My pulse pounds in my ears as I stare at your latest text message, excitement and dread an intoxicating blur that has me unsure whether I’m more terrified or turned on. *You’ll be holding that private class tonight. Plan for the maximum occupancy. Your studio, 8 pm, plugged, clamped, and in the outfit I selected.* No *panties or arriving late.*
You’ve been fantasizing about me teaching a special, invitation-only Pilates class for months, but I convinced myself that’s all it would ever be. A fantasy meant to make things hotter when we play. I should have known better, especially after you ordered that damned outfit off the internet. You never make idle threats *or* voice idle fantasies. *Sir’s middle name really should have been Follow-Through.* I grumble to myself. *Or* *Sadistic Bastard.* The Brat in me decides to snarl the second one in your face the next time you piss me off.
Which is probably going to be a lot sooner than I would have thought five minutes ago, since I *so* do not want to do this. *Liar!* whispers my Inner Brat. A voice I ruthlessly shove aside.