A beautiful red Ferrari cruises, with restraint, through the suburban landscape. Straight dull roads laid out in rectangular grids, punctuated frequently with stop signs and traffic signals. The Ferrari whines through the first few of its gears giving just a hint of what lies beneath the surface, barely able to contain herself to avoid undue attraction from the local gendarme. Thus restrained she evokes a beautiful leggy woman wearing a conservative grey business suit, practical shoes, the understated quality of simple diamond studs in her ears, her hair arranged up, neatly pinned in place. There is the bare hint of what lies beneath as she gracefully swivels out of an office chair to stand and glide through the room, a quiet symphony of muted, graceful, swiveling curves, discreet glancing eyes following her every motion through the town.
The woman yearns for the hour when she takes off her conservative jacket and suit, kicks off the practical shoes, unpins her hair and shakes it out in a shower of deep red curls that come to rest nestled like a bed of roses caressing her bare shoulders. She slides into a bright red evening gown that she wears like a coat of paint, revealing and magnifying each sensuous curve. She slips on a pair of tall sling-back strappy heels, gently pins on earrings that dangle and dance, shooting out sparkling flashes of light with her every move, each stride in her heels accompanied by sparks from the earrings at the delicate nape of her neck and another soft shower of curls caressing her. She redefines her eyes with a bit more color, her cheeks with a soft bloom of color, and her lips with a luscious, wet, brighter shade of lipstick, enjoying their softness as she smacks them together. She takes one long last approving look in the mirror at the new vision of allure she has unleashed. She steps out her front door, full of anticipation for the twirling embrace of dance moves her lover will lead her through, smiling demurely at a growing secret warmth beginning deep inside her.
The red Ferrari yearns to turn left into the canyon cutoff, open up the throttle from a sweet purr to round-noted thrilling squeals of delight, relishing her power, embracing her speed and handling. She defines the curves, a vision of grace and beauty unleashed. No one can capture her that she doesn’t willingly attract, yield to, and embrace; she is ultimately in control. Her delicate throttle responds to each caress. She has the legs to wind up the straight ground in a blur of color, and when the lay of the road needs to be finessed she can brake firmly, downshifting with deep throaty sounds, a delicate twitch of the wheels left or right, her suspension gracefully handling each rise and fall of the road beneath her. She defines confident, understated control of the ride all the way home, with one last delighted squeal of the throttle to punctuate the end of the ride. She looks just as fast sitting in the driveway as any ordinary ride at the peak of their performance.
She takes a deep breath – and closing her eyes – lets it out slowly, settling back to relax and cool down, feeling the heat slowly radiate out of her, a lingering state of ecstasy at the sweet memory of their dance. A soft smile blooms on her lips; she loves being a woman.