This Wicked Wednesday it’s all about sending messages. Getting important messages across.
What do you use? Post it notes? Text messages? Body language? A silkily whispered instruction, directly into their ear?
He’d obediently and patiently followed all the instructions, deciphered all the clues. She’d left post-it notes dotted around the house and when the adventure took him outdoors, a series of beeps from his pocket told him that the journey would continue by text message.
The texts were all in the same format. An element of tease, to keep his interest piqued; and of course, the next instruction.
She had been acting distant for months, he should have known the sporadic cock teasing and dirty discussion was mentally and physically preparing him for something big. That thought alone was enough to have him straining against the button fly of his jeans.
After a trip which took him around the local supermarket, down a busy high street and back up again (no doubt she was amused at his desperate and unavoidable wild-goose chase) he eventually reached the hotel.
The final text beeped its arrival. An image this time, no words required. A door, with numbers on. Her location.
By now he was torn between intrigue, frustration and raw need. His annoyance at treating him like her little toy had seen the edge taken off by each soothing, subtle promise of reward. He surged again with the memories of what she’d written, the painful pit of need centred in his full balls driving him forwards.
He pushed more forcefully than considered normal against the main door and strode through reception like a resident. He couldn’t afford to be stopped, this close to completion of his mission. Following the signs he found the door. Her door.
He knocked, sharply, clearly. No response. That damn woman had better be inside.
There was no text message to tell him what he needed to do. Somehow he knew she was here. He knew she was still playing with him, stretching it out until the last moment. That was her way. The denim at his crotch now felt painfully tight.
Instinctively he tried the handle. The door opened and he entered the darkened room.
“So. Did you enjoy playing my little game, darling?
Come over here. I have so many more instructions for you to follow, just as obediently…”
And there she was. Lounging in the centre of the large, pristinely white bed. Her naked body clothed only in self-scribed graffiti, carefully crafted blue biro sentences telling him exactly what she wanted him to do.
There was nothing else for it but to read her messages, and obey.
– Cara Sutra