What’s the most perverted thing you’ve ever done?

This question was rattling around my brain as I unpacked my suitcase in room 608 of the Hilton Regency, anxiously awaiting your knock on the door.

It’d been six months since we met for the first (and only) time. A local gallery was showcasing my art and they flew me in for the reception. Your portraiture professor was a fan of my work and offered extra credit to any students who showed up. I never expected my art to find an audience. I amassed a small fortune as a professional skateboarder. When my knees couldn’t tolerate the half pipe anymore, I transitioned seamlessly to the world of visual expressionism. I grew a massive Instagram following. My paintings — done in the style of David Hockney and Alex Katz — routinely sold for six figure sums.

I was vaping the sidewalk outside the gallery, when you and your friends came giggling up to me and shyly complimented my work. I smirked. My blue eyes were fixed squarely on you. I didn’t say Hello or Thank you. I just extended my left hand — the knuckles of which were etched with the tattoo of rose petals — and took a hold of your chin. Your friends stared on with mixed expressions of jealousy and fear.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Eighteen.”

“I have a daughter your age.”

And with that, I walked away. Later that night, gathered around your laptop, your friends urged you to send me an Instagram message. It took me three weeks to reply, but thus began our online courtship. Our exchanges were tame at first. I told you about my work and you told me about your loyal boyfriend. But they quickly got explicit. Every conversation started with you describing what you were wearing. Soon, you were calling me Daddy, and I was bestowing you with a number of nicknames… Princess, Cupcake, Slut.

When I found out I’d be returning to your city, I proposed we meet up. You agreed. I told you I’d send you something to wear. A few days later, a package arrived in the mail. Wrapped in pink tissue paper was a pair of powder blue panties embroidered with a pattern of Hello Kitty… panties I stole from my daughter’s bedroom floor. I included the address of a local hotel, a room number, and a time.

Now here I am, unpacking my suitcase, sipping on whiskey, and waiting for you to materialize at my door.

[Thanks for reading! If you’re interested in writing, please respond with your character’s name, physical appearance, and what she’s wearing. Feel free to either continue from where I left off or ask any questions you may have about the scene.

My character’s name is Thatcher and he’s in his 40’s. He’s 6’2, with a thin lean build, and short but messy dark hair with wisps of grey peppered in. He has blue eyes and a square jawline. Despite his lean physique, he’s fit and toned thanks to a running and rowing regimen. He has an excess of tattoos covering most of his body, including his arms, hands, fingers, and even neck. He’ll be wearing a white t-shirt and jeans when you knock on the door.

Feel free to respond whenever you read this. I’m looking forward to hearing from you.]