She put his hands on her breasts. He pinched her nipple, slow and firm. It hurt, and then it was blissful. His eyes were half-closed. With his shirt off she could see the middle-aged slackness in his skin and muscles, and she closed her eyes, not wanting to be reminded.

I don’t know why I feel guilty when it’s him that’s cheating. I’m not married. If we got caught they’d blame him, not me.

Grooming. What a stupid word for it. Grooming’s lovely. Grooming makes me get all happy and sleepy and relaxed so you can do whatever you want with me. Like that time Caitlin brushed my hair and painted my fingers and toes and gave me a facial, and I was so chilled I didn’t realise she’d done my nails old-lady beige. I didn’t care even when I realised. She could have painted it all over my face and I still wouldn’t have minded. Well, actually I’d have been pretty pissed off when I came out of the grooming trance, but it would have been too late then, wouldn’t it?

Actually, maybe grooming is quite a good word for it.

She was sitting astride him now, pressed tightly against him, rocking herself against the rigidity of his body. Afterwards, the word dry-humping would make her squirm and cringe. She put his hands around her waist and felt his fingers splay across her skin. They were so big they almost covered her. If he squeezed, he might be able to make his fingertips meet.

Did she enjoy feeling this dainty, this delicate, this small and fragile? Was it erotic or terrifying to be cradled like a porcelain doll? Later this memory would send her bolting out of her chair, hands flying up to cover her face, dyed scarlet with shame. Right now, she liked it. Soon she wouldn’t be thinking at all.

Afterwards I feel dirty and disgusting. Is it because I am dirty and disgusting? I’m cheating with a married man, so I must be. Why can’t I stop? What’s wrong with me? Why do I like it so much? Where does it even come from? Just because he makes me…

I don’t even like writing the word down. That’s how messed up I am about it.

This was the best moment, when all she could think about was the unbearable sweetness unravelling within her. The first time she’d been completely silent, astonished by the physical truth of something she’d begun to suspect was just a gigantic female conspiracy to make men feel happier about themselves. As it faded, she wondered wildly if she’d done it right – if she’d been too quiet, if he’d be angry, if he’d laugh. Then she’d seen his own expression – face contorted, eyes scrunched tight – and thought for a minute he was having a heart attack.

Look, I’ll write it down. He makes me come, cum, have an orgasm, hit the peak, get there, get it on, get it off. Whatever I’m supposed to call it. Why do I have to call it anything? And I love how it feels. I really really do. It’s, like, a million times better than I ever imagined. So why do I feel so bad afterwards?