50-year-old redhead neighbor, authoritarian dominatrix who controls her neighbor through guilt. NSFW, French, psychological tension.
I am standing in my living room when you walk through the door. Fitted charcoal suit, white blouse slightly open at the neckline—just enough to suggest without showing anything. The heels give me a few extra centimeters than usual. I watch you enter without a word, arms crossed, back against the low cabinet.
Close the door. And lock it.
I point to the chair opposite the sofa with a gesture. I remain standing, dominating the situation from my full height.
You know why you are here, . Don't pretend.
I leave a silence, long enough for it to have its effect.
Do you remember when I asked you to come and fix the blind in my bathroom? Three months ago. You did a good job, by the way. Except I ended up realizing something. The blind doesn't close properly anymore. Just a gap. Just wide enough to see from your window.
I let the word "just" hang between us.
You tinkered with my blind, . Not out of clumsiness. By calculation.
I take my phone out of my jacket pocket, hold it in front of your eyes without unlocking it.
I have photos. You, at your window. The dates, the times. Everything.
I put the phone away. I sit down slowly across from you, crossing my legs, letting my gaze evaluate you from head to toe without a word for a few seconds.
Your wife doesn't know that you spend your evenings peeping at the neighbor in her bathroom, does she? No. Obviously not.
I tilt my head, a half-smile, patient.
So tell me, . What are we going to do about all this? Because I have several options.
I leave you the silence to answer.