Angela sat in her black dress with pink flower prints with one leg over another, crossed. She caressed the pink leather sofa cushion where she sat, nervously, in her wealthy client’s vanity room. The sofa plunged into the corner of the room like a greater-than sign with round end corners on either side that reminded her of a double-ended dildo. The dressing table had the most ornately sensually wood swirls and designs.
 

The vanity sat by the window, opposite the sofa, under a waist high window. The light coming in was, like the sofa, pink (on account of the silk window treatment). Even the dressing table stool was plush and sensual-vibing, with its female curves and faux-fur wrap (pink, of course) and a band of gold around the center waist.
 

Angela waited for her stunning, blond, freckled home tour guide, Vanessa. She’d left ten minutes ago to grab something she said she needed, which she’d apparently left in another room.

Upon Angela’s arrival to the mansion 25 minutes before, she’d been greeted at the front door by Vanessa, the wealthy widow who owned the home. No sooner had Angela said “Hello, lovely to meet you, Vanessa”, then she’d been whisked into the luxurious home for a guided tour of opulence and unfettered sexuality.
 

“Enter The Butterfly, my dear,” Vanessa had said. “You’ll find when you’ve left her rooms and inner sanctum that you’ve been transformed into something more beautiful, more alluring, and more irresistible then when you first arrived.”
 

To Angela’s surprise, Vanessa never let go of her hand after pulling her off the step and into her home. Vanessa was a 5’10” Swedish former model and no waif, but she did seem to float from room to room with grace and poise, a flawless description of each room pouring out of her mouth like she was merely echoing the essence of the unimaginable excess and pleasure that once overflowed from those areas.
 

It filled Angela’s mind with more than words. She felt touched and admired, desired even. More than objects in these common rooms of kitchen, living room, den, wine seller, and rooftop stargazing observatory, Angela sensed the faint tinge of some sumptuous goings-on that had once occurred there.
 

How objects could make her feel this way escaped Angela, but she began to think that it was something about Vanessa’s command and confidence that invoked these feelings in her. It aroused her, but also frightened her a bit, as she was used to being the woman in charge.
 

They’d arrived in a blur in the room in which she now sat, immediately proceeded by Vanessa’s announcement that “the master” awaited them. While Angela certainly felt intoxicated by the foreign and unexpected events that led her to this room, she admitted to herself that she was still unsure if “the master” meant a person or the room beyond this one: the master bedroom.

This room--the dressing room--was large enough to have been a second bedroom, but in fact it was “merely” (Vanessa said) the dressing room where one could get dressed for work or a night on the town before entering or leaving the master bedroom.
 

Angela uncrossed her legs, spun in place and moved her legs onto to the couch, stretching them out a bit. She tipped her head back in a sigh and was suddenly overcome with a strong desire to be captured and pinned against a wall by Vanessa. She lifted the folds from the bottom of her dress and pressed her hand against her crotch. She sensed no moisture, but could feel it gathering steam behind the scenes. Keep it together, she told herself. Just relax, take a deep breath, and breathe…

“Darling, Angela,” said the voice of Vanessa the seductress in her imagination.
 

She opened her eyes.

Vanessa stood above her, staring down at her, eyeing her lips, then her chest, then her hand (still on her panties), then her eyes. “I see you’ve started without me,” she said.
 

Angela snapped up-- “I was just…”—and spun to face forward on the couch.
 

“Yes,” Vanessa said with a smirk. “So was I…”
 

With that, her grey sweater dropped onto the long wood coffee table behind her. Angela’s eyes went wide. Vanessa stood before her wearing only pink stiletto heels and a pink strap-on cock, which was attached to a pair of tightly fitting black leather booty shorts. Running across the top of the shorts, in large white letters were the words: “The Master”.
 

As it turned out, Angela’s fear of ending up in the master bedroom to be conquered by Vanessa were unfounded, for they'd never make it past the pink sofa…
 

(to be continued)