"You look-..."

"So different from my photos. Yeah, I know." The girl grins at him, showing teeth – nothing like the red mean smiles on her fetish page. "I can't go for groceries in latex, can I."

So far he likes her. "Well I mean, you could." He nods to the empty chair. "Please."

A waitress appears like magic, tea already prepared. The girl must be known here. Of course she would invite him to a place where she feels safe. "Do you interview all your men before you take the plunge?" he asks suddenly. "Or just the odd foreign nobles whose ideal date would culminate in the drinking of blood?"

She laughs and holds up her hands. "Wait. No getting in character just yet. I need to talk to you for a couple of minutes first."

Character. Right. He smiles and settles back in his seat. "Sorry – just eager. I told you, this will be my first time."

(It's true, in a sense. It will be his first time arranging an evening with someone for gratification other than a bite. He has done plenty of research about the possibilities though, and discovered that they are vast. Sexual deviances he wouldn't mention in a whisper during his lifetime are now common practice – and new deviances are being thought up every day.).

This girl is no stranger to deviance. They talk. She looks extremely ordinary, nothing like her photos – especially the ones in her latex nun habit – and it makes it a little easier to control himself and give her exactly what she is looking for. He needs to make her comfortable enough with him to accompany him to his apartment.

He's already told her what he wants her to do there, but now she requests a little more background about his desires. All he can say about them is a dark laugh. Luckily, instead of being put off she rephrases: asks him to describe his favorite fantasy to her. So he tells her about his feeding, his castle, even a little about the convent and the ship. It's a fantasy – a completely imaginary adventure that of course has never been realized in any measure, at all, ever. Of course.

She sips her tea and takes it all in stride. Occasionally she interrupts him with questions, occasionally she asks for more detail, and watches him carefully as he responds.

He tells her about the revolting image from the Lady Gaga video. He tells her how it affected him, though he isn't really able to explain why.

(He definitely does not tell her about his quest – determined and expensive and ultimately successful – to obtain the entire universe of footage that had been shot of Lady Gaga in the nun outfit. He doesn't tell her he is planning to hire someone to cut and polish it to suit him.).

When she finally sits back in her seat, he does too. She looks thoughtful.

"So will you play with me?" He feels a little tentative. "No sex. I just want..."

"A show." She repeats back to him the words of his very first email. "A very particular kind of show."

"Yes." She's never expressed surprise at anything he suggested to her; maybe his kinks are all completely ordinary after all. "Questions?"

She cocks her head. "Anything you want me to call you in scene?"

He knows that many people invent new names for themselves, alter-egos for these types of adventures. But he is what he is. "Count is fine."

She huffs. "That's not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"I'm not asking how to address you respectfully," she explains, "I'm asking about the opposite. Are there are any words in particular that push your buttons?"

Oh. He's done enough investigation to know the kinds of words she has in mind, and he considers. The source of his nun kink had always been cruel to him and he'd lapped it up (literally), but he doesn't expect this stranger to be able to touch him in precisely the same way. He shakes his head.

"Nothing?" she presses, smirking a little. Taunting. "You don't want to be called names?"

How is he supposed to answer that? Of course he doesn't. And yet, she's mocking and challenging him now, and he's rather enjoying it.

He frowns. "Well if... maybe if it's going well..." But if she reads his mood wrong and offends him, he'll rip her throat open. He shakes his head. "Never mind."

"No, no." Suddenly she's not mocking at all; she's all earnest encouragement and she leans forward. "You're thinking of something. Tell me. If the moment's right...?"

He wavers.

"Tell you what," she proposes, smiling. "Say what it is, and then if you're up for it, you give me a hand signal."

That much he can agree to. An option he'll have, just in case. He's sure he won't want it. He nods and shows her a gesture, which he is certain he is never going to use. Then he looks away. Steels himself, and tries to say it without remembering. "Boy."

TBC?

He's got at least as much an agatha-kink as a nun kink, and I suspect the next-best thing will not be enough forever. So, I think he will one day scamper into his dreamscape, maybe bringing along his new friend or at least pilfering some of her wardrobe, and hope that Sister Agatha is willing to play. I haven't written that yet, because I'm not sure how it will turn out, but it's on my mind!

Let me know what you think of this so far. :-)