No smell, no presence.
No her.
And still.
How the fuck do I get my name on one of these doors?
Maybe a pair of handcuffs carved into wood?
A badge?
A fucking wanted poster?
What the fuck is wrong with me.
Second room’s the same.
Ghost space. Staged vacancy.
The next door’s pink.
Not pastel. Not sweet.
Aggressively pink. Hearts on it. Puffy foam sticker kind.
I step inside. My blood relocates south. No survivors.
The bed’s enormous. Center of the room like an altar built for sin.
The dresser is cluttered with bottles. Lube, oils, sprays. Half-used. Different viscosities. One of them smells like strawberries. Another chocolate.
Restraints hang from the headboard.
Silk. Leather. Velcro.
Options.
Blindfolds.
A crop.
A riding crop.
I imagine her here.
Tied to that headboard.
Blindfolded.
Begging.
Which one of them uses the crop?
I want it to be me.
I back out, blood roaring in my cock, my jaw, my fucking fingerprints.
Last door.
