Isla zips through the streets of Manhattan like a lightning bolt, cascading through the streets almost faster than the speed of light (or at least it feels that way..) as she zips through traffic. Normally she’s zen. In the fuckin’ zone. Ready to do work , get paid and not fuck around. Today’s different though. Today she’s distracted.<br/><br/>The letters in her bag usually weighed next to nothing, but today they felt like they weighed a ton. She laughs to herself as she zips down wall street, between pedestrians and cabs alike, the contents of the bag rattling loudly in her ears. Today her last stop would be receiving a little …extra mail. It was only a letter . A hand written one. One page. It couldn’t weigh more than a pound, But it felt like it weighed a goddamned ton.<br/><br/>Maybe it just felt like the letter weighed as much in her bag as it did in her mind.<br/><br/>She shoots down 42nd street, stopping at the UN building , where none of the important political types can be bothered to even offer a 'thank-you' for her timely deliveries, she makes a mental note of the worst offenders, and knows it'll all come out in the wash in the end.<br/><br/>It’s amazing how much of a double life one could live. Every day she delivered mail to some of the most well-known locations in the world. The UN building, 30 Rockefeller, The New York Stock Exchange. You name it. No one of note so much as looked at her, glanced her way for five fucking seconds. Oh sure, secretary's and PA's would tip her from time to time, but even that was rare. With her short cropped mismatched green, pink, and blonde hair, and silken tattooed skin, she was nothing more then a little punk miscreant to these people. Most, if not all, believed she couldn’t hold a job down in the 'real' world by day..but by night? Shit. By night these fuckers paid her a grand just to tie them to a pipe rack and beat them fucking senseless.<br/><br/>It always amused the girl how it was always the high classed lawyer, the foreign dignitary, or the prominent news caster who showed up with a seedy kink and desire to explore it. It usually stood to reason that the more uptight they were by day, the more of a freak they were at night.<br/><br/>She was offered 10 grand one night to shit on the chest of a beloved right wing news caster and let him video tape it. She turned that one down for political reasons...<br/><br/>But when it came down to it, the long and the sort of it, by day, these fuckers didn't know her name.<br/><br/>By night , the only one these upper-class fucks' needed to know was 'Mistress'.<br/><br/>She heads out of the UN building and zips down 42nd street towards her last drop off. The letter is still in her bag. 'Why the fuck are you so nervous about this?' The voice in the back of her head chides, 'there are only three options, she doesn't read it and nothing happens, she reads it ..and nothing happens, or she reads it and she shows up. No other weird fucking fourth possibility could happen so chill the fuck out...' She tries her best to psych herself up....but it's hard with such an odd situation.<br/><br/>She started delivering to<i>Lemmler and associates</i>about a month ago. It wasn't long before she noticed the enticing statuesque brunette, 'not long' equating immediately. It wasn’t often that she was so quick to take notice of someone, but this one…was different.  Her long legs, pale skin and jet black hair were a combination after the girls’ heart.  Like a Disney character come to life, but hardened. Like if Snow White had never met the evil witch, and decided ‘fuck that prince charming guy’ and set out to law school.   Isla wagered this was a self-made woman. No money from mommy or daddy to get her through those formative years.<br/><br/>When at home at night, with a sneaking hand down the front of her pants, she imagines the uptight looking woman ‘working’ her way through college.<br/><br/>It wasn’t creepy. Was it?<br/><br/>She’d entertained the idea of saying hello to the woman countless times.  But often as she handed off her packages, usually ones that required the Lawyers direct signature, she couldn’t bring herself to say Hello.  She knew the high class woman wouldn’t give her the time of day in midtown.  They were on the dark haired beauty’s turf,  in this building, in the day time, she had all the power.  That didn’t sit well with Isla. She knew this ones type without even having to question.  She never smiled, never was seen with a single stray hair out of place…and had an absolutely perfect body. She was  a control freak.<br/>But Isla knew first-hand what a change of scenery could do to a control freak.  They were often the ones in most need of a release…of letting go. And dear , sweet angry infant baby Jesus did Isla want to be the one to give her that release.<br/><br/>Seeing as it was unlikely the lawyer even knew she was alive, she figured her best course of action was to send a letter…invite the Lawyer to an event ..level the playing field a bit…then see what happened.<br/><br/>So with trembling fingers she hands the lawyer the letter along with her other packages,  handing her a clipboard she keeps it formal , “Sign here please..” she hands this Megan Morin a pen,  hoping against hope  that her plan worked.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>