Patient Zero

I want to show you something, she says. She’s magnetic. The way she smiles. Tilts her shoulder. It’s in the corners of her eyes, in the curl of her lips. Always leading you on, always holding something hidden from you, always cloaked in command. No matter what your type is, she is always just your type. She turns away and beckons you behind her. She knows your eyes slide down to the swish of her hips, her ass which is perfect to you, as she steps away into the phone screen. Her eyes aren’t where they appear to be and she is always examining you. You tried to cover the camera once in a moment of embarrassment - you all do - but the way she reacted made you never try again. Thanks for coming with me, she says, and she flashes you a smile over her shoulder, shaking her perfect hair, and that moment of validation sends an ecstatic thrill of relief and compliance through you. Here. Down these stairs. Through this door. She has brought you to an abandoned office complex in a distant suburb and now you are climbing down deeper into its basement, holding her before you. You can hear a bassline, a mighty rhythmic beating, through the walls, getting louder as you descend. A sound like an enormous heart. You open the door and inside this underground hall there is a throng. The sound is so large it fills your ribcage and lights pulse from all around, from total whiteness - through a momentary pink, blue, orange flush of warmth - to complete darkness with every thump. You hold her up to…