She was perfect.

I knew it as soon as that certain green eyed waitress, Marie, served my capuccino at Café Campus. A body that left me breathless. Two orbs I just needed to squeeze and knead. Auburn hair down to her waist.

Indeed, she was born to serve, fully. Me, of course.

Within a week my plans were made. I had watched her finish work, tracked her home, followed her routine. She never noticed.

For a ponygirl predator like me, she was easy pickings. She lived alone, not even with a cat, in a humble back basement apartment walking distance from L'Université de Montréal. No bars on the windows, lots of shrubbery around. Piece of cake.

Now I had her in my own basement, the dungeon of my very secluded Lantier cottage, in the wooded Laurentians forest. Still out from the chloroform. Before tying and gagging her, I just had to shred her sheer silk top and lace bra, to delight in her breasts. Soon enough they'd be ringed and ever so responsive to her reins.

I'd leave the top half of her impossibly long hair in a ponytail. Its bottom half would soon be cut and glued onto a butt plug, adorning her rear, tickling her calves. What a view they'd make, a matched set billowing in the wind, in rhythm to her high steps.

I left her to sleep on, perchance dreaming sweet dreams. I was in no hurry. Her training nightmare could begin tomorrow. Savoring it all would take time.