The Restless Libido
By day I'm a mild-mannered reporter for a major metropolitan newspaper who pays his taxes and helps his landlady carry out her trash. This blog covers the rest of the time.
It’s all just fashion, they say, as they bring the silver bands close to her.
Silver bands, one each for her neck, waist, wrists, and ankles, in silver leather with a metal plate riveted to the center.
Their hands are warm, unfolding her arms gently and holding them away from her, fitting a cuff to each wrist and buckling it firmly in place.
Pairs of hands hold her hair aside as another band glides in around her neck, buckled at the back. Next her waist, and then each of her ankles.
So edgy, they say, so cutting-edge and stylish. She barely even notices the chain, like a length of spider web, threading through the rings in each band, to connect them, to ensnare and hobble her.
Fashion is suffering, they say to her, as the chain tightens, as it is wound around her, to bind and control her.
This is all the preparation she’s given.
All her thoughts are gone.
She’s fucked them out of her. The rhythm his balls slap against her push every last little thought from her head.
His cock is hot and wet from bring thrust deep inside her. Her eyes close, her mouth opens, and she vanishes.
The first time they harness her, they leave the straps loose so she can get used to it.
The leather is cold against her skin at first and the collar tight around her throat. After a moment or two her skin has warmed the leather and she has swallowed the nervous dryness from her mouth.
As if they can read her mind their hands are at her back in that moment, adjusting the strap, pulling her hands one notch further up, cinching the collar one notch tighter around her neck.
She is warm and wet between her bare thighs. She wants it tighter, tighter than she thinks she can handle it. She closes her eyes and her cheeks flush with embarrassment but it’s no less true.
This does not go unnoticed. It will be longer now, before they reclaim the next notch.
It’s nothing she would have chosen for herself, not in a million years.
It’s much too skimpy, she thinks as she accepts the hanger and permits herself to be led to a changing room.
But he wants it.
He thinks it’ll look good on her. Her hand goes to the heavy chain around her neck, solid silver, a small fortune engraved with his initials and bearing his mark. So she will try it on.
She slides the curtain closed, leaving her limitations and self-doubt outside, stripping off all that remain, and stretching the narrow bands of spandex onto her body.
She will be the woman he thinks she is, who would wear something like this, who would choose it, willingly, of her own volition. She will become her, embody her in dress and action, for as long as the chain is around her neck, and beyond.
They are not complicated, these men.
She tugs up her hot pants before riding over to where the group of them are standing, makes sure to stop facing away, as she was told, to arch one foot just so, so the point of the seat points at her ass.
To them it’s seamless. To them she’s just a sexy girl who’s looking for a little fun, for some playmates like them.
She will lead them to a deserted alley nearby, to an unmarked door at the end, and within, where those who instructed her and who are paying her wait.
He gets too eager and starts thrusting rapidly, like he’s seen before, like he thinks he should.
She reaches back a hand and captures him, holds him fast, slows him, corrects his misunderstanding.
He will learn as much as unlearn, starting now.
She’s a captive now, enslaved as much by the leather stretched tightly over her breasts, containing them, as by the collar around her throat.
She is theirs to command. She keeps her eyes down, to avoid eye contact, to avoid having to acknowledge the truth.
I am seated in the chair she set out for me, in the middle of her darkened, candle-lit living room, the air warm and filled with incense. My eyes are closed, as she requested, and I keep them that way, despite hearing her footfalls on the oriental carpet before me.
She instructs me to open them and I do. She’s standing in front of me, wrapped in a silk dressing gown. She gives my eyes a moment to adjust to the light before pulling the band around her waist loose and letting the robe fall open.
He had it made for her, custom, so it fits her body perfectly. She slides first one arm and then the other out of the robe it drops to the floor at her feet.
She straddles me, pressing her pussy down into my lap until she can feel my cock straining there.
Do you like my uniform? she asks. He had it made for me, she says, for you.
My hands are at her hips, the thin band of rubber cutting into her flesh at either side.
There’s only one condition, she says, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.
His grip on her throat is strong, a little too strong even.
Her hand goes up to his wrist, to signal for him to ease up a little.
It lands on his watch, heavy, expensive, smooth, perfectly fitted to his wrist.
The moment she feels the metal against her skin his grip is no longer too tight.
She knows she’s getting through to me when I start cursing at her.
We are late, already, and getting only later by the moment. She’s wandering aimlessly around the bedroom, in black panties and a bra, distracted by every little thing not related to getting herself ready to go. The bottles on her dresser, the magazines on the coffee table in the living room, anything, seemingly, except her dress and makeup and shoes.
My pleas, strangled as I tie my tie, become to orders, barked, laced with expletives.
She responds by brushing past me, her ass pressing briefly against my crotch, just long enough to feel the erection I’m hiding there.
The smile on her face is broad and mischievous. As soon as I see it I know we’re going to be late, if we make it at all.
She moans as he penetrates her, gasping with each thrust, each time he settles his weight down on top of her, each time his balls slap her pussy.
She moans and begs, to cum, for him to cum inside her, to fill her with his semen, to claim her, to make her his.
The other lays beside, silent save for the wet sound of his hand on his own cock. Of all the feelings he finds welling up inside, it’s envy that surprises him the most.
She wants him to do it, to lift aside her coverup, to pull down her bikini bottom, and force his cock inside her, to take her against the counter, her face pressed into the freshly-cut strawberries.
She wants him to tug the bow at her back, to tear the clothing from her body, to make her naked before him.
She wants him, desperately, however she can get him.
He knows this and he stays his hand, not going beyond an initial groping, so as to maximize the torment.
She shakes the leather miniskirt apart, so she can step into it and pull it up over her hips.
The locket hangs heavy from the chain around her neck. She’s keenly aware of it now, as she feels the leather sliding cool up her legs. All of this for him, the one with the key, the one who owns her now.
She pulls up the zipper in back and snaps the button at the waist, before looking up at him, watching her.
This is how he dresses them, the two of them, the couple he’s bought for the evening.
She dresses first as her outfit is simpler, a leather minidress with a single zipper running the length, from between her thighs up to her throat, plus a pair of thigh boots sized perfectly to fit.
She then helps him dress, her boyfriend, taller, with broad shoulders and blonde hair. Stockings, panties, a leather minidress that cinches up the back, to serve as a body corset of sorts.
They don’t know what he will do with them, once they’re dressed, who will entertain him — and how — and who will watch or help. They stand in the hallway outside the bedroom, and wait for an invitation to enter.
She fights it off for as long as she can but it’s just too strong for her to resist. The buzzing increases, rising in speed as well as tone, until it finds her frequency, until her lubrication gives her away.
Once it has dialed in the process doesn’t take long at all.
With anyone else she’d feel silly.
She’d be awkward and conspicuous, wearing just a bra and stockings and her glasses.
She’d say something off to him, while they’re both in this rarified state, that she’d be too serious or not serious enough, something to destroy the moment.
He’d criticize the color of the ribbon she selected to bind him, mock her for matching it to his lavender socks, for how much that turned her on.
Something, anything, so the cock between her feet would soften and fade and shrink, until it was gone, until the moment was lost.
With anyone but him.
Instead he’s hard and pleads to her to let him fuck her and she is warm all over and wishes to do the most gentle, cruelest things to him.
She is free he is not.
She grips the strap buckled firmly over the top of his head and turns, until his eyes are on her own, then shows him, as a reminder.
There are other cocks there, hard, stroked, purple with desperation.
But she wants his.
She forces it inside her, chokes on it, gags herself, to the point that he touches the back of her head tenderly, as though to say you don’t need to do this.
She looks up at him. Yes I do.
She swallowed as much as she could but there is just too much.
Take your time, I tell her.
She asked for it, begged even, her eyes going wide when she pulled my pants away, immediately distracted.
She cupped my balls, heavy in her hands, hanging low for the heat. She wrapper her other hand around my cock, soft but stiffening as it smelled meat. Her, as meat.
Her words, all in a row, without period or space between them.
oh wow i want that in me she exhaled, then swallowed. i want you to give it to me, all of it, all of you, as deep in me as you can go. i want you to take me, to have me, to cum inside me and make me yours.
Then she opens her mouth to me, to finish hardening me, until the animal instincts take over and we both stop talking, stop thinking, stop anything except what we’re there to do.
She doesn’t know whether to fight me off or help me in, doesn’t know if she’s being fucked or murdered. I give her everything discussed and more. Her mouth is open, salty from my cock, and the sounds that come out of her I make her make.
I am both of them, with her trapped between us, my hand guiding, encouraging.
I am neither of them, removed, watching the light from a distant star, days behind.
They are present tense, the three of them, and active verbs.
I am past and future again, passive tense, waiting to rejoin her life, already in progress.
She wants it.
She’s told me as much, in torturously vivid detail, using words I had no idea she even knew. And don’t get me wrong — I am desperate to give it to her.
The problem is I can’t.
Well, no, actually. I can. Physically.
She’s someone special to someone special to me, if that makes sense. Special in two very different ways but special none the less. Off the list. Out of the range of possibility.
No, see the problem is that she knows that, knows I will adhere to that rule, and thinks that it’s bullshit. She wants to see if she can make me. And so, like a chess player, she’s begun testing me, probing my defenses, looking for weaknesses.
She finds them wherever she looks.
We are alone, for an endless hour until everyone else gets back. I cloister myself in the most removed room and bury myself in a good book. The light sound of heels clicking on the hardwood uncovers me, brings me back to attention. I stare at the closed door, listen as the steps continue past and enter the next room over. Bed springs squeak and laptop keys are tapped.
I could just stay here, I think, just last it out. Ignore everything until I hear the sound of a car in the driveway, my salvation from temptation. The bed springs squeak again and I have to clench my jaw. I’ll just see what she’s up to, I decide, then get back to my book.
She looks up when I appear in the doorway. She unlinks her ankles and lets let legs fall apart.
Bored? she asks.
Mine is a firm hand at your shoulder, kind but sure, unhesitating, unwaivering, strong.
You will open your mouth to me and give to me your sight, should I wish it.
I will bathe your body in oils then dress you in silk and diamonds.
I will keep you, like a flower, like a work of art.
He feels he gloved hand on his chin.
He opens his mouth to her, to accept the gift she gives him, hot and wet from her own.
She knows the rules.
Bring a friend, get a reward.
But there are other rules she knows, like no panties under leggings, something she clearly neglected to tell this friend of hers.
She thinks she’s going to play me, to get me bend her friend over my knee and slap her firm ass until it shows red through the blue, all for her enjoyment.
And I will. Rules are rules, after all.
And she will get to enjoy it, her hand rapid under her own shiny leggings while her friend cries and pleads for me to stop.
She will be desperate to fuck me then, to take me inside her, hot and wet and aching for cock, while her friend dries her tears and watches.
And that’s when she’ll learn her own lesson.
It started off as a game.
I bet you couldn’t go a week without sex, she said. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight and she touched his hand as she laughed.
I have reserves of strength I think you underestimate, he laughed in return. He refilled their wine.
No sex and no masturbating, she said. No cumming at all. You sure you could handle it?
No cumming, no problem, he said, happy with how easily it rolled off his tongue.
The truth was, he wasn’t thinking about it, really. He was watching how her smile lit up her face, how snugly her skirt hugged her hips, how when she leaned forward he could just catch a glimpse of lace cupping her breasts. He thought this would go as far as later tonight, when they were back at his apartment. I have my tricks, he thought.
Then let’s make it interesting, she said. If you make it a week — and here she swallowed and took a deep breath — then you can fuck my ass.
He tried not to smile but hid it poorly.
And if you win and I cave?
She thought for a moment and then her lips angled into a smile.
If you cum, I get to decide when you cum after that.
And she held out her hand to shake.
He thinks about that moment a lot, his own hand rising to meet hers, how simple he thought it would all be, to break her will, to hold out and best her, how sweet winning would have been.
He thinks about it a lot these days, to give himself something else — anything else — to think about.
The bikini is cute. It’s the most adorable shade of apricot and she can tell from the moment she picks it up that it will fit her perfectly.
The body chain is light, almost weightless, like a strand of spiderweb. It hangs low around her waist, crossing between her breasts, before looping around her neck. It’s elegant and indulgent and it makes her feel spoiled, like a kept woman.
The necklace is not her usual style, chunky and bold, but she unfastens it, dutifully slides it into place, and clips it shut. It’s a package deal, after all.
She looks at herself in the mirror. So this is what he wants, she thinks. Not far from what she wants, really.
He sits at the resort bar, an empty chair beside him, waiting for her to make her decision.
His hands, groping the slickness of her thighs. He grunts loudly, driven. She struggles to free herself but his desperation gives him strength.
His hands, gripping her hips and turning her bodily her to face away. His knees against the backs of her and she falls forward onto the couch. One arm around her waist while the other frees the swollen red cock from his pants, forces it between her thighs.
Her pants are too tight to take off. No matter.
She feels his filth on her, hot through the leather. The moment he has finished he weakens enough for her to break his grasp. She turns and brings a knee up between his legs, slapping his face hard as he collapses.
From his knees, her legs in front of him. He knows what comes next, the leather soft under his tongue, the faint taste of the last time this happened.
It’s just a necklace.
It’s expensive. He had it hand-made specifically for her. Tailored. There are many like it but this one is hers and only hers. It fits her perfectly, like it was made only for her, like it belongs to her and her to it. To him.
It’s just a necklace, she tells them, the friends that ask about it, ask where it came from, where she got it or who gave it to her. Their faces as they listen to her explain, they don’t look like it’s just a necklace but it is. They don’t understand.
She wears it all the time. She would, even if she could take it off, which she can’t.
Only he can. He who gave it to her. Him. And he never would. She would never let him.
Now that she belongs to him she never wants that to change, to be on her own again, just to be her and for it just to be a necklace.
His breath is choked up at the top of his ribs.
He sees red. Quite literally, red floods his view. He can’t breathe. The darkness begins fading in at the edges. His lips tingle and his eyes bulge.
She won’t stop and she’ll never go over the edge.
He thinks of geometry, a curve settling down close to the horizontal. Approaching but never reaching zero.
He thinks of Space Invaders. Level after level, the same thing over again, just faster. Never any more complicated, just harder. And harder.
Then he stops thinking completely.
She is taller and stronger and more powerful than him.
He senses it the moment she walks into the room.
It takes just the slightest touch of her hand on his shoulder to sap the strength from his knees.
She spreads her legs and leans back. He will worship until she is satisfied.
We were born behind different borders, she and I, and although both of our hearts belong to the common place where we met there is some part of us that lingers, that was left behind, that anchors us to those origins.
We are of here, of now. Our politics are indistinguishable, the measured affection each feels for our home country and for the home country of the other. Politics is something we discuss frequently, agreeing almost always, explaining and exploring when we don’t, seeking common ground as opposed to waving a flag.
It’s never political between us, even though people try to make it so.
That’s not true.
It’s true for all of them. But not for us.
It’s never political between us, except in the bedroom. And then, it is fiercely so.
I can hear her as she steps into the doorway, rubber creaking, clicking heels. The ropes which which she surprised me are too tight to permit anything but a fleeting glimpse over my shoulder and at this point I know better than to give her the satisfaction. I test the weight of the chair but it is solid, as though bolted to the floor.
She wants the combination, to the safe in the corner of my office. An agreed-upon prize. But for us, in this rarified environment, in the privacy of our own home, at the start of a long weekend, that prize is merely the icing on a large and glorious cake. What she’s really looking forward to is the extraction.
She moves into view and I can finally see what it was she ordered with fits of maniacal laughter and celebrated with evil joy when it arrived.
Made in China, she says in clipped British tones. As though that needed to be said. She repeats it in Mandarin, slowly, savoring the flavor of the words.
I will enjoy breaking you, Meiguo, she says, calling me by my country name as though it was a slur. And after I’ve broken you, you will beg me to wear this.
In her hands a collar made from the same latex as her uniform.
My response is coarse. Her hand is sharp across my face almost instantly after. She was expecting that.
Keep it up, Meiguo, she hisses. Remember this moment when you are begging for mercy.
In that moment I know she will get the combination and the prize within, I will kneel before her, the flag of my country beneath her feet, I will accept the collar she had made for me with gratitude and fasten around my neck, her slave, beaten, bettered, owned.
She asked for this.
She chose the hardware, the color of the stitching, everything.
She needs this.
Her job — All-consuming, fraught, days and nights filled with rapid-fire decisions, pressure, consequences that are hers alone to bear.
She needs relief. Quiet. Peace.
Her clothes lay shed in another room. She walks, naked to him, the tall soul with the calm eyes, and brings herself to her knees in front of him, the bridle held out and up, an offering, a plea.
He takes it, circles behind her.
It is silent and still in this place, scented with burning incense. He guides the hair out of her face, his fingers gentle across her skin. The leather straps fit snugly down on the top of her head, a perfect fit. She made sure of that.
His fingers on her lips. She opens her mouth to him. The bar is cold and ticks on her teeth as he slides it into place and fastens the buckle.
She is muzzled now, mute, a beast of burden, good for labor and pleasure, whatever he desires. He flips the blinders around, narrowing her field of view to the floor in front of her. His hand at her back and she leans forward, her own hands on the floor.
She is wet with gratitude, open and hot and ready to be used.
Everything’s fine, he says.
His darling sweetheart, prim and proper, fixes him with a particular look. Is it? Really?
Something’s up, he can tell. His cock is a distraction, swollen against the interior of the plastic cage. He will deal with that later, after they’ve had a pleasant dinner and he’s walked her, gentleman that he is, back to her doorstep. He’d only just managed to shower off the smell of the other one, her perfume and glitter, before throwing on a set of clothing and heading back out the door. She’d left no visible marks, he’d made sure to confirm, before dressing. Nothing except for the cage…
She raises a hand and opens it. Between her fingers a thin chain, at the end of which dangles a very familiar key. His mind reels. How did she…?!
I received the strangest phone call on my way over here, she says. They knew about our plans to meet and were rather insistent I meet them first.
Do you know what this is? she asks. He nods. This is a good thing, he reasons.
Oh thank God, he says, warming to his theme as he speaks. It’s the strangest set of circumstances that you’ll hear all day. Here, give it to me and I’ll tell you what happened —
But she lifts the key aside and sits back.
No, she says and she crosses her arms. I think I’d like to hear the story first.
All he can think about is how cold the concrete is underneath his knees.
Until he hears the quiet peck of her heels as she emerges from the shadows.
Hyla breaks horses.
just imagine what she could do to you.
He begs her to spare him the humiliation of her phallus, of being penetrated, violated, owned.
He pleads, piteously, tells her he doesn’t want this, hates being on his knees before her, her cock bluntly looming over him.
She silences him by reaching down between his legs, where his own cock stands stiff, erect, dripping.
She turns around and sits down on the couch, confused.
She performed her entire repertoire of tricks, from the slow strippery sway of her hips to twerking her ass and grabbing her breasts. And yet, nothing. I stand, unmoved, watching.
She doesn’t know what to do. Usually all she needs to do is drop her dress and the man takes over.
I am not the usual man. She will learn this, among other things, shortly.
She doesn’t understand the damage she can cause.
For her it’s all fun and games, dares and impulses running free, fueled by pills and hormones and the narcotic whiff of power.
It is her lips that will ensnare me, sucking me to distraction, her friends coiling loops of rope around my hands to hold me fast. Her trap sprung she will straddle me, and, pulling her panties to one side, mount me, my cock swallowed helplessly into her slick wet pussy.
My hands strain at the ropes but I am bound.
She unbuttons my shirt, and pinches one of my nipples between her fingers to harden it. When the needle appears, seemingly out of nowhere, I open my mouth to scream but fabric is jammed inside and tape is wound around to hold it in place.
She presses the needle to my nipple slowly, watching my face, feeling me cum inside her.
Now you belong to me, she says, wicked, evil little bitch that she is. I have no choice but to agree.
It’s just a bikini, she thinks to herself as she walks to the bathroom.
The satchel is light in her hands, inconsequential. She reminds herself of this as she steps inside and closes the door behind her. Inconsequential.
The lights are low. She strips off everything, placing it carefully on a hanger she finds behind the door. She realizes she’s stalling. She blushes self-consciously.
It’s just a bathing suit, she thinks and she opens the satchel, quickly, to see what she’s obligated herself to wear. There’s little to it, just a couple of triangles cut from some sort of stretchy faux leather, with string ties. No sizing. One size. Just tie it on, she thinks.
His face, the moment after he first floated his proposal. Access to his private beach all day, for her and her friends, all the champagne they wanted, on him — a total bachelorette party coup.
With one small condition.
Small being the operative word, she thought as she held it up. Small, alright. Tiny. Microscopic. The things I do, she thought, and she stepped into the bottoms, tugged them tight up between her thighs.
Your friends can stay and party as long as they want, he said. As long as you’re wearing this. Into her hands, the satchel.
She finished tying the top in place. It was actually kind of cute, she thought, way skimpier than she would usually wear but these were hardly usual times.
One last item in the bag, a simple chain necklace with a monogrammed tag in the center. She fastened it around her neck, then looked at herself in the mirror. Fit to be displayed. Property of.
She took a deep breath and stepped out of the dressing room.
They devour her, hungry mouths and fingers and hands, stiff slick cocks probing and finding her wetness. She is handled, moved to suit their urges, their stubble sharp against her soft skin.
Her mouth hangs open in surprise, in on-going surprise at this turn of events, at this gift she’s received and keeps receiving.
Thank you she mouths to me, before they break through her defenses and overrun her, before her breath becomes sharp and purpose-driven, before her ability to communicate is cut off and she’s consumed.
She keeps her eyes fixed on the throbbing light.
This and the mask on her face and the pearls around her neck hold her in thrall as another mounts her and thrusts out his aggressions.
She will endure, for as long as she needs to. She will draw out their confusion, the white filth that they uselessly pump into her, that drains back out of her and runs down her legs. She will tame them, one after the other, suffer their groping hands and artless urges, silencing their grunts and threats and boasts without reply, reduce them from raging bucks to slope-shouldered slaves.
She will do this until the last of them are in chains, their muscles loose and feeble and contained, until the throbbing light at last is extinguished, until her duty is done.
She’s chosen to lay over his knee. She knows why. She’s not there to explain or defend.
She’s there to atone.
It’s his job to make sure she pays, properly, not too much and definitely not too little.
Her face is hidden from him, from everyone, by her hair, by the direction in which she’s laying. He knows this is important.
The whip reddens her flesh. She cries out, a strangled thank you with each blow, the occasional i’m sorry slipping in.
He knows this too is important.
He can have anything he wants, now. Anything he still can have.
Now that she has what she wants.
It’s new to both of them, whatever this moment is.
Both are excited by it, by the strangeness and yet familiarity, as though it’s a long-forgotten habit they are practicing out of pure instinct.
Without a word exchanged they both decide to explore it further as soon as propriety permits.
Yes, it turns her on. That’s all you need to know.
She is so wet, wetter than you’ve ever know her to get, soaking through her panties and into the sheets below. She’s that wet without even touching herself, only touching you, stoking you slowly, steadily, precisely the way she wants.
It’s not the cock that’s got her this way. It’s the control.
You’ve been a good boy. You’ve abstained for the entire week, without any cheating. Even in the shower, you were all business down there, soaping and rinsing without any extra contact. You’re pent up, to the point that you’re hard the moment she shimmies out of her skirt, that she unbuttons her blouse and lets it fall from her shoulders.
She has you lie down, your cock rigid, ready, your balls full and heavy.
She strokes you but only to feel it, what denying you has done, how eager, how desperate. Your breath is tight in your chest and that’s doing it too, the rapid tap of your pulse everywhere.
When she finally touches herself she cums almost immediately, then warms up for another. You aren’t sure how this is going to end for you.
Neither is she.
He’s at my apartment early in the morning on a Sunday, after his date with one of my exes. His face is pale, his expression drawn.
He drops his pants and cups his clamped balls, as much to demonstrate his predicament as to relieve the weight.
I warned him, I really did. Not a lot I can do for him now.
He holds her pinned as he coaxes it out of her, the words he wants to hear, that he wants me to hear, the betrayal, the subversion of all we have.
She is putty in his hands. In the next breath after she has sold me she begs to be fucked, to be rewarded with his cock, to be allowed to feel his cum inside her.
For an entire week the components had hung in her closet and waited for her.
The long patent-leather trench coat, the halter-top leotard thong. The long, leather boots, with brass buckles at the knee and toe.
She’d had the jacket for a full season, buying it on impulse last fall. The moment she saw it in a store window, the gray sky and wet streets reflected in the shiny leather, she had to have it. It gave her ideas.
Idea, actually. Just one. This one.
She spent from then until a week ago figuring out what went with it in this vision of hers. There were other possibilities — miniskirts and sweaters and shoes of varying heights — but it wasn’t until she found the leotard that it all clicked into place.
The leotard, matte black, thong back, halter top. A zip from the base of her spine to the back of her neck. Keyhole closure. Perfection.
Then it was just the boots. And they found her, really. Eye-searingly expensive but there was no hesitation or second thought as she stood at the counter, credit card in hand.
Ponytail, stark makeup, patent gloves to protect against the rain. No money, no phone, no ID. The outfit would provide all.
She stepped out into the cool fall air, the wind tugging at the trench buttons. Incredibly warm, given how little she was wearing. Armor, fit to raise an army. She looked left to right and waited for the world to tell her which way to go.