The anonymous note wasn't for me. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in the habit of reading other people's mail, but it was just a piece of paper with a few lines scrawled on it, clearly meant for the apartment upstairs. It looked so innocent, but decidedly-- deliciously--it was not. Before replacing the note--and the ones that followed --in its rightful slot, I devoured its contents: suggestions, instructions, summonses, commands. Each was more daring, more intricate and more arousing than the last... and I followed them all to the letter. Before the notes, if a man had told me what to do, I'd have told him where to go. But submission is an art, and there's something oddly freeing about doing someone's bidding...especially when it feels so very, very good.