The Plaything

As the saying goes, it was the chase that thrilled her. The locking of eyes across a darkened room. A haze of sweat and cigarette smoke.

She enjoys a slow seduction. A rhythm that swells and retreats with the quickening and softening of heartbeats. The pulse of an evening. This one was a child, really. A man in years only. Full of his own estimations. He was ripe for instruction.

She had prepared her lesson plans. Softly and calmly she let him explore the curves of her. Eyes only at first. Don’t rush it. Fingertips follow eyes and tongue follows fingers. Slowly, gently, quick and hard.

Pay attention.

That’s enough.

She releases him and crosses the room without a backward glance. A different room. A fresh haze. The heat of breath and fervor. Her back to the boy, she lights a fresh cigarette.

There are no goodbyes. She isn’t interested in seeing him go. He isn’t brave enough to ask to stay.

Hesitant footsteps retreat.

And she exhales.

What happens when one opts out of reproduction and throws herself into self-absorbed hedonism? They pack their cigarettes, thigh highs and trench coat and head for London town. These are the stories of the Barreness, our London correspondent. Image based on a picture by Anirudh Koul.