A big surprise

You open the door, your mind a whirlwind of fantasies. Sabrina, in a silk robe, waiting for you. A bottle of champagne on ice. The scent of her perfume hanging in the air. The door swings inward.

The room is nice, sure. A suite. But it's not pristine. A pizza box sits half-eaten on the coffee table. A duffel bag is unzipped on a luggage rack, clothes spilling out. And the man standing by the window isn't Sabrina Carpenter.

He is like you. He's another version of you. He's wearing a faded t-shirt with a cartoon character on it and sweatpants that have seen better days. His hair is lank, greasy. He’s got a goatee, patchy and unimpressive.

"Hey, man," he says, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "You're early."

Your brain short-circuits. This isn't happening. This is a prank. A sick joke. You fumble for your pocket, coming up empty forgetting your phone in the car. "What… where's…"

"Where's Sabrina?" he finishes for you, waving his own phone like a trophy. "She's not coming, bro. Come on in. Don't be shy."

He steps aside, and your feet, operating on pure autopilot, carry you into the room. The door clicks shut behind you.

"You should see your face," the guy chuckles. "Fucking priceless. I'm Ricky, by the way."

Ricky. Just Ricky. He gestures towards a chair opposite the couch. "Have a seat. You look like you're about to pass out."

You sink into the armchair. The idea of running, of screaming, of punching him in his smug face, flickers and dies. You are exposed. The suit feels like a costume now. All the validation, the "good boy," the acceptance, it curdles in your stomach into a hot ball of shame.

"I don't understand," you manage to whisper, the words scraping your throat.

"It's called roleplay, dude. It's the ultimate goon fuel. The buildup is everything," Ricky says, plopping down onto the couch. He grabs the remote. "You build this whole fantasy, this perfect scenario in your head. You pour hours, days, into it. You get the dopamine hits from the texts, from the pics. And then the reveal." He grins again. "The shock is the final push. It's the best part. It's real."

Your eyes dart around the room, looking for an escape, an explanation. They land on the duffel bag. Spilling out of it are lacy things. Bras. Panties. One black, lacy thong is draped over the handle.

"Where did you get that?" you ask, your voice hollow.

Ricky's eyes follow yours. A proud, predatory gleam enters them. "Oh, this?" He gets up, walks over to the bag, and picks up the black thong. He holds it up, the fabric impossibly delicate between his thick, clumsy fingers. "This is the real deal. Sabrina's."

"No it's not." You said.

He brings it over, holding it out for you to inspect. The scent hits you first. A faint, expensive floral perfume. A clean, soapy smell. It’s intoxicating. It’s could be hers.

"I work stagehand for her tour sometimes. VIP access. Backstage pass," Ricky says, shrugging like it's nothing. "I saw that cute ass squeezing into slutty little outfits. But she not really my type. If you know what I mean. Here, you can touch them if you want."

https://www.patreon.com/posts/164610023?utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=android_share, free poll week over on patreon. Come get your favorite story more votes for more posts