I whisper into the stillness, “Come get me, B, whoever you are.”
Then I turn off the lamp, sink into the dark, and wait.
Chapter 15
Bastien Montclaire
Laurette believesI’ve kept my distance. But obsession doesn’t come with boundaries.
I’ve been in the shadows for days, listening to every breath, savoring every shift in her rhythm, memorizing the way her body speaks when it thinks no one’s listening.
She plays with her pussy more now—every morning, every night. She always starts slowly, teasing herself as if control still matters. But it never lasts. She’s thinking of me as she chases her release, chasing the promise of how I’ll make her unravel.
This much, I know.
I’ve watched every moment and waited… not out of patience but precision. I want her steeped in anticipation, marinating in the unknown.
Let her pulse race.
Let her second-guess every sound in the dark.
She hasn’t withdrawn consent or tossed the phone. She wants this.
And now… it’s time.
I sit at my desk, the black satin blindfold coiled on the wood like asin waiting to strike. Beside it lies a sheer black slip—delicate, nearly translucent, a fabric that begs to be touched and peeled away. No panties. Just temptation.
I fold the blindfold once and slip it into the gift box. Solid black with velvet ribbon, every detail executed with care. A silent promise of what’s coming.
The notecard is the same as before. Cream linen, monogrammed with a subtle black B.
The ink flows in deep black strokes, laid down with the same precision as last time. Script that demands to be read like a command.
My handwriting is neat. Masculine. Deliberate. Controlled.
Laurette,
Tonight 10:00 p.m.
Wait for me in your bedroom with the lights off. Wear the slip, nothing underneath. Blindfold yourself. Kneel on the bed facing the headboard.
If you’re ready to play, leave your front door unlocked. That will be my signal—and your consent.
—B
I can see it already. She’ll read the message, and her breath will catch. Her fingers will tremble. She’ll hover by the front door, questioning everything, wondering whether unlocking it is a mistake—or the most right thing she’s ever done.
And if she leaves the door unlocked?
She’s mine. Completely.
I take the box and lock the door behind me as I step into the night. She lives twelve minutes away. It only takes ten.
Anticipation sharpens into impatience, but I don’t rush. That tension—tight and aching—ispart of the hunger.
She isn’t home yet. I’ve been monitoring her routine all week. Home by 8:40 p.m., precise as clockwork. It’s already dark.
The cover of night wraps around me as I move toward her mailbox. She could arrive any second. I like that—the risk of being seen, the thrill of being caught by her.
