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My husband drops me at the party. I’m wearing the expensive lamé mini skirt he’s bought me for the occasion. Italian metallic gold jacquard. It stops about two inches below my butt.

He kisses me, and I step out of the car.

“You sure this dress is OK?” I say.

“You’ve got a nice ass. Why not show it off?”

I do like the way the silver threads in the material grate gently against my bottom, like a dry sea sponge, through my silk Dior panties.

He grins.

“Have a nice time, babe.”

Even after ten years of marriage, my husband’s smile can throw me—a cheeky boy caught stealing apples—I guess you can never wholly understand another person. It’s what makes loving him so exciting.


It’s a warm evening. The skirt’s strapless, but I decide to leave my stole in the car.

Looking at Ralph sitting there behind the steering wheel in his old jeans and Guns n Roses T-shirt ready to drive off home I get this strange feeling, slightly forlorn.

I’m a full-on raging party animal, but suddenly I’m anxious.

“What about you?”

“I’ve got some work to do at home. Few things need sorting out for tomorrow.”

He glances at his watch.

“Don’t look like that, Georgia. Enjoy yourself. Let your hair down.”

Let me say at the outset. I love my husband. I’ve been totally faithful to him all the ten years of our marriage, and I know he’s been totally faithful to me. Ten years is a long time, but our passion’s never dimmed. He’s an imaginative lover and so am I. We’ve always found ways of keeping the spark from going out.

“How will I get home?”

“Get a taxi.”

“You’re not picking me up?”

“Afraid not. Too much work. I’ve got a case on tomorrow.”

For the first time in a decade I feel a twinge of uncertainty. Is Ralph dumping me at the party so he can hook up with another woman, and take her back to our house while I’m out? He knows that once I get going I won’t be home till morning. Is he planning a night with some other girl in our big, comfy bed?

“Go on. You’re the party animal.”

Ralph’s got a body to die for. He’s stunningly handsome. Loads of girls fancy him. It’s only the special thing he and I have that’s kept one of them from snatching him away from me, but suddenly our special thing doesn’t feel so special any more.

“Guess I’ll see you then,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

Ralph said the party was being thrown by a billionaire partner in his law firm. The house is certainly palatial. Gravel crunches beneath the Mercedes’ tyres as he drives away, and I’m on my own, tugging my skirt down before I mount the sweeping, Portland stone steps.

Bright light and loud music cross a border of roses and box hedging. The tall windows are open. Inside, people are dancing beneath glittering chandeliers.


Captain Hook. King Kong. Florence Nightingale. A Jedi.

It’s a fancy dress party!

And I’m standing here in a cocktail dress!

I hate being dressed inappropriately!

I spin round to shout to Ralph, make him come back, take me home. The Mercedes is turning out into the road.

Cleopatra. Homer Simpson. George Washington. Queen Victoria. Even from here I can see that the costumes are authentic. They’re magnificent.

I feel a stab of irritation. Ralph surely must have known it was a fancy dress party, and either he forgot or he deliberately left me standing here in this elegant mini skirt. The fact that it’s revealing—the slot neckline shows a lot of cleavage— is going to make me stand out even more: the sad little party animal so desperate to show off her body she didn’t hire a costume.

It’s a nice body, even a stunning one— I’ve done a bit of modelling— but as I walk up the steps, my catwalk stride deserts me, a five inch heel wobbles, I almost turn straight round and hail one of the taxis cruising past in the Saturday night traffic out in the main road.

I don’t. I press forward, through the Baroque double doors.

The music’s deafening. There’s a live band playing somewhere, in one of the many large rooms, but there are so many people, hundreds of them, it’s impossible to see where the stage is.

A hubbub of laughter and chatter breaks over my head.

As I enter the room the scent of roses is overwhelmed by cigars, smoked salmon, alcohol, perfume and perspiration. I’m an experienced enough partygoer to know when a rave is beginning to swing.

Moses and the Queen of Sheba are canoodling against a palm tree. Bonnie and Clyde are letting their hair down as if they’ve just pulled off a big bank robbery.

Then I get my second shock of the night: I don’t know anyone here! Not a single person. There are groups of guests, chatting or dancing together, who are obviously well acquainted, but there’s not a single face that I recognise. The fact that they’re all wearing exotic costumes, pirates toasting astronauts, cave women jiving with emperors, only makes them seem more tight knit and exclusive, and makes me feel more left out.

I can’t see any of Ralph’s colleagues, or his friends from other practises we’ve been to. Ralph gave me the impression that I’d be here to support him tonight, impressing prospective clients in my elegant miniskirt—I’m good at impressing prospective clients— and he’s dumped me amongst total strangers.

“Mask, madame?”

The doorman’s making fun of me, mocking my lack of fancy dress.

No he isn’t.

There’s a table by the door, with exotic masks spread out on it. Some of the guests are trying them on, supplementing their costumes. Marie Antoinette’s chosen a harlequin mask. John the Baptist’s strapping on a samurai mask. I guess they don’t want to be recognised, they’re intent on misbehaving.

I stare at the display: Aztec masks. Vaudeville masks. Monkey masks. Space man masks.

I want to hide. I don’t want my embarrassment to be seen.

I choose the biggest mask on the table. It’s a bird-of-paradise mask, slant-eyed, a fan of multi-coloured feathers and sequins covering my cheeks and forehead, and a golden beak that pinches my nostrils. The mask doesn’t cover my mouth, but at least people won’t see me blushing.

“Beautiful, mademoiselle!” says the doorman. I don’t trust his smile. “You’re ready to take flight.”

It’s my butt he’s smiling at, not my mask.

I plunge into the melee.

I grab a drink off a side table. Vodka and lime. Delicious. A waiter notices me standing with an empty glass in my hand, and tops me up. The staff are very attentive.

The music’s coming from the far side of the room. It has a throbbing tempo, like my racing heartbeat.

I squeeze through the crowd, and finally get a glimpse of the band, up on a stage, above the bobbing heads of people dancing.

I’ll dance. It’ll be a way of blocking out my isolation.


The music’s so loud, people are so engrossed in shouting at one another, they don’t even hear me. I have to shove and burrow to get to the dance floor.

“Excuse me.”

“Hang onto your husbands. Mata Hari’s coming through.”

He’s deliberately blocking me! The guy’s thrusting his belly, under a surgeon’s theatre gown, at me. He’s wearing rubber boots and a surgeon’s forehead lamp.

A blast of champagne hits me in the face.

“Hey, Mata Hari!”

He’s very pleased with his joke. I’ve no idea who Mata Hari is.

His paunch crushes against my tits.

“Need an operation?”

“No thank you.”

By the time I reach the dancing I’m indignant. If Ralph was here that bozo wouldn’t have spoken to me so rudely.

A waiter threads his way through the crowd. I grab another vodka.

The music’s hot. An old Kings Of Leon number I haven’t heard for years. The party’s so lavish it probably is the Kings Of Leon!

My heart’s pounding. A stiletto’s already tapping. I love dancing.

I swallow my second bitter pill of the night. It’s all couples. It’s partners only, out on the dance floor. Couples hopping up and down. Couples jitterbugging. Couples throwing themselves around freestyle. There’s not a single person dancing solo. My courage drains away. I’m not so sad as to go out there and dance by myself, the stupid little party girl, too up herself to wear fancy dress, so desperate she has to dance alone.

I swallow my drink, wondering who Mata Hari is.

“Would you like to dance?”

I’m susceptible to voices. His goes right through me. It’s quiet yet resonant, a tiger’s rumble with a velvet edge. He doesn’t need to shout to be heard through the music.

“No thanks,” I say. “I’m just about to go.”

I’ve done my half an hour in purgatory. It’s time to get that taxi.

“But you’ve only just arrived.”

He’s an inch or so taller than Ralph and, the way his tuxedo bulges, even more ripped than my husband.

“Have I?”

He’s just saying it. In a crowd this size I could have been circulating for hours without his seeing me.

“You arrived five minutes ago,” he says firmly. “I noticed you the moment you came through the door. My eyes haven’t left you since.”

I can’t help feeling flattered.

“I was just about to sort out that thug with the lamp on his forehead.”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

He’s the Phantom Of The Opera. He’s wearing an opera cape with red silk lining, a satin waistcoat and bow tie, and the Phantom mask.

“Who are you?” I ask.

I’m a little drunk.

“I mean. Who have you come as?”

My face burns. He’s unmistakably the Phantom. The original one. He’s wearing the full white mask, like in the black and white film, not the half mask of the musical. Under the white nose piece, broad sensuous lips smile at me. My husband’s lips are sexy, but this smile is something else.

“Not. You know...”

He makes a sweeping bow.

“The Of The is... here...”

I can’t help laughing. The way he sings it is hilarious. He’s joshing around, enjoying making me laugh, but his voice is actually so good he could make it onto the West End production.

“And you?”


“Who are you?”

My head swims. I’m drunker than I thought. I almost say Georgia. Then I remember:

“Mata Hari.”


He looks me up and down.

He seems to know the name. I wish I did.

A wry smile.


His aftershave smells expensive. I don’t recognise the scent, but its mint cool tingle cuts straight through my sweaty Coco Noir.

“Mata Hari. Yes. I should have guessed.”

I’m even more flummoxed as to who this Mata Hari is.

His hand’s on the small of my back. He guides me out amongst the dancers. I can feel his fingertips savouring the way the jacquard’s metallic warp presses against my skin.

I’m supposed to be calling a taxi, but we’ve already started dancing.

We fall into a loose jitterbug. I’m too squiffy to remember the steps exactly, but he leads decisively, and my feet find their own way as the music takes over.

I like dancing in high heels. I enjoy rocking on the edge of losing my balance, swinging out of control and feeling strong hands reining me in. I love holding onto the rhythm with the back of my legs and feeling it pulse up into my pussy as I let go.

I must be a bit of an exhibitionist. When he lifts my hand for me to spin beneath his arm, I can feel all the eyes in the room latching onto my skirt as it lifts, almost up to my split. The tingle in my pussy’s joined by a thudding in my chest.

He’s as good a dancer as I am. Nothing flashy, just super cool, like a masked panther stalking its prey, every move sexy and sure of itself.

I don’t have a problem with turning men on when I’m dancing. They like it. That’s what they’re here for, to be aroused. It’s all part of the fun. If I drive them past the point of no return, gorgeous hunks like this guy will always have some girl tagging after them they can get their rocks off with. I don’t consider it cock teasing. This guy’s no pimply teenager who’s never kissed a girl. There’s a noticeable bulge hardening the crotch of his trousers, and I’m already lubricating like crazy, savouring the feel of moist Dior silk adhering to my labia, but it’s still only a game.

At other parties, if a guy picked up the signals wrong and tried to come onto me, Ralph was always there to put him in his place. But Ralph isn’t here now. He should be here now. It’s Ralph’s fault if I’m getting in over my head.

The full lips flicker beneath the ghostly mask. I smile back. This guy’s something else. He’s reading the signals dead right.

The music changes to a slow number. It seems natural for him to take me in his arms, and for me to lean my body into his, and feel his hand move down my back and massage the crack of my arse through the scratchy material. His mint cool aftershave smells even better up close.

“I thought the Phantom always wore gloves.”

His fingers have reached the hem of my skirt.

“White gloves,” I murmur. “He never takes them off.”

“Not tonight,” he murmurs back.

His fingertips are already fanning out over the upwards curve of my arse.

“Tonight he’s looking for something special.”

He’s so funny, and cool with it.

There’s no denying that he’s erect. His cock’s stiff and hard. There’s plenty of it too. It’d be prissy not to rub my crotch against it a little bit, let my pussy spiral gently against his stiffness, like a slow motion Catherine wheel nailed to his stake.

His breath is warm against my ear.

“Mata Hari, eh?”

I put my head on his shoulder.

“I guess so.”

I can’t help chuckling.

“Why are you laughing?”

I’m getting a fit of the giggles.

“I don’t even know who Mata Hari is.”


The same delighted tone.

His fingers have reached my panties. A couple slip under the lace-y leg band. It’s time to tell him to stop, except I want to know who Mata Hari is.

“She was a famous dancer. She danced for emperors and prime ministers.”

“Oh. Right.”

I wasn’t asking for a history lesson.

A hand’s massaging my hair. But it’s his other hand I’m interested in, his knuckles packing out the moist silk of my panties, a finger gently slitting my labia like a wet, swollen envelope.

“She was the most seductive woman of her age.” He kisses my ear. “You’re the perfect Mata Hari.”

I want this to stop. People are looking. I need to tell him to stop, but my arms are losing their hold from around his neck, and my breasts feel nice, my nipples tight and aching, sliding down the stiff bib of his tuxedo, my weight settling onto his hand, sinking his finger inside me.

“She was a courtesan.”

‘Courtesan.’ The word’s entrancing. ‘Courtesan’ is like a hot drug he’s breathing into my ear.

“What do you mean a courtesan?”

His lips are inching down my cheek towards a kiss.

I always draw the line at kissing. I can be pretty outrageous at parties, but I never go as far as pashing. It gives all the wrong signals. The guy thinks he’s scored.

“A kept woman. A professional.”

We’re kissing. We’ve stopped dancing, and his tongue’s inside my mouth, and my tongue’s wrestling to get into his mouth.

He pulls away enough to breathe:

“A whore.”

And it’s me who’s battening on him, it’s my lips that are pinning his wider, it’s my tongue that’s raking the roof of his mouth scraping up every last taste of him.

I feel the beginning of a climax flutter in my stomach. I never usually come so quick, not even with Ralph. I’m like a teenager again, dry fucking out on the dance floor. I’ve never been so wet so quickly.

“Let’s go somewhere private,” he whispers.

I get a hold of myself.


I fight down the pleasure and drag myself away from him.

He’s looking around.

“There must be a bedroom somewhere.”

I’m pulling my skirt down. It’s too short. Everyone’s looking.

“No. I can’t. I’m.”

He grabs my arm.

“I’m going to fuck you.”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m married. I’m going home.”

He’s got hold of both my arms.

“No you’re not. You want to fuck? Let’s do it.”

The people around us have stopped dancing. It’s turning into a scene.

“Stop it.”

I break free.

The music stops. The band has reached the end of the number. The sudden silence is deafening.

“Go away! Leave me alone!”

He shrugs. A smile flickers on his lips. One corner of his lips is smudged with my lipstick. He grins at the gawpers. The Phantom can take it or leave it. They all look somewhere else as he strides off. I’ve never seen a man so angry in my whole life.

I head for the door. I see a waiter. I grab a drink off his tray and knock it back. This is turning into a nightmare. Vodka again, thank God.

I’m trembling. It’s Ralph’s fault. If Ralph had been here this wouldn’t have happened. A hot surge between my legs, even now as I head for the door, reminds me how close I came.

The party’s getting back into its swing. A woman admires my mask. Some asks me who I’ve come as. I can’t remember any more.

I’ve got to get home.

I find another vodka and swallow it in one.

I can’t stop trembling.

A guy says: “Are you OK?”

I pull myself together.

“Yes. Fine. I’m fine. Thank you.”

I’m at the door. The door man’s looking at me. I’ve got to get out of here, except—

—I’m bursting! It’s all those vodkas, all that lime. I need the toilet. In fact, I’m desperate. I suddenly realise that if I don’t find a Ladies in the next three seconds I’m going to wet myself!

I ask the doorman and he points me where to go.

I plunge back into the crowd.

I’m drunker than I thought.

I follow the waiter’s directions and end up in a room full of men huddled round a TV smoking cigars. They look up from the Hong Kong stock exchange and give me the eye. I bolt.

I have to stop every three seconds and clench my arse muscles. It’s impossible. I’m going to wet myself.

I stampede into a bedroom with a heap of coats lying on the bed.

I barge into a conservatory and interrupt some elderly matrons deep in gossip.

I finally find the toilet. I crash into a cubicle without bothering to lock the door, only just get my panties down and fall onto the toilet seat squirting jets of vodka-smelling piss. God it feels good.

By the time I’ve emptied myself the drunkenness is kicking back in even stronger, but this time it’s a pleasant, woozy buzz.

I pull my panties up. The crotch is wet with urine now as well as vaginal juice, but the dress is so short I dare not risk going home with no panties on.

I totter out to the mirrors.

A bird of paradise laughs at me above the taps and basins.

I pull the mask off and dab water on my face. I stand there, swaying slightly, looking at myself.

There’s a cut in the corner of my lips where he kissed me. My lipstick’s smeared on that side. My hair’s a mess where he ploughed his fingers through it. But it’s my eyes that shock me most. They’re wild. Half crazed. I look like a feral cat that’s just escaped from a snare.

Thank God it’s over. I haven’t brought a handbag, so I’ve no brush or make-up. I get my hair straight with my fingers. Luckily I have naturally wavy hair. It looks OK even when it’s mussed up.

Then it hits me.

I feel like killing Ralph.

No handbag. No purse.

No money for the taxi! I can’t get home. Unless I pay the driver at the other end, when I get back. But then I look so drunk and roughed up a taxi might not even take me.

No phone! I can’t even ring Ralph to come and pick me up!

I dump the mask in a bin. Enough bird of paradise for one night. One last look in the mirror, and I head for the door.

He’s waiting outside. The Phantom Of The Opera in a tuxedo and mask. He’s pacing up and down, breathing heavily under his white mask.

“Go away!”

I try to push past him.

“Leave me alone!”

He grabs my arm!

“Get off me!”

“God!” His jaws are clenched, like a man chewing poison. “Fuck!”

He’s staring at my face, drinking it in, hoovering me up with his eyes. I realise I haven’t got my mask on.

“You’re fucking beautiful!”

“Let go of me!”

I try to break free

He slams me against the wall and pins me there with his body, rubbing himself against me. He’s heavier than I thought. His tuxedo bib flattens my breasts against my ribs.

“Not till you tell me what you’re playing at.”

“I’m not playing at anything.”

I kick his legs.

“You want me to fuck you. Let’s do it!”

“No I don’t!”

I rake his shins with my heels.

“Get off me!”

I turn my head to scream and a large, perspiring palm slaps across my mouth.

“Stop it!”

His knee’s between my knees, forcing my legs apart.

A crowd of people laughing and chatting at the end of the corridor, no more than twenty feet away, seem oblivious of what’s happening.

“You want my cock in your pussy.”

I try to shake my head, but it’s clamped against the wall.

“You’re dying for me to fuck you!”

I try to bite his hand.


His fingers are inside me. Three thick fingertips drag my panties aside and hook themselves in my pussy.

“You’re a juicy bitch, aren’t you!”

He’s right. My labia are slippery wet. They slither against his palm.

He thumbs my clit.

“I’m gonna juice you up and make you cum all over my hand, you teasing bitch!”

There’s a sensation in my stomach as if a nest of snakes is thrashing around in warm venom.

Two partygoers stroll by arm in arm. I half break free but he grabs me again and forces me against the wall. The couple don’t bat an eyelid.

He pins my arms behind my back and drags me along the corridor kicking at doors. One of the doors swings open. He pushes me in.

Inside, there’s a light on, but the room is empty.

Wardrobes, a dressing table, a lacquer screen. A bed. It’s a bedroom.

He shoves me hard. My woozy buzz has turned into staggering giddiness. The backs of my knees catch on the bed and I topple backwards onto the bed. He looms above me. His eyes are two crazed glints in the featureless white mask. His hands pluck at his waist. He’s unbuckling his belt.

“I’ll teach you to play games with me, you bitch.”

I try to scramble off the bed, but he pushes me back. He grabs my panties and yanks them down.

“I didn’t!”

I kick out at him and my panties get trapped between my knees. I go to stand up. My shoes tip and shoot from under me on the springy mattress. I crash onto my back. My panties are skimpy, silk, seashell-pink, with a ribbon woven into the waist, there’s almost nothing of them. They snap tight as a ligature round my knees as I struggle.

“Get off me!”

My skirt’s up round my waist. He grabs it and pushes it above my tits, a jacquard rope digging into my armpits.

I scream. The door stays shut.

He steps out of his trousers. His cock looks much bigger than it felt rubbing myself against it when we were dancing. The tip’s massive. It’s too big.

“Please don’t.”

“Mata Hari! You fucking whore!”

He gets one of my feet free of my panties and forces my legs apart.

He plants the tip of his cock between my labia. I clench as tight as I can, but my pussy’s slithering around everywhere.

He kneels between my legs and pins me to the bed.

“You want to know how a cockteaser tastes?”


“You want to know what a cockteaser tastes like?”

“Please. No.”

“You want to taste a bit of whore?”

The tip of his cock ploughs up and down my labia, slithering from my clit to under my gash. For an instant I think he’s going to penetrate me anally.

“Taste it!”

He’s kneeling on my shoulders.

I twist my head away.

The tip of his cock’s an inch from my lips. It glistens with wetness from my labia and a milky smear of pre-cum.

“Take it!”

I put it in my mouth. I close my lips around the giant head of his cock.

“Lick it!”

He’s right. His pre-cum tastes sweet and heady, like hot wheat germ, but there’s a sharper, even headier savour that’s me.

“Swallow it!”

I swallow it.

Something crazy’s happening. There’s a melting warmth in the back of my throat. My mouth’s trying to get his cock further down to where the melting sensation is. I can’t breathe. My windpipe’s a socket receiving his thrusts in a molten sweetness.

I hawk up some mucus and his cock rams in and out of a delicious squelching wetness. I can feel how much he likes it, and hawk up some more spittle. His cock goes crazy. His cock forgets that my mouth is just a mouth. His shaft no longer realises that it’s just lips and teeth and a tongue and spittle it’s fucking. It’s ramming in and out of a delicious, squelching swamp, faster and faster. The need to cling onto it with my teeth, hold on to it, bite it, becomes ecstatic. My mouth’s fucking his cock as much as his cock is fucking my mouth. I can’t breathe. When he comes it will be over.

Trails of perspiration trickle from under his mask.

“Mata Hari?”

I can’t breathe. He pulls his cock out of my mouth. He’s panting.

“Mata Hari?”

I shake my head.

“A whore?”

I nod. Yes. I’m a whore. I want him to put his cock back in my mouth. I want to suck him off. I want to swallow his cum, make him stop.

“You know what happened to Mata Hari?”

He’s gasping for breath.


“They shot her! They put the treacherous whore up against a wall and shot her!”

I push myself backwards into the sheets and spread my legs so far apart it hurts.

This time there’s no slithering around, no hoovering up juice from between my legs for me to taste. His massive tip finds me with one savage thrust. I’m wide open. His cock impales me. My pussy’s gaping like a mouth aghast at the amount of rage pumping in and out of me. He’s out of control.

I feel my legs spreading further in a desperate plea. I want him to stop. He’s going to hurt me. Incoherent grunts struggle between his frantic panting, ‘cockteaser’, ‘slag’, ‘whore.’ He’s insane. His buttocks are shuddering like a spooked stallion’s shoving the massive prong in and out of me, bigger than anything I’ve ever felt inside me before, bigger than I can take. He’s going to tear me to pieces.

Suddenly his massive tip is banging into the very deepest part of me, as far as I can take it. A spongey wall of need quakes as he rams into it. A nest of snakes writhes down from my belly, from the orgasm I never had when we were dancing. The spongey wall’s butting back, grinding at his tip, catching fire as my pussy melts and all at once it’s my pussy that’s gripping him. My pussy’s mouthing at his cock, clinging to it. My bum lifts off the bed. My coccyx jerks backwards and forwards. I’m riding him stroke for stroke. I’m in heat. I’m rutting him wilder and faster than he’s impaling me.

“Yes. Yes. Oh yes. Please. Fuck me. FUCK ME!”

I’m insane. I’m madder than he is.

I rake his back with my fingernails. I claw and scratch. I’m a tigress jumping a spooked stallion. I’m tearing him to pieces.

“You want my cum, whore?”

I feel the climax gathering at the root of his cock, a helpless jolt in the relentless pumping as if something’s become disconnected.

“Yes. Yes. Please.”

“You want me to cum in your pussy?”


My heart stops. Something unknits in my backside. Molten ecstasy rears upwards past where my belly’s writhing, and takes me by the throat as a deluge of hot semen explodes inside me.


I can’t tell whether it’s him or me who yells it.

I wake in the dark. Outside the door I can hear voices and music. The music seems quieter than it was before, the voices further away.

My hand feels across the bed beside me.

It’s empty. He’s gone.

Something tickles against my throat. A metallic weave. Jacquard.

It’s my skirt. It’s up round my neck. My bra’s come loose. A strap strays down my belly. A cup’s jammed under my arm. I can’t remember him unfastening it.

There are bites, teeth marks, deep, still stinging, smarting on my breasts.

I try to move. I feel a sticky mess of cold semen and cum juice between my legs, the tickle of dried perspiration on my thighs. My labia hurt, but my pussy’s still ticking, like a melted candle.

I can’t remember what happened. I was some kind of animal. Yes. A tigress mating with... My head aches... a stampeding stallion.

The sheet’s damp and rumpled. I feel around beside me. The stallion’s gone.

I have no idea what the time is. I can hear that the party’s still going, out in the corridor, but it sounds more subdued than it was before.

I dig the bra out from under my arm. The strap’s broken. There are holes at the back where the hooks have been torn out. I drop it on the floor.

I groan as I roll off the bed and onto my knees. Standing up’s much harder than it should be. Surely I didn’t drink all that much. I was sober enough to go to the toilet and tidy myself up. I wasn’t like this when I left the ladies.

I stand up. I’m naked from above my breasts down.

The skirt’s choking me.

It’s still gathered up round my tits and under my armpits. I pull it down.

I can’t find my panties anywhere.

I remember hearing them tearing.

Without any panties on, the skirt feels even shorter than it was before.

There’s nowhere to wash off the smelly mess between my legs. My smell as much as his. I can’t believe I came like that, with him, as he...

I take a deep breath and walk to the door.

I have no idea how I’m going to get home. The last thing I feel like doing is staggering out into the street and searching for a taxi looking, and aching, like this.

That’s if there are any taxis. God knows what time it is.

“Nice evening, mademoiselle?” says the guy on the door. The way he says it, I wonder if he can smell spunk, or he see where our juice has crept down below my hem line.

Outside the night’s roasting hot. It feels as if it must be hours after midnight, but the air’s still heavy with traffic fumes.

I walk down the drive and out onto the sidewalk.

My heels sound wobbly on the late night concrete.

I scan the passing headlights for taxis.

There aren’t any. I’m going to be stuck here all night.

A silver Mercedes swoops into the kerb.

“Hi, baby. Going somewhere?”

For a second I don’t recognise him.

“I thought you were busy.”

“Not too busy to come and see how my girl got on tonight.”

He opens the door and I climb in.

“I got on fine, thank you very much.”

His Phantom cape and waistcoat are in the back seat, but he’s still got the tuxedo on. The white mask’s lying on the dashboard.

I don’t put my seat belt on. I move over towards the driver’s seat. I want to be close to him.

We slide through traffic lights, past neon signs grilling the darkness lurid reds and greens and purples.

Ralph takes it steady. He wants to get home as badly as I do, but he’s stretching it out, savouring the expectation.

I nod at the high heel boot on the accelerator.

“You’ve grown.”

He smiles.

“No I haven’t.”

Buttons are popped open on his tuxedo bib.

“Have you been working out or something?”

He laughs out loud. The beautiful warm laugh that I love so much.

“Of course not. You’re imagining things.”

“No I’m not.”

I reach across and touch his flies. I run my knuckles up his erection. I feel his cock. My Ralph’s cock again. Not a spooked stallion’s any more.

“I swear you were bigger tonight than you’ve ever been.”

He laughs.

“Impossible. It’s all in the mind.”

He reaches across, feels between my legs.

“What happened to your panties?”

I smile at the city flickering by.

“Let’s get home,” I say.

I’m ready.

It’s not all in the mind at all.




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THE NIGHT I PICKED UP BONE-O: Driving a taxi’s hard, especially nights, especially if you’re woman, an ex beauty queen supporting an out-of-work private eye. It gets even harder when Faye picks up hunky Bone-O Capitelli and a girl, and has to listen to them making love in the back seat. The girl, however, leaves her handbag behind in Faye’s cab, and when Faye returns it next day, the girl’s dead, Bone-O’s a gangster, and Faye’s drawn into his conspiracy to scam six million dollars from a Bolivian gun runner. The honeytrap puts Faye’s life in danger. She needs her boyfriend, Frank, to get over his obsession with watching her have sex with other men, and start doing some real investigating.

ME AND LEE HENNESSY’S SEX CLUB: Jemma’s always felt confident with sex, but right now she’s on a downer, forced to leave university and work in a grungy computer repair shop because her family have been driven into poverty by ruthless businessman and nightclub owner, Lee Hennessy. When Lee Hennessy leaves his laptop to be repaired and Jemma finds a video of the man she hates performing in a live sex show at Midnight Special, his members only nightclub, she sees an opportunity for revenge. But venturing into Midnight Special proves more dangerous, and Lee Hennessy more powerful, than she ever dreamed. Enslaved, imprisoned, a star performer—far from bringing him down Jemma could end up as corrupt as the sex club boss herself.

THE PROBLEM WITH MICRO THONGS: Clea’s relationships all go the same way—nine months, and what she thought was love ends up as a night in with toys and a blue movie. She’s just home from the Mediterranean, a sun-sea-n-sex attempt to patch up her latest affair, and what souvenir has her boyfriend bought for her? A genuine Greek kid micro thong. There must be something wrong with her. When she has sex with a stranger in a pub toilet—a wounded soldier, on the run from his regiment, with stolen evidence of a defence procurement scam—she knows she’s hit rock bottom, unless the emptiness he leaves behind when he’s arrested, is the beginning of real love. Her search for the soldier takes her into the murky depths of arms contracts backhanders and government corruption. Her need to know if this emptiness is really love leads her to Afghanistan during the British withdrawal, and to a mountain battlefield, and possibly to at last finding out whether you can love someone you don’t know.

FIRST TIME SECOND TIME AROUND: It’s Nam Huan’s first night working as a prostitute. It’s her chance to earn some money and see the Bangkok high life, except… the handsome politician who’s booked her, has paid top dollar for a virgin, and Nam Huan isn’t a virgin any more. She slept with her boyfriend the night before grandfather sent her to the escort agency in the city. Her customer is going to be very angry when he finds out. Nam Huan’s attempt to trick him could put her life at risk, especially as she doesn’t realize that he wants a virgin to use in a black magic ritual. Things get out of control when the sinister politician becomes infatuated with her, and Nam Huan risks losing her innocence, and forgetting the boy she left behind in the village.

OUTTA HERE: It’s the morning of Johnny’s release from prison, four years, three months, twenty one days and sixteen hours since SandraLou held the man she loves in her arms. Johnny’s told her to steal a Chevy. He wants to ride home in style. Unfortunately, the Chevy Belair SandraLou hotwires, outside the ‘Raging Bull’ nightclub, belongs to a hit man hired to kill an FBI agent investigating a snuff movie operation run from the prison, by the prison governor. Worse still, parking the stolen Chevy in the prison car park, SandraLou scratches the governor’s Mercedes. When Governor Philpott catches them making love in the stolen Belair—they couldn’t wait to get back to the trailer—and Johnny shoots up his car with the hit man’s Glock, they’re in big trouble.

PARTY ANIMAL is one of ten '…seriously dirty, seriously well written…' stories in 10 HOT READS

ABOUT ME: I am thirty six, mixed Thai and English. I grew up in East London and studied English Literature at the University Of East London. I live with my American boyfriend in Hua Hin.


Text copyright 2018 by Niu White

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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