She preens in front of an antique oval cheval mirror, barely glancing at the reflection of the dark window behind her. As the night peeks in, she begins to undress - the silk blouse whispering softly as it slithers to the floor, the skirt skimming the stockings before pooling at her feet, the high heeled shoes abandoned for a few hours' respite, the delicate lace of a bra, barely substantial enough to leave a trace as it slides down her arms. The night is still with barely a whisper of a wind when out of nowhere, a figure steps out of the shadows; a dark ghostlike outline behind her. A strong arm encircles her waist, imprisoning her within the confines of an unfamiliar body. A hand is at her throat, fingers tightening ever so slightly, a soft voice breaking through the blinding haze of fear. "You should have closed the blinds."
Janna blogs at Tempests in Teapots.