Bianca was another six-footer, 23 years old, and rich. She lived in a posh hotel in Kensington, used Harrods as her corner shop, had a postgraduate degree in Oriental Art from Oxford, and a mother who ran southeast Asia for Merrill Lynch. She’d been brought up by wealthy grandparents as ‘mummy’ was always abroad earning millions of quid.
My private, unspoken nickname for her was ‘Attalie Yaws’ instead of Bianca, because after lovemaking she’d always look at me with a delightfully exhausted expression and murmur ‘You neiggghhh I’m ATTALIE YAWS.’ In a less rarefied accent, this translates to ‘You know I’m utterly yours.’
Wandering arm in arm with her along the Kings Road in London was an amusing experience because the first time we did so she sighed, ‘Watch the people we pass. First they look at my face because I’m pretty, then they look at my feet to see if I’m wearing heels.’ And sure enough the heads were bobbing up and down like those nodding toy dogs some people have in the back windows of their cars. A bit sensitive about her height, she always wore flats.
Oddly enough mummy liked me very much, which was strange given our very disparate positions in society, until Attalie explained that usually her sexual partners were tiny Oriental girls, and that as far as mummy was concerned I was a welcome change. ‘I like to be fisted, and their hands are exactly the right size’, she smiled, before we found that even with plenty of lube mine were too big.
I had met Bianca at a mid-80s theatre party for a West End starring An Authentic Hollywood Icon in which I had my usual role of small part and understudy to one of the leads. (Seven month run and never went on for him- the bastard had the constitution of an ox.) Anyway, the theme was ‘It’ll Be All White On The Night’, a pun on the old theatrical canard of ‘It’ll be all right on the night’, as in no matter how awful the rehearsal period, the show would somehow pull together for opening night, and it always somehow does. So all the party guests wore white, as requested. If anyone’s interested a pre-out of the closet George Michael was there.
I chatted up a pretty brunette, invited her back to mine, and just before we reached my place she told me she was having second thoughts. After a brief and unsuccessful period of negotiation I asked the taxi driver how much the fare would be including the additional money to her place, paid him that along with a tip, told him to take her there, hopped out, hailed another cab, and went back to the party. Hey, I was in work! I had a steady income for a change!!!
Reentering the party, I noticed that among the new guests was a tall bobbed-hair blonde with very long bare legs and somewhat large bare feet, toenails lacquered red, lounging on the sofa. And that was Bianca, so, young men, if at first you don’t succeed, etc., etc.... and this time the taxi proceeded to its intended destination.
Bianca was a masochist who loved being naughty. One of her typical pranks was to solicit an array of cane marks on her bottom before we’d lunch or dine with mummy when that executive was in town chatting to Head Office. ‘It’s a real kick, my knowing that you’ve given her beloved little girl a good thrashing while the three of us are sitting there making polite conversation and my botty’s positively GLOWING!’
No, we’re not together any more, and it all came to a head somewhere between Southampton and Tangiers. Mummy’s so-called primary residence (she had houses in three cities) was a sumptuous three-bedroom suite on a floating tax haven called ‘The World’, a luxurious ocean liner that never stayed long enough in one port to qualify any of its passengers as residents for tax purposes. It simply toured the globe, and those aboard remained untaxed.
When Attalie invited me aboard in England so we could meet her mum in Morocco, after which I’d be flown home of course I said yes. And then a night or so into the voyage she got drunk, nasty and during a long and unpleasant diatribe told me she didn’t give a shit about me and never had. We both knew she was a spoiled little rich girl but there are limits. She apologised in a cursory manner out of native politeness the next day but was still a bit cold towards me, and ‘in vino veritas’, after all. We’d still make love and physically it was fun enough- she did love her spankings- but I had a sense of dutiful hospitality to a now-tiresome and soon-to-be ex-boyfriend with whom she was trapped for a few more days.
On the last evening, the ship due to make port next morning, I got her slightly tipsy on Medoc over a medium-rare cut of Chateaubriand pour deux a la Sauce Bernaise in one of the superb restaurants aboard while remaining determinedly sober myself. Back in the suite, I seduced her lovingly ‘for old times’ sake’, as I put it, then gently but immovably bound her spread-eagled and naked with an array of her Hermes scarves to the oaken four-poster bed. Mummy didn’t scrimp on anything.
I looked at the beautiful athletic body stretched out naked before me, two silk-cased pillows stacked beneath her hips raising her bottom and at the same time rendering her even more immobile, sighed for what might have been, and genially remarked, ‘Your nails are in lovely shape; I believe you’ve had them done above and below to meet your mum tomorrow? Hands and feet exfoliated, nice and soft and sensitive?’
‘Yes…’, she replied, puzzled.
And I dropped all pretense, not giving a damn about acting for once. ‘You know we’ll never see one another after tomorrow. I was falling for you in spite of myself. Yet another person you’re bored with about to be tossed aside? No, don’t say anything. What I’m going to try might not have any effect, but if it does, and I hope so, I remember your mother proudly telling me that every suite onboard this ship had been meticulously soundproofed against engine noise and everything else. Obviously I’m not going to do anything to you that will leave a single mark or end up with me in prison, but I’m sure as hell going to make sure you always remember how you treated me for the rest of your life.
She stared at me.
‘So- let’s find out how ticklish you are, and where you’re most ticklish, and... well, darling, we do have all night.’
She continued staring at me and then tensed her jaw, looking nervous. I sat next to her, stroked her cheek, then slowly began fondling one of her expensively laser-depilated and thus forever hairless armpits. She started, and tensed. ‘Look, just let me go. I do have money of my own and I know you don’t. Five thousand quid and we’ll call it quits.’
No money of my own. Lovely.
‘No thanks, Attalie’, I replied, and told her why I called her that, and she glared angrily at me. Then I told her that once free I knew perfectly well that she’d not keep her promise. And then I told her that I was buying a five grand experience and I hoped she’d enjoy it.
I began by straddling her hips and making the lightest of tiny circles on her soft belly, feeling the gym-honed muscles fluttering. ‘GET OFF ME!’ she screamed, full volume, but I knew from the strangely dull sound it made that nothing could be heard outside, so I shouted along with her for a bit until she stopped.
‘See? Your mum was proud of the soundproofing, and so she should have been. Now, if you don’t mind, allow me to take advantage to it, and you as well’.
And my fingertips continued their little circles. She said nothing, just got tenser, and her eyes clenched shut. Then her lips began to tremble a bit and her breathing grew a bit ragged. Her first involuntary ‘HAAA!’ came when I slipped a fingertip into her belly button. Interesting. As the fingernails of my left hand continued to flicker over her now-trembling belly I would randomly insert the tip of my right forefinger into her navel at random intervals, and she began to gasp more and more. ‘We do have all night’, I reminded her pleasantly, and was rewarded with the slightest of whimpers.
‘Please just stop’, she began in her elegant Kensington vowels, and I replied that I wasn’t interested in hearing her speak, just laugh. And I continued flickering. Tonight was going to be something very long, self-indulgent, and frankly was the only time in my entire life when I genuinely set out to torture a girl because the nasty bitch deserved it. I couldn’t be bothered to imitate any of my favourite screen villains; this was just for me.
I started with a long, relaxed rib tickle, going gently enough so she could still think she was retaining a vestige of self-control while occasionally speeding things up to remind her she wouldn’t always be. Her face started to flush and beads of sweat dampened her forehead. Her eyes were closed, her body strained against the (magnificent quality, of course…) silk scarves, her bondage was holding up splendidly and she finally began to laugh, expression poised between helplessness and embarrassment. ‘Does it tickle, darling’, I cooed sympathetically. ‘It must be sooo dreadful for you. Especially knowing I can speed things up like THISSS, and it’s only your ribs so far’.
‘Now, are your ribs more sensitive, or perhaps your waist?’, I inquired solicitously, trying both in turn for a very long time. She wasn’t hysterical yet- I was pacing her. Money has insulated her from normality all of her life, and while I could never redress the balance or stop her returning to her old life, tonight was like The Wood Between the Worlds in the Narnia tales- a gap in temporality, timeless and infinite.
All she could move was her head, and she was frantically swinging it from side to side and slamming it harmlessly into the soft mattress as she laughed, harder and harder.
‘You know, that way whiplash lies’, I told her sympathetically. ‘You really mustn't thrash your head about. Here, let me help you’. And I plucked her Estee Lauder rejuvenating skin cream (with black diamond truffle extract, ground South Sea Pearls and flecks of 24 carat gold- quite the ingredient list on the label and I’ll never forget it…) from the nightstand, opened it, sat upwards of her between her outstretched arms while gently clamping her head between my thighs, slowly applied a large blob of the unguent under each of her arms and continued the night’s entertainment.
Her head now immobile, and my fingertips swirling in her slick armpits, her back arched and she began to scream with laughter- but not yet hysterically. I was still pacing her. She could get much louder and more out of control although she had no idea of that yet.
‘Oh, God’, she whimpered, ‘I had no idea I was so ticklish’, and if that sounds like I made it up it’s actually what she said, a phrase I’ve savoured and replayed in my mind for almost four decades. I’d been tormenting her for about two hours by then, allowing her rests and giving her sips of Perrier (naturally enough) through a straw, and blotting her forehead with a washcloth dampened with the same liquid. I wanted to sustain things by ensuring she remained conscious and told her so.
Kneecaps squeezed for a while as I lolled over her legs and listened to her howl, then fingernails lightly but relentlessly up and down her inner thighs for a good three quarters of an hour as she screeched with laughter, her hips rolled as much as her bonds would allow, and the juices from her untouched vulva trickled down to dampen the pillows beneath her. If she happened to become aroused I honestly didn’t care- I had no intention of satisfying her.
‘Backs of your knees for half an hour, dear?’, I asked her, and she gave a half-sob before I began.
And I’ll have to admit that this was getting tedious. The human mind is like that- luxurious surroundings, beautiful, very rich and very ticklish girl tied to the bed and begging for mercy- all the elements of the ultimate fantasy were in place and for some reason it just wasn’t happening for me. Looking back of course it should have been perfect, but maybe it was simply because the basic element of mutual regard was missing. Being human automatically comes with the caveat that nothing experienced, no matter how wonderful, will ever really surpass the original mental vision of it, and nothing ever happens twice with equal feelings of joy.
The backs of those knees were a real danger spot, and exploiting them with maddening gentleness for a while, I listened to her now rather boring shrieks of helpless laughter and promises of anything if I’d stop torturing her. With a rosy dawn breaking through the porthole I thought it was time to finish things, and told Attalie in loving detail exactly what that finale would entail. ‘…and rather a pity for you that your feet are so big, darling’, I concluded. ‘So much territory to cover will take me quite a while.’
She gave a soft whimper- I was unsure whether it was fear or outrage- and I took the final glop of her Truffle Face Cream or whatever the hell it was, and slowly anointed both her soles with it. I’d often given her half-hour footrubs, fifteen minutes per foot, which she loved although she insisted the pressure be quite firm because, as she put it very sternly the first time, ‘My feet are very ticklish, so just DON’T, OK?’
I briefly reminded her of that conversation, but a bit sadly because my ‘turd in a gilded cage’ period was at an end, and reached southward. No toe-sucking or foot licking this time- just a good half hour spent with fingertips and fingernails tormenting her incredibly expensively-lubricated feet- toes, tops, soles, and ankles until she was beyond hysterics- screams, sobs, begging, yet more promises of anything if I’d stop. But I didn’t.
For the grand finale, a simultaneous and rapid application of her treasured boar-bristled, beautifully-matched set of silver-backed, monogrammed Mason-Pearson hairbrushes, and she’d certainly made a point of showing them to me. Apparently the 'hand-tied and set boars’ bristles' were ‘simply the best thing imaginable for hair’, and one by one with her heel cupped in my hand they were very effective on the soles of her helplessly immobile feet as well.
‘Please, I’m going to pee myself’, she moaned, and my ears pricked up. The Spoonerism also occurred which surprised me as I’m very definitely not into golden showers- perhaps it was the total power exchange I found exciting. In any case, I sped up the ‘hair’brushing until her howls and screams rose to a fever pitch followed by an exquisite choked-off moan of deepest shame and humiliation as her bladder emptied into the silken pillows and drenched the silken sheets.
It was over. I let her cry for a while, then untied her. Cutting those scarves would have been vandalism. Far beyond having the slightest ability to attack me, she rolled to a dry portion of the bed and lay there sniffling quietly. There was nothing more to be said.
She showered, we dressed and breakfasted in eerie silence, and afterwards, since the stewards had already packed our bags, we proceeded to the flying customs and immigration point set up on deck- the rich needn’t queue up with the rest onshore. Passports stamped, we walked down the gangplank.
No point in my waiting around. I shook hands with her, said goodbye, got a taxi to the airport, changed my first-class ticket for the next available flight to London, and never saw Bianca again.
My private, unspoken nickname for her was ‘Attalie Yaws’ instead of Bianca, because after lovemaking she’d always look at me with a delightfully exhausted expression and murmur ‘You neiggghhh I’m ATTALIE YAWS.’ In a less rarefied accent, this translates to ‘You know I’m utterly yours.’
Wandering arm in arm with her along the Kings Road in London was an amusing experience because the first time we did so she sighed, ‘Watch the people we pass. First they look at my face because I’m pretty, then they look at my feet to see if I’m wearing heels.’ And sure enough the heads were bobbing up and down like those nodding toy dogs some people have in the back windows of their cars. A bit sensitive about her height, she always wore flats.
Oddly enough mummy liked me very much, which was strange given our very disparate positions in society, until Attalie explained that usually her sexual partners were tiny Oriental girls, and that as far as mummy was concerned I was a welcome change. ‘I like to be fisted, and their hands are exactly the right size’, she smiled, before we found that even with plenty of lube mine were too big.
I had met Bianca at a mid-80s theatre party for a West End starring An Authentic Hollywood Icon in which I had my usual role of small part and understudy to one of the leads. (Seven month run and never went on for him- the bastard had the constitution of an ox.) Anyway, the theme was ‘It’ll Be All White On The Night’, a pun on the old theatrical canard of ‘It’ll be all right on the night’, as in no matter how awful the rehearsal period, the show would somehow pull together for opening night, and it always somehow does. So all the party guests wore white, as requested. If anyone’s interested a pre-out of the closet George Michael was there.
I chatted up a pretty brunette, invited her back to mine, and just before we reached my place she told me she was having second thoughts. After a brief and unsuccessful period of negotiation I asked the taxi driver how much the fare would be including the additional money to her place, paid him that along with a tip, told him to take her there, hopped out, hailed another cab, and went back to the party. Hey, I was in work! I had a steady income for a change!!!
Reentering the party, I noticed that among the new guests was a tall bobbed-hair blonde with very long bare legs and somewhat large bare feet, toenails lacquered red, lounging on the sofa. And that was Bianca, so, young men, if at first you don’t succeed, etc., etc.... and this time the taxi proceeded to its intended destination.
Bianca was a masochist who loved being naughty. One of her typical pranks was to solicit an array of cane marks on her bottom before we’d lunch or dine with mummy when that executive was in town chatting to Head Office. ‘It’s a real kick, my knowing that you’ve given her beloved little girl a good thrashing while the three of us are sitting there making polite conversation and my botty’s positively GLOWING!’
No, we’re not together any more, and it all came to a head somewhere between Southampton and Tangiers. Mummy’s so-called primary residence (she had houses in three cities) was a sumptuous three-bedroom suite on a floating tax haven called ‘The World’, a luxurious ocean liner that never stayed long enough in one port to qualify any of its passengers as residents for tax purposes. It simply toured the globe, and those aboard remained untaxed.
When Attalie invited me aboard in England so we could meet her mum in Morocco, after which I’d be flown home of course I said yes. And then a night or so into the voyage she got drunk, nasty and during a long and unpleasant diatribe told me she didn’t give a shit about me and never had. We both knew she was a spoiled little rich girl but there are limits. She apologised in a cursory manner out of native politeness the next day but was still a bit cold towards me, and ‘in vino veritas’, after all. We’d still make love and physically it was fun enough- she did love her spankings- but I had a sense of dutiful hospitality to a now-tiresome and soon-to-be ex-boyfriend with whom she was trapped for a few more days.
On the last evening, the ship due to make port next morning, I got her slightly tipsy on Medoc over a medium-rare cut of Chateaubriand pour deux a la Sauce Bernaise in one of the superb restaurants aboard while remaining determinedly sober myself. Back in the suite, I seduced her lovingly ‘for old times’ sake’, as I put it, then gently but immovably bound her spread-eagled and naked with an array of her Hermes scarves to the oaken four-poster bed. Mummy didn’t scrimp on anything.
I looked at the beautiful athletic body stretched out naked before me, two silk-cased pillows stacked beneath her hips raising her bottom and at the same time rendering her even more immobile, sighed for what might have been, and genially remarked, ‘Your nails are in lovely shape; I believe you’ve had them done above and below to meet your mum tomorrow? Hands and feet exfoliated, nice and soft and sensitive?’
‘Yes…’, she replied, puzzled.
And I dropped all pretense, not giving a damn about acting for once. ‘You know we’ll never see one another after tomorrow. I was falling for you in spite of myself. Yet another person you’re bored with about to be tossed aside? No, don’t say anything. What I’m going to try might not have any effect, but if it does, and I hope so, I remember your mother proudly telling me that every suite onboard this ship had been meticulously soundproofed against engine noise and everything else. Obviously I’m not going to do anything to you that will leave a single mark or end up with me in prison, but I’m sure as hell going to make sure you always remember how you treated me for the rest of your life.
She stared at me.
‘So- let’s find out how ticklish you are, and where you’re most ticklish, and... well, darling, we do have all night.’
She continued staring at me and then tensed her jaw, looking nervous. I sat next to her, stroked her cheek, then slowly began fondling one of her expensively laser-depilated and thus forever hairless armpits. She started, and tensed. ‘Look, just let me go. I do have money of my own and I know you don’t. Five thousand quid and we’ll call it quits.’
No money of my own. Lovely.
‘No thanks, Attalie’, I replied, and told her why I called her that, and she glared angrily at me. Then I told her that once free I knew perfectly well that she’d not keep her promise. And then I told her that I was buying a five grand experience and I hoped she’d enjoy it.
I began by straddling her hips and making the lightest of tiny circles on her soft belly, feeling the gym-honed muscles fluttering. ‘GET OFF ME!’ she screamed, full volume, but I knew from the strangely dull sound it made that nothing could be heard outside, so I shouted along with her for a bit until she stopped.
‘See? Your mum was proud of the soundproofing, and so she should have been. Now, if you don’t mind, allow me to take advantage to it, and you as well’.
And my fingertips continued their little circles. She said nothing, just got tenser, and her eyes clenched shut. Then her lips began to tremble a bit and her breathing grew a bit ragged. Her first involuntary ‘HAAA!’ came when I slipped a fingertip into her belly button. Interesting. As the fingernails of my left hand continued to flicker over her now-trembling belly I would randomly insert the tip of my right forefinger into her navel at random intervals, and she began to gasp more and more. ‘We do have all night’, I reminded her pleasantly, and was rewarded with the slightest of whimpers.
‘Please just stop’, she began in her elegant Kensington vowels, and I replied that I wasn’t interested in hearing her speak, just laugh. And I continued flickering. Tonight was going to be something very long, self-indulgent, and frankly was the only time in my entire life when I genuinely set out to torture a girl because the nasty bitch deserved it. I couldn’t be bothered to imitate any of my favourite screen villains; this was just for me.
I started with a long, relaxed rib tickle, going gently enough so she could still think she was retaining a vestige of self-control while occasionally speeding things up to remind her she wouldn’t always be. Her face started to flush and beads of sweat dampened her forehead. Her eyes were closed, her body strained against the (magnificent quality, of course…) silk scarves, her bondage was holding up splendidly and she finally began to laugh, expression poised between helplessness and embarrassment. ‘Does it tickle, darling’, I cooed sympathetically. ‘It must be sooo dreadful for you. Especially knowing I can speed things up like THISSS, and it’s only your ribs so far’.
‘Now, are your ribs more sensitive, or perhaps your waist?’, I inquired solicitously, trying both in turn for a very long time. She wasn’t hysterical yet- I was pacing her. Money has insulated her from normality all of her life, and while I could never redress the balance or stop her returning to her old life, tonight was like The Wood Between the Worlds in the Narnia tales- a gap in temporality, timeless and infinite.
All she could move was her head, and she was frantically swinging it from side to side and slamming it harmlessly into the soft mattress as she laughed, harder and harder.
‘You know, that way whiplash lies’, I told her sympathetically. ‘You really mustn't thrash your head about. Here, let me help you’. And I plucked her Estee Lauder rejuvenating skin cream (with black diamond truffle extract, ground South Sea Pearls and flecks of 24 carat gold- quite the ingredient list on the label and I’ll never forget it…) from the nightstand, opened it, sat upwards of her between her outstretched arms while gently clamping her head between my thighs, slowly applied a large blob of the unguent under each of her arms and continued the night’s entertainment.
Her head now immobile, and my fingertips swirling in her slick armpits, her back arched and she began to scream with laughter- but not yet hysterically. I was still pacing her. She could get much louder and more out of control although she had no idea of that yet.
‘Oh, God’, she whimpered, ‘I had no idea I was so ticklish’, and if that sounds like I made it up it’s actually what she said, a phrase I’ve savoured and replayed in my mind for almost four decades. I’d been tormenting her for about two hours by then, allowing her rests and giving her sips of Perrier (naturally enough) through a straw, and blotting her forehead with a washcloth dampened with the same liquid. I wanted to sustain things by ensuring she remained conscious and told her so.
Kneecaps squeezed for a while as I lolled over her legs and listened to her howl, then fingernails lightly but relentlessly up and down her inner thighs for a good three quarters of an hour as she screeched with laughter, her hips rolled as much as her bonds would allow, and the juices from her untouched vulva trickled down to dampen the pillows beneath her. If she happened to become aroused I honestly didn’t care- I had no intention of satisfying her.
‘Backs of your knees for half an hour, dear?’, I asked her, and she gave a half-sob before I began.
And I’ll have to admit that this was getting tedious. The human mind is like that- luxurious surroundings, beautiful, very rich and very ticklish girl tied to the bed and begging for mercy- all the elements of the ultimate fantasy were in place and for some reason it just wasn’t happening for me. Looking back of course it should have been perfect, but maybe it was simply because the basic element of mutual regard was missing. Being human automatically comes with the caveat that nothing experienced, no matter how wonderful, will ever really surpass the original mental vision of it, and nothing ever happens twice with equal feelings of joy.
The backs of those knees were a real danger spot, and exploiting them with maddening gentleness for a while, I listened to her now rather boring shrieks of helpless laughter and promises of anything if I’d stop torturing her. With a rosy dawn breaking through the porthole I thought it was time to finish things, and told Attalie in loving detail exactly what that finale would entail. ‘…and rather a pity for you that your feet are so big, darling’, I concluded. ‘So much territory to cover will take me quite a while.’
She gave a soft whimper- I was unsure whether it was fear or outrage- and I took the final glop of her Truffle Face Cream or whatever the hell it was, and slowly anointed both her soles with it. I’d often given her half-hour footrubs, fifteen minutes per foot, which she loved although she insisted the pressure be quite firm because, as she put it very sternly the first time, ‘My feet are very ticklish, so just DON’T, OK?’
I briefly reminded her of that conversation, but a bit sadly because my ‘turd in a gilded cage’ period was at an end, and reached southward. No toe-sucking or foot licking this time- just a good half hour spent with fingertips and fingernails tormenting her incredibly expensively-lubricated feet- toes, tops, soles, and ankles until she was beyond hysterics- screams, sobs, begging, yet more promises of anything if I’d stop. But I didn’t.
For the grand finale, a simultaneous and rapid application of her treasured boar-bristled, beautifully-matched set of silver-backed, monogrammed Mason-Pearson hairbrushes, and she’d certainly made a point of showing them to me. Apparently the 'hand-tied and set boars’ bristles' were ‘simply the best thing imaginable for hair’, and one by one with her heel cupped in my hand they were very effective on the soles of her helplessly immobile feet as well.
‘Please, I’m going to pee myself’, she moaned, and my ears pricked up. The Spoonerism also occurred which surprised me as I’m very definitely not into golden showers- perhaps it was the total power exchange I found exciting. In any case, I sped up the ‘hair’brushing until her howls and screams rose to a fever pitch followed by an exquisite choked-off moan of deepest shame and humiliation as her bladder emptied into the silken pillows and drenched the silken sheets.
It was over. I let her cry for a while, then untied her. Cutting those scarves would have been vandalism. Far beyond having the slightest ability to attack me, she rolled to a dry portion of the bed and lay there sniffling quietly. There was nothing more to be said.
She showered, we dressed and breakfasted in eerie silence, and afterwards, since the stewards had already packed our bags, we proceeded to the flying customs and immigration point set up on deck- the rich needn’t queue up with the rest onshore. Passports stamped, we walked down the gangplank.
No point in my waiting around. I shook hands with her, said goodbye, got a taxi to the airport, changed my first-class ticket for the next available flight to London, and never saw Bianca again.
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
