<div class="floatright">(http://hdwallpapershdpics.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/0290641001454016249_filepicker.jpg)</div><br/>There was a picture on my phone.<br/><br/>Several, in fact.<br/><br/>And each more enticing than the last. But only one that would fit my current need. My perfectly French-manicured thumb continued to swipe through the stream as the grin grew on my face. I was looking for the perfect snap to serve as the background to my invitation. To my temptation. One that would ensure both salivation and commitment to the treat I had been working for weeks to set out. As if it had been a trap – only the catch wasn’t anything that would hurt or maim.<br/><br/>It was just sex.<br/><br/>Horribly mind-blowing and utterly forbidden sex. The kind that was like a narcotic. The kind that left lovers wet, wrecked and sated. Once your body had a taste, you were addicted to that unmatched pleasure.<br/><br/>I know my bright green eyes widen, and then narrow when I stop on the particular pose I want. The same reaction happens to me after the perfect deep tissue massage. When a certain name shows up on my caller ID. Or when a group of wives come into the salon, practically dripping in diamonds and flashing black Amex’s like they’re the latest fashion trend. My gaze turns predatory. And sinful.<br/><br/>I should probably stop myself before I toss the phone to the desk, photo already shoved into a dropbox for use on the desktop. Propriety says that I shouldn’t even own the photo I have of the brunette woman, blindfolded, obviously naked, curves lit by a soft glow, bent backwards over my desk, and mouth agape in a scream of ecstasy. The woman is not only one of my employees, she has also been my lover for the past few months. But the thought to quit now never even occurs. I’ve come too far – and far too many times – to keep from making this sinister move for that next high.<br/><br/>Because I also know I should definitely not be sending the photo, with a sweet little one-line message of invitation attached, to the woman’s son. Who has also been sharing my bed – and desk, and chair, and deck, and table – for the past month.<br/><br/>The knowledge of how wrong this is doesn’t keep my fingers from flying across the keyboard and clicking that mouse to “send” however. Within seconds, the message is gone into the internet atmosphere and I know making that slick black phone of his beep in his pocket.<br/><br/>Just that thought makes the predatory grin on my face grow even more.<br/><br/>Rising from the large, purple fabric chair, my hand reaches into the desk drawer, fishing for that exact blindfold in the picture and grasping it tight before moving around the desk and across the opulent white rug towards the door. The last booked appointment for the day will just have left, and I know Sarah will be sweeping up, cleaning, and getting ready to close the doors to the health spa I have built from the ground up for the day. I pull my office door open and prop my blue silk-clad hip against the doorframe. The dress is low-cut, flowy, and short. Something that would be scandalous when I didn’t wear a proper little sweater with it. Which I wasn’t, at the moment. No sweater, and no panties or bra to show any lines. Instead, the clingy dress simply highlighted my curves.<br/><br/>When Sarah’s eyes found me, I gave her that predatory grin, and held up the blindfold. “You’ve one more appointment today, dear.”