I put on those black tights he likes, the ones with the designs on them under a short black skirt that flows when I twirl paired with a bra-less white v-neck. Whatever we have, it’s between us. He looks at me; eyes cold and unwelcoming. The room is dark. The scent of burnt vanilla Cubans and blood entwines with a smoke that fills the room. When I walk to the front of his desk he tells me to sit down with his eyes. Waiting for his attention, I put my Mentally Raw bag on his desk and begin to muddle through it. I place the fluffy hand cuffs, short whip, and candy lip gloss in a row. Didn’t take much. His attention is now mine. He stands towering over me and walks around his desk. His masculinity makes me stand. When he approached, I step backwards until my body thuds against the wooden wall. He pins my hands above. With his face in mine, I can only feel the warmth of his breath flowing down the front of my shirt. Our eyes are locked and all I can think is good thing I brought my Mentally Raw bag.