into that space underneath your big, dark desk.  Yes, here is my shoe.  Set it on the right corner;  dare them to ask why it is perched there.


 For Reticent Mental Property

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