Wendy has a kink that her husband doesn’t share. She had thought, when she married him, that she could leave it behind her, but now, six years on, she knows that the longing for it will never leave her, and she’s not sure how much longer she can resist the urge to satisfy it.

She fantasises about it all the time now – when he’s between her legs, licking her cunt, when he unzips in the kitchen, bends her over the table and takes her from behind, even when she’s alone and just folding clean laundry. No matter how hard she tries to force herself to think about other things, her mind always ends up wandering back that.

When he goes away on business, she cracks. She wakes early and knows that today will be the day. She dresses in her favourite outfit, takes her time over her make up, makes herself come while she waits for the kettle to boil. And then she gets the bus into town.

The department store has what she’s looking for, she knows that already – she goes there sometimes to stroke them longingly, to feel the cool metal buttons between her fingers. They have his size, the dark denim that he prefers. Everything that she’s wanted is within her reach now.

‘Can I help you madam? What kind of thing does your husband like?’

She blushes, in spite of herself. ‘Oh no, no, I’m fine, thank you.’

Only one part of her plan remains. When that is done, she pours herself a large glass of wine, and runs a bath. Her husband is due back that evening, but she’ll have to wait until the following morning for her fantasy to play out in full. The bit where he opens his wardrobe and, seeing three brand new pairs of button fly jeans, asks ‘Where are my old ones?’

‘The ones with the zip?’ she’ll ask, sweet as anything. ‘I cut them up.’


Greg has been training for the marathon since before Christmas. He knows it’s been tough on Vanessa – they haven’t been on many weekends away because of his long runs, and the training takes up most of his evenings, too. He hates to think of her at home by herself, passing her evenings painting her nails and watching TV. He’d rather be curled up next to her, rubbing her feet, rather than putting plasters on his own, as he’s mostly been doing recently, but he loves her for encouraging him to take this challenge on.

The day before the race, she comes with him to pick up his race number. Someone takes a nice photo of them together, and he makes it the background on his phone – a reminder of the two things he’s proudest of.

On the morning itself, as she kisses him goodbye, she promises, ‘I’ll be there, cheering you on. I’ll try and move round the course a bit too, so I get to see you more than once. Make sure you wave!’

The knowledge that she’s watching spurs him on. The thought that she believes in him, that she knows he can do it. The love for her courses through his body, makes him run faster, puts him on track for a personal best. His feet are sore, his nipples are chafing, and he can’t see her in the crowd, but it doesn’t matter. He knows she’s watching somewhere.

He’s not wrong. She is watching somewhere. She’s watching – kind of – on a TV in someone else’s living room. A TV that’s switched to the marathon by chance. A TV that’s turned on mainly so her lover’s housemate can’t hear her frantic gasps as her lover licks her cunt for all he’s worth.


Ursula owns a beauty salon. It’s a successful business, and she’s proud to have built it up from nothing into something that not only pays her a good wage, but pays for two other full-time employees as well. She’s not only good at massage and painting nails – although she is good at those things – she’s also a gifted saleswoman.

She remembers everything about her clients’ relationships. She knows who’s on Tinder, who’s been with their partner for years but isn’t yet married, who’s recently had a baby, who has a crush on the lifeguard at the local pool.

Does she exploit that knowledge?

She prefers to think of it as doing her customers a favour.

She usually brings it up when they’re in a vulnerable position – just waking up from having drifted off during a back and shoulder massage, or as she has their hand in hers, gently rubbing in hand cream before she paints their nails a delicate pink.

‘How’s your boyfriend?’ she asks, slyly, or ‘Is your husband well?’ The response is almost always the same – muted mutterings about how things could be worse, could be better.

And then she prefers to be direct. ‘When did you last get waxed?’ she asks. ‘He’d like that, wouldn’t he, if you went home all clean and smooth? What a nice treat for him!’

Her clients wonder how she knows that it’s been ages, or even never. That the best they ever do is a quick swipe of an old Gillette razor on a Sunday evening.

‘I have a spare half an hour now, if you have time,’ she says, and it works, well, probably 80% of the time.

It works because they look at her, with her neat chignon and her false lashes, and her white starched dress, and they imagine her immaculate underneath, too.

Which is untrue. Ursula has never waxed in her life.


Tatiana has told all her friends that her new boyfriend is an actor. She keeps meaning to ask him what he’s been in – it has been nearly three months, after all – but somehow she just hasn’t got round to it yet. Anyway, he has another job for the moment – he sells cars, which is a bit cringey – she doesn’t like to think of him being all smarm and fake charm, but, as long as he doesn’t turn the charm on too thick when they’re together, she can cope with it.

Her friends, though, want to know. ‘Ask him what he’s been in,’ they protest. ‘Does he know Jude Law? Gillian Anderson? Can he get us cheap tickets for the National?’ They’re obnoxious like that, judgey. It doesn’t even occur to them that maybe he’s just been in more low-key stuff, stuff they might not even have heard of.

One night, they meet in the pub and, by the time she gets there, there’s already a glass of Prosecco on the table waiting for her. And he has one, too, that he’s nervously sipping from. None of these things are like him, and it occurs to Tatiana that he might be about to propose.

‘What are we celebrating?’ she asks, as she sits down. ‘I hope it’s something momentous!’ She’s trying to lighten the mood.

‘I got a part,’ he says, ‘A big one.’

‘Congratulations!’ she replies. ‘You didn’t tell Nr you were auditioning! Let me guess, you’re going to be … Macbeth!’

He laughs, deep and heartily, and she’s pleased she’s succeeded in cutting through the tension.

‘Not quite,’ he says, ‘but it is a lead role. I’m going to be one of the seven dwarfs in the village pantomime. I’ve got fifty-six lines to learn!’

Tatiana almost chokes on her drink. The village pantomime? What the fuck will she tell her friends? And would it be wrong to book a skiing holiday for that week and pretend it was in the diary before he found out?

Because she can forgive anything, anything but am dram.


Susie has been asked to make the wedding cake. She doesn’t want to make the wedding cake, but she’s never been good at saying no, and it was especially hard to say when faced with Annabel’s literal trilling.

‘But Maxie wants you to have a role, darling! He wants you to feel included!’

Susie disagrees. If Max had really wanted her to feel included, he’d have married her, rather than dumping her for Annabel in their second year of university. Still, she doesn’t say as much to Annabel. She just says ‘I guess I could do that.’

She’s not a professional baker, but she does bake, y’know, regularly. Her colleagues love her cakes. Max used to love her cakes. She’s got this, much as she’d rather not have.

Annabel is the type to want white and traditional, Susie knows that, but also, if Annabel wanted something specific, she should have bloody said, shouldn’t she? Susie is not really the traditional, three tier, fondant-iced type. She prefers things that are more modern, cooler.

And so she bakes Annabel and Max the cake that she would have wanted, if she’d been the one marrying him. It has the three tiers, sure, but not the white sugarpaste – in fact there is no sugarpaste at all. She bakes her signature ‘naked’ cake – three layers of vanilla sponge sandwiched together with lemon buttercream, the whole thing decorated with fresh fruit.

‘I hope you like it,’ she says to Annabel on morning of the wedding, all smiles.

Annabel is too polite to say otherwise. ‘I … yes, it’s lovely.’

‘I’m so glad,’ Susie replies. ‘After all, I know Max prefers things plain.’


Rebecca loves make up. It starts in the morning, when she puts her lipstick on for the first and only time that day. She doesn’t put on much other make up because, after work, she has an appointment at one of the beauty counters in the big department store, and she doesn’t see the point in making them take off her all make up just to reapply it.

The fun begins when they ask her what kind of look she’s hoping for – more every day, or evening – and she knows she can’t tell them what kind of look she really wants, although she’d like to.

‘We’ll just take that lipstick off first,’ they say, and this is the awkward bit, the bit where she has to explain that no, she wants to keep the worn, smudged or kissed off look that her lipstick has by 5pm, and can they just make up the rest of her face around it?

‘It’ll be tricky,’ they say, ‘but I guess we can do that.’

She’s a paying customer, after all.

She plumps for the party look in the end – the more make up the better – and she does a good job of pretending to care as they explain the purpose of primer and applying your base with a brush to give it staying power.

The bit she cares about is the eyes – yes, she wants a smoky eye, yes, she wants it dark, with lots of liner and mascara applied as thickly as possible. She wants to look immaculate, but she’s not interested in any of that natural look bullshit, not tonight.

When she gets home, he’s on the PlayStation, he doesn’t notice her face. She goes upstairs and gets straight in the shower. When she gets out, he’s laying on the bed, fondling his cock.

Her perfect make up runs in dark tributaries down her pale face.

‘What a slut,’

She moves closer to the bed and her grabs a handful of her hair in his fist, forces her face in the direction of his dick. ‘You look like you went out in the rain and let some dirty fucker do whatever he wanted to you in an alleyway somewhere.’

‘I did.’

He pushes her cock hard into her mouth, until it hits the back of her throat, makes her gag.

‘Oh really?’

Rebecca loves make up. It lets her, just now and then, pretend to be someone she’s not.


Quinta is laying, half asleep still, in a narrow single bed in a room on someone else’s corridor. The bathroom door is closed, but she can hear the sound of the shower running and, faintly, of someone whistling.

She doesn’t know what he has to whistle about – he might have come all over her tits, but she didn’t come at all – he didn’t even try to make sure she got off, too.

In the future, she’ll grow tired of this – going out to clubs, getting drunk and dancing, letting men she recognises from lectures buy her a vodka and coke and then, at the end of the evening, take her back to their room for a fuck that, nine times out of ten, is deeply underwhelming.

It’s the chase part she prefers, or not really even the chase – the anticipation of the chase, the fuck twice removed, as she likes to think of it. The possibility, when she’s drawing her liner on so it flicks out perfectly catlike, or stashing a handful of Durex in her clutch, that whoever she attracts tonight might actually know to put his thumb on her clit.

The man in the shower now wouldn’t have known what to do with her clit even if she’d taken his hand and put it there directly, she’s pretty sure of it. That too though, is something that she won’t really start doing with guys she’s fucking for another five years or so. At this point, she’s lucky if they remember to use their fingers first.

Still, she has her way of punishing them. She waits until the shower has stopped and the sound has changed to tooth brushing – it makes her feel like the risk of getting caught is greater – then she takes the book on top of the pile on his bedside table – the same one she’s studying for an essay that’s due in two days, and rips the final chapter clean out.

He’s not the first guy she’s done this to. She’s hoping to get a reputation on campus. But she never does. It’s almost as if the boys don’t bother reading the books they’re assigned – they just base their opinions on nothing.


Primrose is a dream to date. She knows exactly how to make a guy feel special – knows to let him pay for her drinks, but not her dinner, will let him hold her hand across the table,  will ask him question after question about his job, and not even expect him to ask half as many in return.

She is excited to meet Peter. She is hoping for someone geeky but cute, kind but funny. She prides herself on not being one of those girls who cares about things like height, or the car a guy drives. She prides herself on not being that shallow.

However, if she did care about those things, she’d be in luck. Peter is 6″3 and he drives a BMW.


Plus, she fancies him. She likes the way he looks, the sound of his voice (that’s surprisingly important), the fact that he’s wearing button-fly jeans, which have never yet failed to turn her on.

He slides the wine list across the bar towards her, and she asks for a glass of chardonnay, just like she always does. She might usually have suggested that they share a bottle, but as he’s driving, she decides not to.

That’s where it all goes wrong.

He’ll never understand why there was no kiss at the end of the night. Nor why she ghosted him.

He’d never guess it was the pint of orange juice and lemonade.


Ottilie’s boyfriend, Jamie, has a new job stacking shelves in Tesco. This is a good thing – it means he has more money for petrol and more money for petrol means more opportunities to drive out into the countryside and fuck like rabbits on the backseat in some village where nobody knows either of them.

And so Ottilie cannot explain what it is inside her that’s pushing her to jeopardise this newfound freedom; she just knows that she wants to.

It is the Easter holidays when she does it. Jamie is working as often as he can, and Ottilie is supposed to be revising for her A-Levels. She’s probably still doing more work than most of her classmates – she’s always been a swot – but there’s something restless in her this year that hasn’t been there before – something that pulls her away from her desk and into town, where she loiters, trying to work up the courage to do it.

When she enters the store, Jamie is nowhere to be seen. She had planned to head for the beers, but her courage fails her – she’s scared she will drop the glass bottle and draw attention to herself; can’t imagine what her parents would say.

So she makes for the confectionery, which seems more manageable somehow, planning to slide a Mars Bar up her sleeve. Start small.

But when she sees the Easter eggs, she cannot help herself – there’s something so temptingly impossible about smuggling one of the bulky cardboard boxes out unseen.

There is nowhere to hide it – she’s not wearing a jacket she could wrap around it, so her only choice seems to be to look nonchalant, get as close to the door as possible, and then make a run for it.

She makes it as far as the library, sprinting, grinning madly, before Jamie’s weight is on her, forcing her against the brick, wrenching the egg from her grasp.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he pants.

She shrugs. ‘I wanted it.’

‘You can’t do that,’ he says, but she can feel that she is not the only one who wants it – his cock is bulging against her stomach and it only makes her want to steal again and again.

By summer, she’ll have got herself quite the little shoplifting habit.


It’s very quiet over here, like I am home alone, but I’m not. I am downstairs, on the sofa, under a blanket, and my husband is upstairs, asleep, with his girlfriend. He – they – are  asleep because he thinks I am fine, because I have told him I am fine, because I have told him that Pretty Woman is on TV and he knows that I always watch it when it’s on.

Except it’s not on.

I am trying to be chill about the fact that his girlfriend is staying over, but the truth is, I was more chill when our fourteen year old asked if his girlfriend could stay over, because at least then I knew that what I was feeling was horror. But the way I feel now is a confusing mix of fear, envy and desire – goosebumps prickle all up my arms, but my cunt is slick.

I’d like to pretend that I said I was okay with this because I love my husband, and because I want him to be happy, but that’s not really true. I pretended to be okay with it because that’s the kind of woman I’d like to be. I dream of being flat – flat stomach, flat temperament, flat emotions – when in fact I am tempestuous, uneven. Polyamory, it seemed to me, was like a diet – just a question of mind over matter. I wanted to prove I could resist envy the same way I can resist chocolate mousse.

But, just as I have cracked over chocolate mousse before – have woken in the middle in the middle of the night craving it, and snuck downstairs to feed spoonful after spoonful into my mouth by the light of the fridge, so it is with jealousy.

If he’s lucky, I won’t crack until she’s gone.

But I might not last that long.