What is it about these elegant women, with their short dark haircuts, their trim and slender bodies, their long skirts, and their graceful, gliding walks?

I like to play with bad girls, with teases who wear short skirts over tight little asses, who revel in the hardness of their own nipples, and delight in revealing their sexuality to the world, sluts who will kiss another woman or suck a married man's cock for the sheer joy of being bad, naughty bitches who know what they want and take it, expecting, no, anticipating being spanked for their behavior. I love spanking them, I love playing with them, I love making out with them, and fucking them, I love telling them what bad, nasty, naughty little slut bitches they are as they ride me hard in beds they share with their loving husbands, come for me over the phone while I sit at my desk at work, or blow me while they play with themselves on hotel elevators.

Refined, controlled, tightly wrapped women I have trouble picturing as sexual creatures, gasping for breath in empty rooms at birthday parties, or flirting with brides and grooms at weddings. I have trouble even picturing them with their own spouses, which they always seem to have, spouses who treat them like proper respectable ladies. But this one, somehow, seems different. The potential of Her position for extreme naughtiness catches my interest almost as much as Her beauty. Her mind, I have yet to fathom. Her attitude is obvious, and yet obviousness is not always truth.

When first we met She tried to know me, to ascertain me, to ask questions of my beliefs. Asked with a powerful magic, for I almost came close to telling Her the things I have kept in hiding from those who do not play. I remember saying something about unusual morality, or a slightly different sense of personal integrity, or something equally guarded, but perhaps enthralled I said more than I remember, or perhaps emphatic She understood more than I said.

Do I hear a question in Her voice when She speaks to me, or do Her eyes reveal a hidden knowledge? If She knows, then I suspect that tone of voice indicates disapproval, or if not disapproval, then the tilt of Her head reveals intriguement. Is intriguement even a word? If not, it should be. I sense it not only in the angle of Her neck, but in the angle of Her body when She stands near me, in the lingering of a phone call just to check on my spiritual well-being, of a sharp glance from behind the pulpit.

There is nothing in Her bearing to suggest even a hidden naughtiness, nothing in Her regal air to suggest that Her breasts need sucking, nothing in Her dress to suggest that She might flash Her naked cunt at those She fancies, nothing in Her walk to suggest She wants to be dragged into the nearest closet for a quick ravishing, no twitch implying a desire to be smacked in the ass with ping-pong paddles, no not-so-subtle flicking of the tongue or licking of the lips or sucking of the thumb to indicate a deep and enticing oral fixation.

Yet I have seen how She looks at my girlfriend, and at how my girlfriend looks at me. Officially I do not have a girlfriend, but for those who know to look, for those who look to know, the relationship is there for the seeing. Her magic is not so powerful that She knows all She could. She did not hear my girlfriend scream my name outside Her office, flat on her back on the carpeted floor, my head under her skirt, my tongue lashing, unless the energy of the orgasm still lingered in the air the next morning when She came to work. Yet I do not doubt that She has seen a glance, a fleeting touch, a flash of skin, a bitten lip, a secret smile. Officially, of course, She should be disapproving, not jealous; She is the official paragon of virtue, the soul of refinement, the exemplar of morality, who shows the world an elegant woman with a short dark haircut, a trim and slender body, a long skirt, and a graceful, gliding walk. But for those who know to look, for those who look to know, there's a bad girl, yearning for a bad boy, to set Her free.