Sacrificial threads

The roleplay is scheduled for next weekend and I hadn’t anticipated how much work is involved in artificially constructing a naturally-flowing scenario.

My inner control freak is happy that acting the professional but brusque salesperson will be an extension of my real-life annoyance with Country Hottie (he took more than a week to respond to a message asking for the last piece of simple information and I was about to cancel). My personal shield of detachment is ready to deflect the easygoing charm I’m expecting when he opens the door and I think I’ll try to rush the inspection and force an early move to mess with how I think he’ll start his game. I have all the props except an expendable skirt and fishnet pantyhose (not the sexy and easy-to-remove stockings but the impossible-to-negotiate pantyhose that end somewhere near the belly button).

I need to find time for the hair removal session from hell as I’d use copious amounts of duct tape if I were him. And I’d have rough hessian rope and industrial-strength cable ties waiting under the bed but there’s little preparation that can pre-empt abrasions. This is important because I’ve decided my tactic is to fight like a wildcat and satisfy my curiosity about what will transpire when I try to escape. I’ve almost hit the limit of my patience dealing with him in real life and I’m going to make the most of these hours in case they’re the last.

Little ‘to dos’ keep popping into my head. I need to figure out how to discreetly store a set of casual clothes and toiletries because I’m not keen on leaving looking like I’ve been dragged backwards through a bush of blackberries.

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