Decide

Richard traveled to Tokyo the next day, but the sublime strike of his reed remained in my memory. Despite his absence, I longed for my fix. The seed of desire—for punishment, for pain—was blooming, and its thorny tendrils held me by the ankles. While sitting at my desk, the simple pressure of the chair cushion caused my sex to weep for more.

With Richard traveling for work, there was no reason for me to stay in Lake Forest and my new client demanded my attention. So I went home to my apartment in Chicago where fewer distractions allowed me to focus on work for the rest of the week. Later that day I was sitting at my desk when I received notice of an incoming, encrypted video call. I answered, but without turning my video camera on.

The man in the screen had shaggy brown hair with silver streaks at his temples. He was shaved to a polish and his intensely blackish-brown irises were rimmed with heavy gray circles.

“Who’s calling?” I asked.

“Bohdi Michaels. Turn on your camera, Ms. Robe