Weeks separated us from the meeting, and they began to chat. I didn’t know exactly what they were writing, but on some evenings, as we sat on the couch—my hands kneading her soft feet, her toes twitching under my fingers, the TV a dull hum—her hand slipped under the blanket. Her fingers slid between her thighs, stroking her slit through the fabric, her nails lightly scratching her skin. I pretended not to notice, but her breaths grew heavier, a soft, sinful moan escaping her lips, her hips rising almost imperceptibly as she touched herself—a secret ritual that set my imagination ablaze.

The closer the date approached, the more nervous she became, her uncertainty a delicate shadow over her fire. One day she wanted to cancel everything—“I don’t know what to wear,” she murmured, her voice trembling. I suggested she imagine the weekend wasn’t planned, that she’d have to seduce Olu Shango first—with every step, every glance, igniting his desire. “What would you wear to lure him into bed, to make his cock hard before the night ends?” Her eyes sparkled, she nodded. “Nothing in my wardrobe is good enough,” she breathed, her tone a seductive promise. “If it gets too expensive, just say so. But if we’re shopping, we’re doing it right.” Shoes, stockings, lingerie, dress, coat, bag, jewelry, makeup—and a hair appointment to turn her locks into silky waves. She demanded champagne in the room, its bubbles to tickle her tongue, and rose petals on the bed, their heavy scent to drench the air with seduction. She never drinks champagne otherwise, but I agreed, caught in her spell.

A week before our trip, we went shopping. She bought a dress—sinfully expensive, low-cut, the fabric clinging to her curves like a caress, a hint of red that made her skin glow. It hugged her hips, revealed her breasts just enough for her nipples to press against the material, a promise for her lover. Then a trench coat—elegant yet wicked, opening to unveil the dress like a treasure. The shoes: She never wears heels for me, but this time she chose ones with wide heels and ankle straps—black leather that stretched her calves, turning her steps into a seductive dance. Jealousy burned in me as I paid at the register, her card untouched. Stockings came next—silky, black, sliding over her thighs like a whisper, framing her skin, something she’d never indulged me with. In her frenzy, she didn’t notice how she outdid me. The stockings were costly, but nothing compared to the dark red lace set—the bra lifting her breasts like an offering, the lace grazing her hard nipples, the panties open at the crotch, a sinful gateway through which her lover could slip straight into her wet heat. Jewelry—earrings that glittered with every move, a necklace resting between her breasts, dancing on her skin—might have been excessive, but she tested my limits: “I want to seduce him,” she said, her glossy lips curling into a smile. Jealousy gnawed at me, but the arousal of paying for lingerie she’d wear for another—her slit inviting, her breasts thrust upward—overwhelmed me.

While packing, I asked about toys. “Master Shango says we don’t need anything,” she replied, her voice thrumming with anticipation, “he’s bringing everything.” I’d bought a cage—open at the tip for my piercing, but secured with a key and Allen wrench, a double bind that locked my desire away. We landed in London at 11:15 p.m., exhausted from the flight, but the anticipation—a tingling that electrified my skin—kept us awake.

On Saturday, we woke early, ate breakfast, explored London before meeting him. At the Bar & Grill, he waited—an alpha male whose aura filled the room. His skin gleamed like polished ebony, his shirt strained over his muscles, a musky scent surrounded him, animalistic and heavy. He stood, hugged Natasha—his hands sliding over her back, pressing her against his hard chest—kissed her cheek, his lips lingering, then shook my hand, his grip like steel. I sat across from him, but when she moved to sit beside me, he directed her with a glance to sit next to him. She obeyed, her movements soft, submissive—a Natasha I hadn’t seen since our first love. His hand rested possessively on her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh as we chatted. Under the table, he pushed her hem up, his fingers finding her slit—I saw the twitch in her face as he dipped into her wetness, rubbing her clit with agonizing slowness. Her thighs quivered, her breath hitched, a soft whimper escaped her as he slid deeper. He waved the waitress over, ordered drinks, looked at Natasha—her lips trembled as she whispered “Cola,” his fingers still playing, a bead of sweat rolling down her forehead. The waitress left, and her composure shattered—she shook, her nails clawing into his arm, a muffled cry breaking free as she came, her hips bucking wildly, her eyes clouded with lust. She straightened up as the drinks arrived, her cheeks flushed, her breath a storm, yet she seemed untouched.

After dinner, we went to the hotel. He grabbed the key cards, handed me mine—a cold command in his eyes. In the elevator, he pulled her to him, kissed her hungrily—his tongue invading her mouth, a wet, ravenous dance. One hand gripped her waist, the other kneaded her ass—his fingers digging deep, lifting the fabric, exposing her skin. She pressed against him, feeling his cock harden through his jeans, grinding her hips against it, her nails raking his back, a soft growl escaping as she bit his lip. I was a shadow until the elevator came to an halt.

In the suite, he tossed his bag on the bed, pulled out handcuffs and a ball gag—black leather, gleaming with dark promise. He ordered Natasha to tell me to undress and sit in the chair. Her voice was soft, trembling with excitement as she relayed his words. I tore off my clothes down to the cage, sat—the leather cool against my skin. She stepped behind me, slipped the gag into my mouth—its coldness hit my tongue, a bitter taste, she buckled it tight, her breath hot on my neck. My arms were pulled back, handcuffs clicked—cold metal bit into my skin—I sank deep, unable to move. Panic flooded me, a shiver racing down my spine, but it was too late. She stepped toward him, but he pulled her into his arms, kissed her—a wet, greedy kiss, his tongue tangling with hers. His hands kneaded her breasts, her nipples hardening, pressing against the fabric, she rubbed his cock through his jeans—her fingers shook, her nails scratched the denim. Fear gripped me as she unbuckled his belt, freeing his massive cock—a dark colossus, throbbing, veins pulsing beneath the skin. She sank to her knees, her eyes glowing with awe—half-erect yet already longer and thicker than mine could ever be. Her lips kissed the tip, trembling with hunger, a bead of precum glistened, then she took the head into her mouth, sucking—her tongue swirling over the sensitive skin, wet smacking sounds filling the room as she gagged, stretching her mouth wide. Her hands slid over his shaft, then to his balls—heavy, tight, she kneaded them, her fingers quivering with desire. I was frozen—she’d never sucked me off, not in twenty years, fearing my judgment. But here she knelt, worshiping his cock with a devotion that tore me apart. Later, she confessed how depraved she felt—letting me watch her give him what she denied me, her pussy dripping with lust in the process. When he was fully erect, he grabbed her head, pulled back—a thread of saliva linked her lips to his tip, shimmering in the light.

to be continued....