I begin your session long before you arrive...

You could say I begin when I shop the boutiques for what I’ll wear when I’m with you. In the lingerie shops I run my fingers over the silk, the lace. I try on pretty things and enjoy the way they feel against my bare skin. I find it quite erotic, even arousing, to let the salesgirls admire my lean, feminine body as they adjust a strap, fasten a bustier. In the tight dressing-room quarters they cannot help but brush against me, and they always do whatever they can to please me. They remember my measurements are a perfect 36-24-36, a "C" cup. They know I’ll want only the best silk and finest French lace, in the brightest, prettiest colors, or classic black. And they know that I always insist on matching sets: bra, panties, stockings, and garters; or, a baby-doll and lace-top thigh-high hosiery. They tell me “how beautiful, how gorgeous, how absolutely stunning” I look in this pink lace set or these black silk stockings, and “how lucky ‘he’ must be.” Of course, they don't realize that “he” is you.

In the fetish and equestrian shops I hear similar compliments as I collect my leather and latex garb, just in case you misbehave. And I always return to those rare few shoe salesmen who remember to put aside the highest, sexiest size 7 ½ pumps just for me, and who never miss the chance to “accidentally” caress the arch of my foot as they help me slip each pair on, and off . . . “so, so pretty,” they say.   
 

Of course you could also imagine I began your session early this morning, as I slipped out from between my fine Egyptian cotton sheets to begin my rigorous fitness routine, followed by a long, warm bubble bath. Or, when I dried off with a soft, thirsty towel and then massaged myself a little too long with the warm, subtly scented oils that keep my skin soft, smooth and silky. Or, when I checked the mirror quickly to perfect my lipstick, stepping into my high heels, and toward the door to meet you.   
 

You’ve arrived at my door expectantly. You remove your shoes, and enter an oasis. As always, I instruct you to undress, shower and wait for me. I’m just out of sight, behind the sheer curtains that separate my dressing area, and if your shower is brief enough this time, you just might catch a glimpse.   
 

I reach behind my small waist and unzip, unsnap and then slide out of the short, tight skirt I have worn during my morning errands. Reaching all the way down to pull the skirt off the floor, I’m careful not to snag the fabric with my four inch heels. I toss it onto the red divan in the corner.   
 

Now, I undo the buttons of my blouse — there are only three left: three below my breasts. The silk, so light, so sheer, so gossamer, slips off my shoulders, floats down the length of my backside, and drifts to the floor. Now it, too, joins the skirt on the divan.   
 

Standing before a full-length mirror, I unclasp my rich auburn tresses allowing them to spill over my long neck and shoulders; wisps cast themselves across my face. I remember last night, dancing ‘til two and hearing over and over, “You are gorgeous, you know that? Your body is perfect.” It is always what I hear, but now I am getting ready just for you.   
 

Tossing my hair from my face, I run my hands from my shoulders down to the curve of my breasts, across the black lace demi-cup bra which both supports and reveals. My hands continue down to my perfect belly and, in the mirror, I catch a tantalizing glimpse of my narrow waist, and smooth hips that are deliciously encircled by the tiniest black lace panties. Wearing these spike heels, my legs look impossibly long, beautiful in the sensual sheer black hose running from my toes to the tops of my thighs. There, where the garter attaches to the band of darker hem, I can’t resist slipping a finger beneath it to trace its route around my upper leg. I pull them up, just a little higher, just for a moment, just to feel the silk tighten around my thighs. Have you seen me? Or can you only imagine this from where you are?   
 

Softly, “I’ll be just a minute,” my warm, sensuous voice drifts out from this back room on a hint of my perfume. The same voice will haunt you in the shower tomorrow morning. You’ll hear it the next day too. And the next.   
 

The moment seems too long, but you know the wait is worthwhile. You know I am passionate about my work: it has beauty, spirit, meaning. You know I offer my skills in sensual massage out of excellence, joy, devotion, and caring. You know you will end your session having just experienced something unique and very special, and wanting only to repeat it. You are about to feel my hands dance on your body, tiptoe across your mind, and suspend your sense of time and space, until that delightfully divine moment when you are completely relaxed. . .that sublime moment when you have slipped, without words, from here to euphoria. You know, at that moment, that I am an artist.   
 

The curtains part as I sift through them, light the candles, and finally walk over to the antique bed on which you’ve so patiently waited. I stand before you looking even more beautiful than you imagined. You smile; your breath shortens from the rush of arousal; and I say “Let’s begin.”