"Tag, You're It"
	by Aimee
	

You find the note in your dresser. The envelope is a dark creme paper,
sealed with wax. My initial. You break the seal and remove the folded
card inside. Violet ink, which smells of lavender. It reads:

     "I'm bored. Do you want to play?
      If you do, look behind you."

Startled, you turn around. Sitting on the headboard of your bed is a
black box, wrapped with a red bow. Without hesitation, you take it. You
open it, the bow slipping easily under your touch. Inside...

Two black stockings, silk, woven in an intricate chessboard pattern.
Light and dark. Light and dark. How long do you ponder my note? How
long does it take you to decide to put them on? A second? Longer? I do
not know. But you do. I see you walking down the street wearing them,
in a skirt a bit too short, showing off just a hint of the garter
holding them to your thighs. 

I watch you on your way to work, looking over your shoulder. Enjoying
the glances from the strangers admiring your body. And trying to catch
me, watching you. Where am I? You smile, wondering what I have up my
sleeve.

You are at work for some time before it strikes you: How did I get into
your room?

* * *

You spend the day in anticipation. Every time a door opens, you expect
it to be me here for... what? The anticipation is exhilarating. Then it
becomes frustrating. Where the hell am I? Your lunch hour comes, and
you walk to the park, perhaps expecting me to jump out at you. And all
the time you walk, the strange weave of the chessboard pattern brushes
against your inner thigh, warmer and warmer. Your blood begins to rise,
and I am nowhere to be seen.

* * *

The day goes on, and the anticipation, the arousal becomes almost
crippling. Every step you take, even when you turn in your chair, and
the stocking slide over your thighs. It's killing you.

Friends invite you out to drinks afterwards, including a cute new girl
who previously never wanted to join in the after-hours group, and whom
you caught more than once looking at those new stockings of yours. But
you decline. Where. The hell. Am. I? Every ring of the phone, every
e-mail is supposed to be from me, giving you some idea of what is to
come. But there is nothing. 

Home? Yes, that's it. I'll be waiting for you on the way home. You
smile. Slyly, you squeeze your legs together, and you have to grit your
teeth. Oh, the things you'll do to me...

* * *

I am not at your home. There is no note, no message, no other box. You
wait. An hour, then two. You have had enough. You call my phone number,
and the perky message only enrages you further. You swear, then you
remember that I like it when you swear, and erase the message.

Completely enraged, you storm upstairs. You tear off everything, every
scrap of clothing from the loose white top over the black lace bra
which shown underneath to the too-short skirt which almost whines as it
is peeled off of your hips. And those damn silk stockings? You tie
those into a knot. That'll show me.

Too angry even to relieve yourself, you fall into bed and fitfully
surrender to sleep. But first you make sure to double-lock the door.

* * *

What you dream, you cannot remember, except that it ends in warmth. You
hear humming, and slowly you ascend from sleep. Your eyes adjust to the
light in the room. You shake the sleep from your mind and try to
stretch.

You cannot stretch. Your arms are tied to the bed. They are tied by the
black silk stockings I gave you, still in the knot you made.

You become more aware. The light is flickering. You look at the wall
below you. Projected on it is film. Of you. Today. Walking down the
street. Walking in the park. Even, in part,  walking around at work.
The camera is shaky, handheld, but always very, very close. How did I
get so close to you? Was it even me? The footage does not stay in one
place, it roams over your body. Your breasts in the black bra under the
white shirt. Your ass, in the too-tight skirt with the tiny notch in
the hem... Your thighs, and the stockings.

"What is this," you think, you mind still cloudy, and then it all
becomes clear when your mind comes back to the humming sound. It is not
the projector, nor the silent film. It is me, sitting by the window.
Watching the film, and touching myself.

Were you angry at me? You cannot remember as you watch my body ride
itself against the settee you use for your makeup table. In the
flickering light, it takes you a moment to realize how I am dressed. A
full-body stocking, in the same chessboard pattern. I lean against the
wall, one hand between my legs, the other on my breasts, pushing them
as my humming moan becomes louder. Louder. Louder. Your name escapes my
lips in a final sigh, and I double over.

Before you can speak, my hands move. They find a flaw in the the body
stocking, near the neck, and tear it. The sound shocks you, perhaps. I
stand, still pull at the fabric, and staggering towards you, I pull it
free from my body as I reach your bed.

I stand above you, naked.

You open your mouth to speak, and I place my finger in your mouth, on
your tongue. With my other hand, I drag the remains of my stocking
across your lips, removing my finger. You can taste me, and I burn your
tongue. I tie the stocking in your mouth, and you swallow. You are not
truly gagged, but you know you should not speak.

I lower myself between your legs. I can sense your energy. The arousal
I have built up, and denied, then built up, and denied throughout the
day. There is a small, raw spot where the hem of the stocking as rubbed
your leg. I touch it with my tongue, and you go rigid.

I deny you one last time, kissing, licking, stroking around your thighs
and stomach, but not touching your sex. You try to direct me, command
me, control me with your legs, but I grasp them with hands and hold you
to the bed.

Finally, finally, finally, I press my lips against you and give one
long, light stroke. You heave against me; the release is like a deluge.


Suddenly I am everywhere. My hands are on your breasts, rubbing your
ass, stroking the back of your kneecap. And always my tongue is moving,
moving inside you. Your mind goes white, but only for a moment.

I loosen your hands, but you cannot move. I lay myself on top of you,
and tug the fabric from your mouth. I seem as exhausted as you. I put
my lips next to your ear. 

"Did you enjoy playing with me?"

You moan in assent.

I bite your ear. "Good. Because now," I slap your hip, once, "you're
it." 

I leave the room. You hear zippers, the sounds of dressing. You hear me
move down the stairs, and then out the door, locking it behind me. 

And on the wall, the film begins to sputter and die, leaving only the
white of the naked projector's bulb, projecting clean, pure light, onto
a dark creme note, written in violet ink.

-------------------------
The fine print: this story is copyright 2002 by Aimee.
Further reproduction in prohibited.