She was small, both in height and frame. Hunched over and sobbing made it hard to tell, but if I had to guess I’d say she wasn’t much more than four feet tall. She was very thin, almost sickly, and her skin was ghastly pale. She was surprisingly clean for a seemingly feral woman, or ghost, in the woods. I came within an arm’s length away from her and she looked up at me, eyes red and puffy from crying. “Everyone who meets me dies. I am cursed,” she whined, staring up at me with her puffy blue eyes. Clumps of coppery red hair fell around her face and I couldn’t help but think she’d be beautiful with a shower and a good night’s sleep.“Are you hurt?” I asked, kneeling down next to her.“No,” she said.“How long have you been out here?” “Centuries.”“What are you doing out here?”“What do you mean?” she asked. She rubbed her nose on her wrist.“What brought you out here? Why haven’t you gone home?”“This is my home. I’ve always lived out here.”“I see. Well, what makes you think you’re cursed?”. We walked to the front door whereMike fished an invite from the inside of his jacket and handed it to thedoorman."Michael Dobson," he announced himself, "and slave."Slave, wait a minute, Mike was going to hear about that one as soon as Igot this gag off. In the meantime, there was much I could do but shufflebehind him. We walked in and were herded left where we entered theballroom. The high ceilings had dim spotlights dancing over them while astring quartet played something classical. Mike led us over to one of theshort couches, where he and I sat, almost forced to touch it was soshort. He started rummaging through his pockets."Oh no, Sophie. I don't have the key, I left it in my pants at Greta's."I sighed, resigned to spending the evening gagged. I wouldn't even beable to get drunk. I assumed I would be going back to Greta's anyway, Ihad left my clothes, phone, keys and wallet- everything there. There wasnothing about me to suggest I wasn't Sophie and submissive unless someonegot.
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