Task 1

They’d been chatting for weeks while her

husband slept and she felt sure that

He was the one to give her the

discipline she felt she lacked at home, his

words so articulate, encouraging and

arousing that she went to bed and

woke wet, so when he spoke of

tasks he would set her she said

yes and meant it though her

heart refused to stay still.

On the bus back her thoughts were

jumbled by the stomach-twisting truth of

what she’d done, the excitement

jostling with her shame, the heat of the

club, the half-remembered language of

unspoken lust, the forgotten easiness of it all as she

held all the cards and men just wanted them

dealt, the dirty dancing, the

tug on the wrist, acquiescence, the

chill of the carpark, gravel biting knees.

She waved her children farewell as they

whooped into school, then finished her text:

“Task 1 completed, Sir” and

thumbed through the photographic proof for the

best shot of a stranger’s cock in her mouth, the

best shot of his sperm

decorating her face as she looked like a

chick demanding food, and the

December gloom looked different as she

breathed deeply and pressed “Send”.