The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was a bright Saturday morning and, with her cleaning chores around the flat completed, Phoebe had begun pondering what she was going to have for lunch. Then there was how to fill the afternoon. She wondered if she should simply sit reading or whether she had the energy to work more on writing her novel. She was sure that it was going to be the best 18th century romance on the market, once she had finished it, of course. With that thought she wondered if, in addition, she should head to her favourite café and either sit there with some book that would make her look interesting or her laptop with her novel on it. She was convinced that one day a wonderful man would be impressed and they would strike up a conversation that would lead to the kind of romance she wrote about. London was full of eligible young men and she was sure that some of them saw a little more than meaningless sex, as important. It was finding that right one that was the challenge.

Then again, sex, well, she was sure they would want it in time. Phoebe was no virgin, though to admit it always made her strangely nervous. She guessed it was because she felt embarrassed by her sexual history. She was not overly proud of her body and none of the men she had slept with at university—well, the three, rather imbalanced towards the first year—had ever praised it. From what Phoebe understood, they had not derived much pleasure from the encounters, certainly not enough to repeat it more than once.

Of course, there had been Craig at college, but with him Phoebe knew she had failed completely. His boyish charms had proven to be a result of him being gay though not really knowing it until he had tried it on with her. That had led Phoebe to worry she was too manly in appearance. As a result she had then gone overboard with feminine styles until she realised then that all men, her tutors included, now thought she had lost all her brains. Phoebe wondered if she was a lesbian but any woman she identified as being lesbian looked unattractive to her, so that option had been off the cards reasonably quickly. She had heard six million people in Britain lived alone and she guessed she was going to be in that category.

The doorbell rang and Phoebe was a little surprised. Having DVDs or books delivered was often the highlight of her week. However, as far as she recalled, she had nothing on order at present. She was more worried than ever now that the system at the front door to the block was broken and people seemed able to penetrate right up to her flat without difficulty. Trying to be positive, she told herself it might simply be that someone had made a mistake with the flat number or even a neighbour who wanted to borrow something. She had met a couple of her neighbours but conversations had never endured more than three minutes. Phoebe went to the door of her flat and cautiously looked through the spyhole. There was a woman standing there with blonde hair cut in a short style and dressed in black, but fashionably, well in the kind of stuff Phoebe saw in weekend magazines rather than what she would wear, of course. The woman looked pretty well off and that made Phoebe imagine that she had the wrong address.

“Phoebs, Phoebs, it’s Siobhan.” The woman called abruptly through the door.

For a moment Phoebe was alarmed that this woman knew her. Was she someone from university or even from work that she had forgotten about? The woman looked to be ten or fifteen years older than herself. Maybe she had been one of the mature students. Anyway, it was probably best to get her sorted out before her noise attracted the neighbours’ attention. Phoebe released the locks and opened the door. Then, seeing the face undistorted, she realised with a jolt that it was Auntie Siobhan, her mother’s younger sister.

“Auntie Siobhan.” Phoebe said a little apologetically.

“Are you thirteen Phoebe?” Siobhan asked critically. “We’re all grown women here. I’m Siobhan.”

Then she threw her arms around Phoebe and hugged. The aroma of leather came strongly to Phoebe’s nostrils. Finally her aunt released her and Phoebe ushered her into the flat. Siobhan was in a tight-fitting biker-style leather jacket with ribbed sleeves; skin-tight black jeans and smooth leather riding-style boots to her knee. As Phoebe looked at her aunt, she mused on how the ‘yummy mummy’ uniform of Britain today, in the past, would have made the wearer look like a biker or even a stormtrooper. Perhaps that was the point. While there was something sexy about the outfit, there was an air of authority too; an extension of the big black 4x4s that so many of these women charged around the suburbs in, asserting their right to do whatever they chose.

Phoebe led her aunt through to the flat’s small living room dominated with rows of books and DVDs. Siobhan had a large bag with her and Phoebe wondered if her aunt intended to stay. She guessed she did not mind too much. While she would have welcomed a warning, Siobhan and her husband Rob were some of the best of Phoebe’s relatives, not that she saw many of them these days. Phoebe made some coffee and got out some oatmeal biscuits. By the time she had returned Siobhan had shed her jacket to reveal a scooped black top with lace detailing.

“Is it all black?” Phoebe asked.

Siobhan chuckled. “It can be. I like lace and leather, well and dark red too. How about you?”

Siobhan looked over her niece—the old university sweatshirt, shapeless jeans and cartoon pattern socks.

“I guess you’re not heading out.”

“No, well, I don’t … I don’t dress up anyway.” Phoebe confirmed. “I don’t tend to go out at night much.”

“So, you’re busy snuggling up with someone?” Siobhan grinned.

Phoebe blushed trying to remember if her aunt had always been this embarrassing.

“No, no-one except perhaps Edmund Bertram.”

“Not even Mr. Darcy?” Siobham joked; Phoebe remembered she was well qualified herself. “You’re not gay … you know—a lesbian and afraid to come out?”

Phoebe shook her head wracking her brain to come up with something to say to get her aunt on to another subject.

“No, no I am not.”

“Well, I am not fussed either way. However, you know what concerns me?”

“No; what?”

“That you’re not getting enough.”

“Enough what?” Phoebe asked but as she did she regretted it.

“Sex, of course. Here you are in London …”

“The outskirts of London.”

“Earning enough money to afford to rent a decent flat in what looks like a good area and yet you sit up here as if locked in a tower waiting for the prince to turn up. That isn’t going to happen. In the meantime life is passing and you’ll be thirty and paranoid and neurotic and end up living back home either becoming my sister’s companion or simply a replica of her and that would be a waste; a real waste. From what I picked up from Tom and Elspeth about you, I had a fear that was what was happening, so I had to come here and hand over my prized possession before it is too late.”

Siobhan reached into her large bag and pulled out folded green material. She pushed it into Phoebe’s hands.

“What is it?” Phoebe asked as she unfolded.

It proved to be a long, oversized shirt with buttons up the front, but otherwise plain, without pockets. The pale green shade and small ringed piercings through the material showed it was meant for a woman. It had a light sheen to it and Phoebe imagined that it had silk interwoven with the soft cotton.

“I’ve had it a while, but you know, shirt dresses are in style; even ahead of the summer.” Siobhan said with enthusiasm.

“You wear it as a dress?”

Phoebe could not imagine it reaching far beyond the top of her thighs. There was something about it even more challenging, the thought that you could simply unbutton it, or even be unbuttoned from it, and you would simply be in your underwear.

“It’s my sex shirt.” Siobhan confessed, simply confirming Phoebe’s prejudices.

“’Sex shirt’?” Phoebe gave a shudder at the term. “What do you wear under it?”

“Depends on the time of the evening or the morning; sometimes nothing. Of course, you could put on some leggings if you have to for the evening, but afterwards, when your still glowing; eager for more, but have to pop to do something, well, there’s something sooo good about having this on and nothing else.”

Siobhan closed her eyes and looked to be recalling sweet memories; Phoebe blushed at that thought. Siobhan might be younger than her sister, Phoebe’s mother, but there was still that unease that made considering anyone in their forties, certainly anyone with children, still having sex.

“I remember once, when I was a bit younger than you, being in a petrol station and seeing a woman in a large, white shirt, but—it seemed—otherwise naked; running from a car on her bare tiptoes. It was clear that she and the man she was with were simply stocking up for a bed party. God, that sense that I could have a man I so much wanted to have sex with; to get back into bed with after a night of passion …” Siobhan grinned. “When I found this and started using it the same way, I knew I had got there.”

Phoebe imagined this was as much a play act on her aunt’s part. From what she knew of parents, once the first child arrived, sex was strictly limited to procreation. Once the children were old enough to leave home, the parents were too old and too tired to do anything more than sit down and watch ‘cozy’ television programmes.

“Now with Jo and Ben it’s over?”

Siobhan looked incredulous. “Is that what you believe? Is that what they teach in schools these days, let alone at university? In my day it was public displays of getting condoms on cucumbers. Is it now all just work, work, work? Maybe there is more to be done than I realised. Yes, Rob and I are parents, but there’s such a thing as babysitters—your Mum; our Mum, friends of ours; sleepovers for the kids at friends’ houses. Yes, it needs some planning but it’s not beyond the reach of intelligent people. Weekend breaks, sex on a train, sex in a field; swingers’ clubs, some dogging—it’s all out there. Sexual liberation happened before I was born; it was history before you came along. Have the Puritans really taken so much control?”

Phoebe let the words roll over her but battled to prevent her mind envisaging her aunt and uncle in any of these scenarios.

“So—this shirt; this dress … you want me to put it on and somehow, well … become like you?”

“No, silly. Not me, but maybe like how me, and people I knew were, when we were your age. Life moves on very, very fast and as they say, you regret what you failed to do not what you did. I am not saying just go out there and shag anything that moves; have sex; very, very good sex and when you are my age with a man, or a woman, that you have good sex with, you’ll be that much happier, you know that?”

Phoebe realised that she was rather overwhelmed by all that had been revealed today. She felt she should think less of her aunt than when she had arrived. However, she had to recognise that it was done in a spirit of love; of concern for her welfare, no matter how wrongly placed Phoebe felt such concerns were.

“So, what are your plans for this evening?” Siobhan asked.

Before Phoebe could reply, her aunt had pulled a bottle of prosecco from her bag and pushed it into the freezer.

“Erm, well, I was deciding between a book or a DVD. Would you like to watch something?”

Siobhan laughed abruptly. “I didn’t come to London to sit on a sofa watching some drama. I could do that at home. No, I had the hope that you might be off to some party or an event.”

“No, that’s not my life Siobhan.” Phoebe said; her irritation that her aunt was telling her how she should live being undermined by a sense of disappointing her.

“Well, that needs to change. You can do all those things in thirty, forty, fifty years’ time, not now.” Siobhan said insistently.

Siobhan reached into her leather jacket and pulled out what were clearly two tickets. For a moment Phoebe imagined they were for some loud rock concert. As her aunt put them on the table, however, she saw they were for a gallery; a private viewing. It was hardly raucous and she felt that perhaps she had misjudged Siobhan. Maybe it was something Phoebe could have organised herself. Was the impression that her aunt appeared to have—that she was becoming a recluse—actually based on truth? Was it that easy to fall into ways that meant she detached from the world? Maybe she did not have the sexual objective that Siobhan was focused on, but she certainly had no desire to retreat from society entirely.

“Right. Go and get changed and then we will see if the wine’s chilled enough.”

“Changed?”

“Well you can hardly expect to get any interest if you turn up looking like a couch potato from Boise or Des Moines.”

Phoebe had a vague idea that Boise and Des Moines were towns in the USA rather than France and probably located in a backwater at that. She accepted her aunt’s chivvying. Once she had prided herself on looking well turned-out at events, but somewhere down the line, that had fallen by the wayside and comfort had become dominant.

“Okay, okay.” Phoebe protested but it was with a smile.

She headed for the bedroom.

“Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?”

Phoebe turned back and Siobhan tossed her sex shirt at her. Phoebe caught it.

“You expect me to wear this?”

“Of course. A private viewing, well, there might be some hot young artists there or some rich businessmen or just someone who might want sex with you.”

“What if there’s not?”

“Then what have you lost? Better to go prepared than to see someone you fancy and he look through you as if you’re the intern just there to direct visitors. Is it so odd for you to be considered a grown-up woman with her mind on culture but with an eye to some pleasure?”

Phoebe thought to challenge this, but found it difficult to reject Siobhan’s portrayal of what she could be. She suddenly felt an urge to actually prove that, despite her aunt’s concern, she could be that kind of woman. Phoebe went to her bedroom and changed her underwear to a rather plain, but black, set. She put on a pair of plain black leggings and some flat-heeled ankle boots in the same colour. Despite wanted to contest Siobhan’s view of her, Phoebe still preferred to blend in rather than stick out. Reluctantly she put on the sex shirt. She let it hang loose down past her waist, thinking that it did look distinctive and realising it felt good on her skin. However, it seemed like a step too far and quickly she put a narrow belt on around her middle so that it looked more like a top than a short dress.

Phoebe dug out her small collection of make-up, put on a little mascara and a low-key lipstick. She replaced the studs she habitually wore with what she thought of as her ‘arty’ earrings that she thought she remembered Siobhan had bought her. She pulled her hair out from the bun she almost always kept it in, and tied it into a loose fishtail plait. She hoped all of this would be sufficient concession to looking ‘sexual’ to satisfy her aunt.

“Needs more work.” Siobhan said as Phoebe returned. “That is supposed to be used like a dress; a shirt-dress.”

“You said it was a sex shirt.”

Siobhan gave a sound of exasperation. “We don’t have time to sort this out now. It seems like I’ll have to come back and finish my work another time.”

Phoebe said nothing in response, concerned that she had become a project for her aunt and it would be difficult to shake off her attentions.

As she sat silently on the underground train, Phoebe wondered if she was being a little harsh on Siobhan. It seemed apparent that she loved her niece and wanted the best for her, at least what she felt was the best, no matter if Phoebe disagreed. Then Phoebe wondered if Siobhan’s portrayal of her sexual adventures were exaggerated. However, she began to think back to visits to Siobhan and Rob’s house in the past. For a start they always seemed to be kissing and hugging each other, she remembered that. It was something that marked them out from her own parents. Then she began to recall the outfits her aunt had worn, typically figure skimming and things like the discreet tattooes and the number of earrings she wore. Perhaps none of that was exceptional these days, but, with combined the new evidence, they appeared to add weight to, rather than detract from, the picture Siobhan had painted.

For a moment Phoebe remembered something she had overheard on a train pretty much like this one which she had gathered was about dogging and she began to envisage Siobhan in a tight top, a short skirt and long boots, to protect her knees, as she knelt to suck the cock of a stranger. She anticipated those images jarring, but instead now felt they fitted well with Siobhan. From that, Alex, or Xander as he preferred, always making those jokes about having ‘mad, passionate sex’ with her somewhere outside, came to mind. Phoebe had dismissed the comments as laddish humour from her neighbour but wondered if that had been in fact him trying, and in her case, failing, to communicate something genuine.

“Not dropping off?” Siobhan asked abruptly over the noise of the train.

Phoebe shook her head, then was a little surprise at how her hair felt sweeping across her shoulders.

“You look like you’re going to an appearance in court rather than a fun and sophisticated evening out with the hottest woman on this train.” Siobhan chided.

Phoebe smiled, but realised that her aunt was in fact causing some interest among a number of male passengers. Perhaps it was the tightness of her clothes and the smooth leather; maybe there was something in her confidence; her sexual alertness, that was alluring as well. ‘Sexy is as sexy does.” Who had said that to her? Had she read it? Then she remembered it was Marcella, who had been a good friend when she had first come to London but had not been in contact for ages. Maybe it was inevitable because she had slowly begun to obsess about doing ‘something interesting’ and dragging Phoebe to loud events the breadth of the capital. As she reflected on it, Phoebe found she now felt some nostalgia for those nights.

Soon they were at the gallery, its bright lights shining out among the closed shops and offices around. There were quite a few people there but it was not overly crowded. Siobhan pressed some white wine on Phoebe which did not taste too bad. However, she found she felt a little light-headed and tried to remember how much of the prosecco they had drunk. The art work was modern but Phoebe always made sure she kept an open mind to these things. She did prefer the paintings to the sculptures.

“I’ve got to go to the Ladies.” Siobhan explained. “Text me if you decide to go off with someone sexy while I am away.”

Phoebe nodded and smiled, patting her handbag where her smartphone was stashed. She was sure that she had come out with the leather satchel she habitually took. However, she found in fact she had on the smaller maroon handbag which she could not remember having out of her wardrobe in months.

“Which do you like the most?”

Phoebe was brought back to the here and now abruptly by a male voice beside her. She turned to see a tall man with black hair. He was in his twenties and from his accent she imagined he was from Spain, perhaps South America. He was dressed in a mid-blue jacket over a collarless white shirt.

“Sorry erh … what did you say?” Phoebe stuttered.

The man smiled revealing a mouth of strong bright white teeth. There was something relaxed about him that Phoebe felt was transmitting itself to her.

“I just wondered which of the three paintings you preferred.” He nodded to the wall. “I see you concentrate on the paintings rather the sculptures and you look most at those with forms, people, buildings, more than the abstract.”

It took some moments for Phoebe to realise that this man was right.

“Yes. You are observant.” She responded, laughing nervously.

For a moment Phoebe wondered if she had acquired a stalker or if this man was going to tell her she should not have been there.

“Have you been watching me?”

“How could I fail not to?”

Phoebe laughed again. “You are smooth.”

“You don’t like that?”

For a moment Phoebe was going to say ‘no’ but something halted her. “It depends … it depends on the man.”

“Well, that is fair.”

“As for the paintings, the one on the left is my favourite.”

“Ah, interesting. Why?”

Phoebe again felt this was a kind of test.

“It reminds me of Chirico’s work and I like that.”

The response rather startled Phoebe herself and it took some moments for her realise she had dredged that information up from something she had read as a teenager. Back the she had wanted to seem intellectual, little knowing that all her studies would just win her a dull job in a tax office.

“Which other artists do you like?”

“Mondrian, Kandinsky and … Miró.”

Phoebe realised she had slipped in the last to see if the man was indeed Spanish. He smiled in response.

“A good selection. You’ll have to come to Barcelona to see his museum.”

“Are you from Barcelona?”

The man smiled. “You recognise my accent?”

“It was just a guess. I am Phoebe from London … now.”

“Are you a Titan, an Amazon or a dryad?”

Phoebe’s grandmother had once told her of all the things named Phoebe, including a moon of Saturn, some birds and a flower.

“A good question.” Phoebe vacillated.

“In that dress, I think you’d do well as a tree dryad.”

“It’s not a dress; it’s a sex shirt … or so I’ve been told.”

Phoebe realised what she had said and felt herself blush from her face to her feet.

“Now, are you really an Amazon or have I gained something in translation?” He smiled warmly.

“I am sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I must apologise. I was told to wear this shirt; it’s apparently some kind of family heirloom, you’re meant to wear if you think you’re going to have sex. No, I didn’t mean that, sorry, I am making a mess of this.”

“Why are you apologising? You are a young woman on an evening out, why wouldn’t you think you might be having sex tonight?”

“I am not in a relationship. I don’t do this sort of thing.”

“What? Attend private viewings?”

“Yes, no, well, no, I meant, go around saying that I dressed up because I wanted sex. No, I don’t mean that, because that’s not what I did.”

“But you did, why not be honest about it?”

Phoebe felt a tingle, particularly from her breasts and her pussy. She scissored her naked legs awkwardly and she found she was conscious of the silkiness of the shirt against her skin. It was as if her body was telling her to be honest and to see where it might take her.

“Yes … er, no, sorry. Yes, the whole plan was to come here and find a man for sex. I have to confess that. It was not my plan, I must say.”

“But you went along with it?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And have you been successful?”

Phoebe laughed. “If I had, would I still be here?”

“Well, you clearly like the art and you know … delay, anticipation, they are very good at building up sexual feelings.”

“I suppose you are right.”

In that instant, Phoebe found that she wanted sex with this man. She licked her gloss-painted lips but that simply made her think of how this man’s lips might feel kissing her.

“You are an enigma. A woman who seems in control; knowing what you want, but then denying it.”

“Do you think I am a tease? Do I irritate you?”

The man smiled shaking his head with his eyes closed. “No it … excites me.”

“Excites you?” Phoebe asked a little incredulously.

“Yes, complexity is exciting. Exploring emotions, how we feel—that is exciting. I think sex with you would be very different than with many other women.”

“Is that what you like?”

“Do you mean: is that what I would like to do?”

Phoebe shuddered as she realised that within her grasp was the possibility of her having sex with this man. She did not even know his name and yet that gave her a greater frisson. She realised that there was a heat, even a slickness in her pussy. She looked down to see her nipples prominent against the material of her shirt-dress. She pressed her hand over mound worried her excitement would show. Glancing down she could envisage her juice slowly running down her naked legs to the simple but sassy caged stiletto heeled sandals she wore below. A little nervously she brushed back her long hair, dyed sherry red, from her face; her hand brushing over the three silver rings in her left ear.

“Yes.” Phoebe said softly, knowing it was true. “I wouldn’t have put my sex shirt on otherwise.” She added though the confidence was faked.

Phoebe now found it difficult to push imaginings of this man’s body from her mind. There was an ache in her to press herself closely to him. He stepped up to her and bent to kiss her lips as if they were well known to each other. Phoebe wondered at why she did not resist, but then she knew she wanted this and was enjoying it.

The man stepped back and gently took hold of her hand. “Do you want any more anticipation?”

Phoebe hesitated but then slowly shook her head. She lifted her free hand and raised her index finger. “However, Señor Barcelona,” she marvelled at how Spanish she made it sound, “you know my name and …”

The man laughed and this time blushed himself. “Well, you do that to a man, do you know that? Make him forget everything he’s … well, I was going to say ‘meant to do’; but its more that you make a whole lot of other things a priority; you’ve got that power.” He hesitated. “Cayo.”

For a moment Phoebe wondered if it was a made-up name or one he had picked at random. However, she realised that she was no fool; perhaps more perceptive than she had realised. Nothing Cayo had done suggested he was a liar.

Phoebe looked around for Siobhan but there was no sight of her. She reached into her small quilted leather handbag and pulled out her smartphone. For a moment it looked unfamiliar; of a more modern design than what she thought she had. She left that for the moment and texted her aunt.

“Come on.”

Phoebe said, giving an air of more confidence than she felt. Her body seemed to be telling her that if it was going to get what it needed tonight, she had to at least behave as if she knew what she was doing.

“Nice place.” Phoebe said as she walked into Cayo’s studio flat.

“Oh, it’s not mine. It belongs to a family friend, but I use it when I’m in London.”

Over the meal in a Lebanese restaurant Cayo knew—Phoebe did not know why she had not tried Lebanese food before, she found it tasty—she had found out a lot more about Cayo. He was a postgraduate student in the study of fine art and an artist himself. He focused mainly on contemporary British artists, hence him being in London.

“It looks good. Do you bring all the women you pick up back here?”

Phoebe grinned broadly to show it was not a criticism. In the restaurant she had learned that Cayo felt too young to settle. Once Phoebe may have baulked at the implication but tonight it seemed to make no difference. She wanted sex with him, it was as simple as that. As she had sobered on the taxi ride to the flat, she wondered if it had been just the prosecco or the wine at the gallery but now knew it was her lust, for real, that was driving this. There was a hunger in her that was exciting and one that she knew she had sate. Dimly she thought back to what she had done in the taxi, taking Cayo’s hand and sliding it under the hem of her shirt to rest on her thigh, to slide closer to her sex which she was sure was giving off so much heat he must have sensed it. She wondered how wet the lacy thong she wore down there would get.

“Do you usually take the men you pick up back to your place, once you have ensnared them with your sex-shirt?”

Phoebe chuckled. The shirt, she knew, was ideal for coming back from an encounter like this. In her own flat she would be in something more revealing right from the start. For a moment she wondered what clothes she might be thinking of, but then knew there were more urgent issues to tackle. She closed on Cayo and pressed her lips on him, seeking out his tongue with her own. She staggered back against the wall and found herself hitching up her shirt dress. Then she felt Cayo’s fingers, tugging down her thong so it was soon at her ankles. As he stooped she pressed her mound through the silkiness of the dress, against his head, loving the weight of it against her sex which was begging for attention.

Then he was up and his cock was curving large and so hard out from his light canvas trousers. Deftly he sheathed it and as it bumped against her loosed pussy lips, Phoebe simpered at the feel of the condom’s ribbing; this man knew what he was doing. Then he slid into her so easily, his hand grasping to tease her breasts and his mouth kissing and licking her neck and her own lips. He was strong, lifting her up to position her well on the end of his cock. Phoebe loved the urgency of this sex and knew she could not have tolerated anything slower; her body needed this man and needed him in her now.

The back and forth motion of the ribbed condom, was almost too much for Phoebe to cope with and she found that the shrieking was coming from her. She panted and gasped, tossing her richly red hair back and forth as an orgasm seemed to rise up inside her. This was just what she needed and Phoebe squeezed all of it—physical, mental and emotionalm—into her mind, looking forward to the flashbacks in the days to come. Of course, this was only the first of the three bouts of sex they had that night, in increasingly levels of undress—on the sheepskin rug on the floor and then in the bed itself.

Phoebe had had brunch with Cayo and taken his number. At the moment she had no desire for all the complications of a relationship, but she knew she had found a man who was good at sex and that was not something that came along that easily these days. She was also genuinely excited about his invites to Barcelona. She was not really sure where she had picked up the Spanish she knew down the years, but it now all seemed to be coming back to her. She also fantasised about being painted nude by Cayo and having it on display back here in her flat.

As she had hoped, flash backs of the night before kept coming back to Phoebe on the train ride home. She had showered at Cayo’s and carefully dried her long hair, leaving it loose the way she liked it. However, dressed in her sex-shirt, with her naked legs and her bare feet back in her caged heels, she was sure everyone looking at her knew what she had been up to. She even found a few packets of condoms and spare silk panties in her handbag and remembered that she had gone out prepared. She guessed she could count the last evening as a great success in that respect.

Phoebe padded into her flat and sat down at the kitchen table to take off her shoes. Her new leather jacket was slung over the back of the other chair but she knew she had been sensible not to take it, the weather was warm enough now and the underground was always warmer still. As she walked to the lounge, however, catching sight of her over-the-knee suede boots stood close to the front door, she did think how good they would look with her sex shirt.

Slumping on the sofa, Phoebe checked through the messages she had received on her smartphone. There were a number from her mother.

“Ah, there you are.” Phoebe’s mother said with some exasperation. “You weren’t at home last night.”

Like many mothers, Phoebe’s still monitored her children using the GPS system in their phones. Phoebe realised that she had not thought of it before, but now wondered if she could disable that function.

“I went to a gallery, a private viewing. I met a man, a nice guy from Barcelona, I stayed over at his.”

“Oh.” Was the only response Phoebe got from her mother.

For a moment, she wondered if she should have made up a lie. However, there seemed no point and in the long run it only made things more complicated. Anyway, she was sure her mother was very clear of the kind of life she lived in London. Some moments of silence went on and then Phoebe recalled something she had forgotten with all the snogging and sexing.

“I saw Siobhan.”

“Who?”

“Your sister, Mum.”

“Oh, your Auntie Siobhan.”

Phoebe gave a silent laugh at that.

“Have you spoken to her much recently?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes. I doubt it was her you saw.”

Phoebe had no doubt it was her aunt, but was intrigued at her mother’s response. “Why?”

“She’s in Seattle. Rob and her somehow both got jobs out there; took the kids too.”

“Oh, okay. How long has she been there?”

“Six or seven months. I am sure I told you at Christmas.”

“She’s not popped over here on any chance?”

“Not unless she decided to do so since Wednesday. I spoke to her on Skype and she was certainly in Seattle then.”

“Oh, okay.”

Phoebe responded; she did not think too highly of her mother’s technical ability, or indeed remembering times and dates precisely, given how similar every day was for her.

“She asked after you; how you were doing in London. She seemed very concerned whether you were having a good time.”

“That is good of her.”

“Well, I said that we did not really like you working up there and couldn’t wait for you to get a transfer to an office down here. She was very anti that, however. I would not really take much notice of her opinion. She was going on about how she’s into all this Wicca stuff now, you know casting spells and all that guff.”

An impression was slowly building in Phoebe’s mind that perhaps her aunt’s skills were far from being ‘guff’ and she wondered what impact they might have had. Looking around the flat, however, nothing much seemed out of place and it might be that Siobhan simply had a magical equivalent of Skype and sending gifts through the mail.

“I am glad she is well. I’ll Skype her myself, see what it’s like out there.” Phoebe suggested, though in fact had very different questions in mind.

“Well, I am not having you moving to the USA: London’s far enough.”

“I have no plans to leave London just yet.” Phoebe answered lightly. “Mum, I have to go, I think there’s someone at the door.”

“Okay.”

In moments the call ended with the usual farewells and exhortations to Phoebe to do the ‘right’ thing. She realised that her senses had been right and there was someone at the door. Phoebe jumped up and found a young bearded man in a blue fat check shirt over a teeshirt and tight black jeans. He was shorter than Cayo, but had a sleekness about his limbs revealed by what her wore.

“Hi.” He said.

“Hi. What can I do to help?”

Phoebe smiled realising that she had spotted her own give-away sign. Whenever she found she fancied a man she asked an open question rather than one for a yes/no answer. The man smiled at her question.

“Thanks, that’s nice.” He responded almost coyly.

Phoebe now realised he had begun to look her over, from her brazen hair across the tight shirt dress down to her naked legs. She found she liked that.

“Well, do you know Marcus? Across the hall there?” The man gestured to the door to one of the other flats.

Phoebe distantly recalled a young man coming out of there and wondered why she had paid him so little attention.

“Vaguely.” Phoebe lied.

“It’s just he’s … well, we’re supposed to be off to see this movie. I can’t get him on his phone.”

“He’s probably sleeping it off with a woman.”

The man smiled at that. “Perhaps.”

“I am sure he’ll be back soon. If he’s on the tube, he won’t have a signal.”

“Oh yes, sure.” The man conceded.

“Well, come in. You can wait in here for him. That makes sense doesn’t it?”

“Yes, thanks, thank you.”

Phoebe turned and led the way in, walking in a way which she felt conscious was giving a good view of her bum as it slid back and forth beneath her dress.

“A drink? Coffee?”

“Sure.” The man said.

“I’m Phoebe.”

“Nice name.”

“And you’re …” She said feeling she had learned her lesson.

“Mackenzie, Mac, people call me Mac.”

Phoebe got proper coffee going, trying to remember when she had graduated from instant and returned to the lounge, taking the chair opposite the one Mac was sat in

“That’s a nice dress.” Mac said.

Phoebe felt his confidence had faded a little and she imagined that many men became more nervous when they encountered a woman showing confidence in herself. However, quickly her hunger had returned and Phoebe realised she had had not had sex for ten or so hours. It was the weekend and that was what you did. Added to that, she would be foolish to pass up a chance with a man who dropped into her lap which, once more, seemed to be heating up.

“It’s not really a dress, it’s a sex shirt.” Phoebe smiled broadly as she stood and walked over to Mac.