Here is an idea I have been toying with and decide to commit and bite the bullet, I would love to hear people’s feedback on it
Friday night, 7:42 p.m. — Linda’s bedroom, absolute mayhem
I hollered over the racket, because of course Linda’s got Alexa on permanent dramatic mode. “Alexa! Play ‘What’s Love Got to Do with It!’” and straight away Tina Turner filled the room.
There I was, in front of the mirror, nothing on but a thong and my hold-ups, tits doing their own choreography while I tried to decide between two leopard tops — one snug, one criminally snug. I did a little twirl, felt ridiculous and delicious all at once.
“Pam,” Linda snorted from somewhere under a pile of lashes and cosmetics, “one of these days those knockers of yours are going to get caught in a door hinge.”
I laughed, cigarette dangling from the corner of my mouth like some kind of tired glamour queen. “Jealous, love. You’ve been eyein’ ’em up all night.”
Her answer was classic Linda. “I’m eyein’ ’em up because they’re in me peripheral vision even when I’m not looking.”
I wiggled my bum because why not, and opened my compact for a final check. Lipstick needed topping up — bright red, glossy, properly filthy — so I added another coat with the practiced flourish of someone who’s had decades to perfect a look that says ‘trouble with a teabag’.
The room looked like a beauty counter exploded: shoes everywhere, lashes stuck to the lampshade, half of Superdrug’s stock spread across the bed. Two half-empty bottles of wine on the dresser, and some glittering gel had somehow ended up in the laundry basket — probably the cat, probably me, who could tell?
I grabbed my unnecessary leopard bra and shoved it on without fastening the back. It did the job — in a wholly dishonest, lift-and-spank sort of way — and I posed for Linda, because if you don’t pose, what’s the point?
“Right,” I said, striking what I hoped was a sultry angle. “Does this read ‘available but dangerous’ or ‘lost custody and surprisingly okay with it’?”
Linda nearly choked on her rosé and laughed so hard I thought she might wet herself.
Just then the door creaked and in barged Dave — bless him, Linda’s long-suffering third — with a fresh bottle and two glasses. He stopped dead like someone who’s accidentally walked onto a stage he didn’t buy a ticket for.
There we were: two half-naked women, Tina Turner doing its thing, perfume and sweat and smoke hanging thick. I flipped my hair and blew him a cheeky kiss.
“Alright, Dave,” I said, cocking a hip. “If I’d known you were coming up, I’d have put the other one away too.”
He looked like a rabbit in headlights. “Er— I just— glasses—”
Linda, unbothered, snaffled the bottle and topped up her goblet. “You can look, Dave,” she purred. “Pam’s had more views than a YouTube fail compilation.”
So I did one more pose, arms up, boobs wobbling in full, unapologetic glory. “Oi! These are vintage, thanks very much — like a fine wine. A bit dusty round the rim but still full-bodied.”
Dave made a panicked little sound and retreated out of the room, bottle clutched like a lifeline.
“Cheers, Dave!” I called after him. “And if we pull later, thanks for the lift — you’re a good egg!”
Door slammed. Linda wiped mascara off her cheeks between giggles. “You’re gonna kill him one of these days, you know.”
I took a drag, blew the smoke at the mirror because I’m very theatrical when I’m ready, and tugged the top over the bra — just low enough to cause a couple of traffic accidents on the way home.
“He’ll die with a smile on his face,” I said, and meant every wicked word.
Friday night, 7:42 p.m. — Linda’s bedroom, absolute mayhem
I hollered over the racket, because of course Linda’s got Alexa on permanent dramatic mode. “Alexa! Play ‘What’s Love Got to Do with It!’” and straight away Tina Turner filled the room.
There I was, in front of the mirror, nothing on but a thong and my hold-ups, tits doing their own choreography while I tried to decide between two leopard tops — one snug, one criminally snug. I did a little twirl, felt ridiculous and delicious all at once.
“Pam,” Linda snorted from somewhere under a pile of lashes and cosmetics, “one of these days those knockers of yours are going to get caught in a door hinge.”
I laughed, cigarette dangling from the corner of my mouth like some kind of tired glamour queen. “Jealous, love. You’ve been eyein’ ’em up all night.”
Her answer was classic Linda. “I’m eyein’ ’em up because they’re in me peripheral vision even when I’m not looking.”
I wiggled my bum because why not, and opened my compact for a final check. Lipstick needed topping up — bright red, glossy, properly filthy — so I added another coat with the practiced flourish of someone who’s had decades to perfect a look that says ‘trouble with a teabag’.
The room looked like a beauty counter exploded: shoes everywhere, lashes stuck to the lampshade, half of Superdrug’s stock spread across the bed. Two half-empty bottles of wine on the dresser, and some glittering gel had somehow ended up in the laundry basket — probably the cat, probably me, who could tell?
I grabbed my unnecessary leopard bra and shoved it on without fastening the back. It did the job — in a wholly dishonest, lift-and-spank sort of way — and I posed for Linda, because if you don’t pose, what’s the point?
“Right,” I said, striking what I hoped was a sultry angle. “Does this read ‘available but dangerous’ or ‘lost custody and surprisingly okay with it’?”
Linda nearly choked on her rosé and laughed so hard I thought she might wet herself.
Just then the door creaked and in barged Dave — bless him, Linda’s long-suffering third — with a fresh bottle and two glasses. He stopped dead like someone who’s accidentally walked onto a stage he didn’t buy a ticket for.
There we were: two half-naked women, Tina Turner doing its thing, perfume and sweat and smoke hanging thick. I flipped my hair and blew him a cheeky kiss.
“Alright, Dave,” I said, cocking a hip. “If I’d known you were coming up, I’d have put the other one away too.”
He looked like a rabbit in headlights. “Er— I just— glasses—”
Linda, unbothered, snaffled the bottle and topped up her goblet. “You can look, Dave,” she purred. “Pam’s had more views than a YouTube fail compilation.”
So I did one more pose, arms up, boobs wobbling in full, unapologetic glory. “Oi! These are vintage, thanks very much — like a fine wine. A bit dusty round the rim but still full-bodied.”
Dave made a panicked little sound and retreated out of the room, bottle clutched like a lifeline.
“Cheers, Dave!” I called after him. “And if we pull later, thanks for the lift — you’re a good egg!”
Door slammed. Linda wiped mascara off her cheeks between giggles. “You’re gonna kill him one of these days, you know.”
I took a drag, blew the smoke at the mirror because I’m very theatrical when I’m ready, and tugged the top over the bra — just low enough to cause a couple of traffic accidents on the way home.
“He’ll die with a smile on his face,” I said, and meant every wicked word.
