Dear Fondled Femme Fatale,
Oh how I would have liked to rub my hands up the inside of your thighs, spreading oil out to your edges. And yes, I considered presenting myself as your masseur if you’d asked, but I wasn’t sure I could pull it off without giving myself away, and then I’ve promised you to remain a tall, dark stranger. In the end you seem to have chosen quite well on your own.
Now, regretfully changing the subject: I don’t know if you like sports. Whatever glances I’ve had of your body would indicate that you do, and you’ve talked about your yoga, which has made me long to be a rollable rubber mat, although you may more likely be the sort of woman who tones herself in private to appear in public like some feminine miracle. In any case, sports or not, it’s clear you like a game, and so I’ve devised a little game for you. As much as it thrills me to imagine you playing games with strangers, this time, at least, it’s one I want you to play with your husband. Don’t worry: I’m not losing my edge. I’m just curious to hear how he’ll react when he witnesses first hand his wife’s developing appetites.
This game is a test of confidence, and you’ll need to be fully convinced of your charms to be successful at it. Believing is everything. Confidence can make even an ordinary-looking woman maddeningly attractive, and then you are by no means ordinary. With confidence, you could have absolutely anything. I would say that to any woman, but I particularly say it to you.
So here’s the game: propose a few drinks in a bar to your husband. Make sure it’s a night and a place with a guaranteed crowd – and one where you’re absolutely sure that you won’t be recognized. Then I want you to propose this: your husband and you will arrive at the bar separately, whether in separate cars or with one of you delaying an entrance for several minutes. Whoever enters last should pretend the other isn’t there and sit somewhere across the room, just close enough for eye contact. How will your husband respond this proposal? I have no idea, but then I imagine you can be highly persuasive when you put your…lips to it.
Now to the rules of the bar game. For tonight at least, you are strangers, available and looking. But you must keep an eye on one another, and therein lies the game. Men will eventually approach you. There’s no doubt about that. Flirt with whomever you like, and I insist that you ask for at least one phone number. Hopefully some man will excite you, and maybe you’ll let him put a hand to the small of your back. Hopefully your husband will see your lips part sensually in a smile. Maybe he’ll catch you faking it, but there will be a fascination in this too, in the way he knows your expressions better than anyone. And then also because faking it is often the first step towards believing it. Sometimes the strongest convictions and the greatest desires come after you’ve faked them for a while. Again, belief is everything.
But don’t imagine he’ll just be looking. The game is that whatever you do, he must duplicate, and vice versa. If you’re seen pulling out your telephone to take down a number (the more the better), he must find a woman willing to give him hers. Physical contact must be replicated too. If you let your hand rest on a man’s knee for a moment, your husband must also find a knee to rest his hand upon, for a moment. If you decide to dance close to a stranger, his answer must be to dance just as close to another stranger. If he pulls that woman close to feel her body as he sways, then you must dance as closely to a man. Throughout this you will be aware of each other, which will provide much of the excitement, but under no circumstances are you to let anyone else in on the game. For one night, at least, you have no husband and he has no wife. And wherever the experiment goes, even off into another room or out into the night, or from one bar to the next with the stakes continually raised, you must each follow the other until one dares more than the other can manage, and a winner is declared. What you do with the spoils of victory is up to you, but the Romans, I’m told, used to rape and pillage their defeated adversaries. Pillaging just makes a mess, as far as I’m concerned, but by the time you both go home at the end of the night, the loser will likely be so eager to be raped that losing will feel like a victory.
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