She dips the brush into the small glass pot with delicate precision, immersing the bristles into the viscous varnish before gingerly hovering over her waiting nails, the first drops trickling a sensuous path down the plastic spines and finally free falling to splatter and gloss and transform the untouched purity on the end of her silky feet.

With each stroke, with each coat, her nails deepen and darken, the shallow red morphing into fresh cherry then lustrous ruby and ultimately the decadent scarlet of the wanton seductress never far from her surface, of the femme fatale whose craving for man, dangerous and overwhelming, engulfs her in the dead of night.

As she watches her toes bloom and glisten, she is reminded of her other scarlet place, the one held tight now by the fine ebony mesh bound around her hips, the pillowy mound accented with the shadow of a finely manicured triangle, the tip leading its way to the lips now impossibly smooth, to the petals plump and bright and yet again on fire as his voice, his words, his desire come back to her, working their way into her body, etching themselves into her very flesh.

With that smallest recollection, with that fleeting thought, he is suddenly there in front her, urging her to touch herself, to hook her feet and scarlet toes over the edge of the coffee table and spread herself open beneath the fine panties, to trace the lines of her full labia and the aching clitoris reaching out for his lips, to tease the wetness from her body until the mesh can no longer stand the flood, until the weave of the fabric gives out and her lust runs hotly down the insides of her thighs, her fingers circling, her palm then rubbing as he sits between her fair legs and begins to drink her in, kissing and licking through the black mesh, rasping his tongue across the material, pressing it into her cleft, into her cunt, drawing out her craving, her need to have him shred the fabric and bare her sex to the cool air, to the flat of his tongue, to have his mouth, his lips, his kiss against her naked flesh, to sate his desire to taste her, to hear her arousal, to have her hot sex pressed against his mouth until he can’t breathe without tasting her, without inhaling her, until his beard is literally sodden with her lust, until he feels orgasm after orgasm ripple then roar through her slight trembling frame, until his own visibly throbbing and oozing glans can take the torture no longer, until the promise of her mouth, her body, her oiled velvet heat opening up to him, utterly and completely, is too much to bear.