squirmy with
arousal. Finally, turning off the taps of a very overfilled bath,
she walked back into her room and sat on the edge of her bed to
look at what the camera had captured.
A rush of feelings –
shame, pride, pleasure – washed over her as, for the first time in
her life, she sat alone flicking through pictures on her phone of
her naked torso, head missing, arms out towards the mirror where
she stretched to take this body selfie, deleting more than she
kept, until just three photos remained on her phone.
They stayed there,
those images of her bare breasts, while she paused and slid into a
bath so deep that despite the slowness of her actions, foamy water
slopped over the sides, soaking the blue towelling mat on the
floor. She clutched at thoughts of Rich as she sought reasons not
to send what she so keenly wanted to, but, much as she loved him,
and she did, she couldn’t stir up even the slightest rousing of
doubt about what she was about to do. It was just too fucking
inevitable and she was intoxicated by the insane, stimulating rush
of it.
After her bath, Megan
picked the favourite of her photos, fiddled a little with the
brightness and contrast, then added it to an email. She checked the
address at least 15 times, and her hand hovered over the send
button while her entire body tingled.
Then click.
Megan sat staring at
the screen of her phone as the email vanished with a whoosh of
noise into the digital silence. She sat fixated for 11 minutes. She
checked the address was correct again, repeatedly convincing
herself that she hadn’t, as per her worst fear, sent that email to
her boss or to her mother-in-law in error.
That initial wave of
arousal was being progressively replaced by a creeping self-disgust
as she began to question what the fuck she’d been thinking. Had he
asked for that? I mean, really? And she read back through his
earlier replies searching for clues as to where she might have
misunderstood his intent.
Under this cloud of
low-grade mortification, Megan walked downstairs, switched on the
kettle and placed a teabag into a cup. She wrapped the thick
woollen shawl that hung by the back door, along with the family’s
coats, tightly around her nightdress. Taking the scalding drink
with her, she went outside into the darkness and sat on the small
step that led down into the back garden.
Phone at her side, she
stared up at the glittering clear sky of that early autumn night
over Hastings and sipped, the combination of chilly air and the
insignificance of her frets in the face of the wider scheme
grounding her somewhat.
The unmistakable
echoing ping that heralded the incoming message sent a gush of
excitement through her as she grasped the phone, keyed in her
password and stared.
“Well, wow, sweetie,
just wow. Now THAT is a prize worth having. So beautiful. I love
it, them. Thanks. I wish we could talk now, sweetie. Same time
tomorrow?”
Relief swept over her
and she felt suddenly tired; there was nothing to do but sleep.
Typing an “X” in response, Megan grabbed the mug and went inside,
leaving the shawl over her shoulders until the very moment when she
threw it on to the floor beside her and slipped exhausted into
bed.
6.
LittleGirlLost
Tamsin walked
through the front door of the 1930s bay-windowed semi-detached
house in which she had grown up, velvet duffel bag in hand, and
continued straight up the stairs. Her mind was idling in neutral,
as it had been since she kissed the old man goodbye on the platform
at Piccadilly station before stepping on to her train.
Her parents and her
younger brother were out living their daytime lives, and so she
walked unnoticed into her childhood bedroom, throwing the bulging
bag on to the floor and herself on to her single bed.
Staring up at the
ceiling, she tried, as she had done for the past five hours, to
understand what, if anything, she was feeling, but without success.
There was a dull, weary nothingness, combined with an ache she
finally
arousal. Finally, turning off the taps of a very overfilled bath,
she walked back into her room and sat on the edge of her bed to
look at what the camera had captured.
A rush of feelings –
shame, pride, pleasure – washed over her as, for the first time in
her life, she sat alone flicking through pictures on her phone of
her naked torso, head missing, arms out towards the mirror where
she stretched to take this body selfie, deleting more than she
kept, until just three photos remained on her phone.
They stayed there,
those images of her bare breasts, while she paused and slid into a
bath so deep that despite the slowness of her actions, foamy water
slopped over the sides, soaking the blue towelling mat on the
floor. She clutched at thoughts of Rich as she sought reasons not
to send what she so keenly wanted to, but, much as she loved him,
and she did, she couldn’t stir up even the slightest rousing of
doubt about what she was about to do. It was just too fucking
inevitable and she was intoxicated by the insane, stimulating rush
of it.
After her bath, Megan
picked the favourite of her photos, fiddled a little with the
brightness and contrast, then added it to an email. She checked the
address at least 15 times, and her hand hovered over the send
button while her entire body tingled.
Then click.
Megan sat staring at
the screen of her phone as the email vanished with a whoosh of
noise into the digital silence. She sat fixated for 11 minutes. She
checked the address was correct again, repeatedly convincing
herself that she hadn’t, as per her worst fear, sent that email to
her boss or to her mother-in-law in error.
That initial wave of
arousal was being progressively replaced by a creeping self-disgust
as she began to question what the fuck she’d been thinking. Had he
asked for that? I mean, really? And she read back through his
earlier replies searching for clues as to where she might have
misunderstood his intent.
Under this cloud of
low-grade mortification, Megan walked downstairs, switched on the
kettle and placed a teabag into a cup. She wrapped the thick
woollen shawl that hung by the back door, along with the family’s
coats, tightly around her nightdress. Taking the scalding drink
with her, she went outside into the darkness and sat on the small
step that led down into the back garden.
Phone at her side, she
stared up at the glittering clear sky of that early autumn night
over Hastings and sipped, the combination of chilly air and the
insignificance of her frets in the face of the wider scheme
grounding her somewhat.
The unmistakable
echoing ping that heralded the incoming message sent a gush of
excitement through her as she grasped the phone, keyed in her
password and stared.
“Well, wow, sweetie,
just wow. Now THAT is a prize worth having. So beautiful. I love
it, them. Thanks. I wish we could talk now, sweetie. Same time
tomorrow?”
Relief swept over her
and she felt suddenly tired; there was nothing to do but sleep.
Typing an “X” in response, Megan grabbed the mug and went inside,
leaving the shawl over her shoulders until the very moment when she
threw it on to the floor beside her and slipped exhausted into
bed.
6.
LittleGirlLost
Tamsin walked
through the front door of the 1930s bay-windowed semi-detached
house in which she had grown up, velvet duffel bag in hand, and
continued straight up the stairs. Her mind was idling in neutral,
as it had been since she kissed the old man goodbye on the platform
at Piccadilly station before stepping on to her train.
Her parents and her
younger brother were out living their daytime lives, and so she
walked unnoticed into her childhood bedroom, throwing the bulging
bag on to the floor and herself on to her single bed.
Staring up at the
ceiling, she tried, as she had done for the past five hours, to
understand what, if anything, she was feeling, but without success.
There was a dull, weary nothingness, combined with an ache she
finally
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