The Seduction of Sylvia

I knew then that the journey hadn't ended. It had just begun. I knew there would be other nights when we would claim her body, other nights when she would willingly offer it. She wasn't even sure any more whether her body was hers to offer. And, like tonight, she would scream her pleasure to the stars. Only louder.

But what I really want to know, I guess, is ... do you miss me, my pet?

Yours,

Andrew

Did I miss him?! ... Of course I missed him! How I missed him!

The driver of the taxi looked at me in his rear view mirror with lazy interest as he weaved through early morning traffic. I was nervous, my eyes drifting absently over this city ... strange and beautiful and intimidating ... that floated past my window. I felt fresh and clean, sweet smelling. I had showered at Heathrow and changed into a new outfit before hailing a cab to Kensington ... to Andrew. I had omitted underclothes. I figured I wouldn't be needing them. I hoped I was right.

I imagined he would be sitting at his breakfast table sipping coffee, an open newspaper poised delicately between his fingers. His valet would answer the door. He wouldn't be expecting me, but he would betray no surprise. They are trained for that sort of thing. Or perhaps, he will be inured to the vision of mysterious young women landing up at his young master's doorstep like lost puppies, expecting to be taken in.

Andrew would peer over the rim of the newspaper as I stood uncertainly in the middle of the room, my luggage strewn around me. He would regard me gravely for a long moment, long enough for me to begin regretting my little adventure and to feel really foolish. He would then fold his newspaper carefully and place it next to his glass of orange juice and the Wedgwood sideplate with one slice of toast on it, its surface golden brown and dripping melted butter. He would crook one forefinger in playful summons and I would walk towards him, a little self-conscious, a little uncertain. He would wrap his arm around my waist and pull me closer until his face was buried against the warmth of my belly. He would raise his face to mine and he would ask me softly, "Are you wet?"

And I would sigh with relief. As my fingers fluttered helplessly in his hair, I would moan my answer. But he would want to find out for himself ... and I would let him.

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... fantasy