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Mr X

I was brought into a room. I didn’t know where I was precise; I was blindfolded and bounded by the wrists. People referred to him, as Mr X. He told me not to move, nor make a sound. My heart was racing—almost like an automatic bomb or Tale-Tale Heart. The way it would pound in my chest or the way it would stop and start again; had me on high alert. Hearing the sounds, increasing; growing louder and louder by the minute. The anticipation was daunting. Stood to be six-foot-five. Slim, broad shoulders, hair pushed back. His bread was trimmed to fit his face, and that smile; brought all the ladies to their knees; like myself.

A ladies man might I add. Charming to those that found him irresistible, and others couldn’t compete. He told me once he’s an architect—which could only mean one thing? He’s good with his hands, and boy was he. Able to lift ten times his weight and more. I met Mr X at a bar down the street from my house. I wore a little tight strapless dress that accentuated my curves and wore my long brown curls to one side with not a lot of makeup; light, and shimmery lipgloss. He eyed me across the room, persistent on making the first impression as I was standing by the booth waiting patiently to be seated. The music; played at this bar was smooth jazz, and the food smelled savoury; the overpowering aroma made you feel right at home, and the comfort of the ambience, the décor; set the mood just right. Reminded me of home—in New Orleans. The parties that are thrown during Mardi Gras, the celebration of life, food, and laughter—feels comforting.

He never told me his name, to call him Mr X. He thought telling me his name was useless.

He’d say; “What’s in a name?” Thought that telling me his name would waste time getting to know him, so I made the conscious decision; not to tell him mine, but he felt the need to know mine.

“Amina..”

We started talking, flirting, and months into the late-night phone calls, to phone sex—here we are.

“Are you going to behave this time?” he whispered nibbling on my lower ear.

He stood behind me; his voice was low, barely audible. So, course, and refined like a 100-year-old bottle of whiskey. I hinted a British accent.

His hands crept up the sides of my back, to the curve of my hips. Sent me into a frenzy; I was barely hanging on by a thread trying not to burst through my panties.

“Don’t speak…” he muttered.

His right-hand caressed the left side of my face drawing me into his lips—a kiss perhaps? Or was he about to command me to kneel in front of him? I couldn’t tell you.

It was dark, and I was blindfolded.

I wore blue lingerie, a bra and panties to match. The strings dangled down to the sides, leaving my front and back exposed to the air circling the room. My heart was still pounding louder enough to make my ear bleed. Usually, I don’t get this nervous, but around Mr X, I seem to have lost all sense of self.

‘Babydoll.. breathe…” he commanded.

His course hand was below my bellybutton; playfully playing with the little tiny hairs that surfaced my pussy.

I sucked in a breath that burned my lungs. X whispered in a low primal growl to hold it. He traced small kisses around my neck as I bit down my bottom lip. He was exciting me in ways unimaginable.

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