The Scantilly Tales. Danielle Shoebottom

it on. It’s not a decision, already it’d be like removing my skin. I re-dress, replacing my flats with heels. Monday has looked up.

      Only when I’m about to leave do I notice the card on the floor. I haven’t even thought about it. I pick it up:

       Peek-A-Boo!

       x

      Who could have sent it? I am intrigued, I confess.

      The thing is, now is not the time. This is for me and about me. I walk out feeling euphorically sinful.

      Today, I’m Peek-a-Boo.

       Tuesday

      It’s 7.15am again. I’m awake going through mundane morning routines. The doorbell rings. Could it happen again?

      It does. The same courier as yesterday receives the same sweet smile. I grab the package, thank him, dart inside on bare tiptoes, place the box on the table and pause to gaze at its ribboned symmetry. Next, I remove the lid (slowly) and it makes a glorious whoosh as I prize it open.

      I let the sumptuous vision bathe my sore, tired eyes. It is a dream given shape. Leopard-print adorns the cups while a black frill naughtily dances the edges. I am a coiled spring as I notice the complementary coal black waspie and suspenders. They purr, resting, waiting for me.

      I read the note first this time – delaying my gratification.

       Pounce?

       x

      Who sent you?

      I stalk the lingerie with my hands, folding the briefs over my fingers sensing the shadowy latticework. I step into them without thought and the reverie begins. A promise of decadence, I fasten the waspie – it tenderly clinches – and hook the suspenders. My skin trembles.

      Last, I slide into the lingerie and it is like slipping into a cloud. I step over to the mirror, admiring the cute bows, and could almost believe the rose-gold centre-piece etched with an 'S' is the source of an enchantment. I eye myself for far too long.

      Eventually, I leave for work and on the bus I spot Ben, a graphic designer who freelances for my company. I sit with him and catch-up amid the melee of morning noise. I try to pay attention but the lingerie has a hold on my memory and imagination – it is all I can think and feel. It has beguiled my wits and my mind wanders to scenarios unfit for a commuter bus. The word ‘Pounce’ echoes silently in my head like a mantra.

      Suddenly Ben nudges me and with a slightly worried face, asks:

      “You okay? You’re looking a little flushed.”

      “I’m fine,” I say, readjusting to reality. “Just a little warm and tired. Late night, you know me?”

      “I do,” he answers and then adds softly, “better than you think.”

      There’s something in how he says it, in the deep gravel of his voice, in the blue gleam of his eyes, something suggestive.

      “Do you, now?” I reply coolly, a little mocking, and stare out the window with a smile.

       Wednesday

      I’m running behind due to a late night when the doorbell rings. 7.15am. I dash down the stairs in my dressing gown, hair wet and loose. There is a beautiful familiarity to this scenario.

      I sign, thank the courier and head inside. I read the card first.

       All Wrapped-Up?

       x

      I savour the anticipation before opening the package, a square box with delicate satin ribbons. I want to know the sender’s identity, I do, but devouring the black-latticed fabric with my eyes, I cannot resist. My fingers stroke the polka dot cups and as soft as down, they yield to my touch. In my hands the ensemble glistens as light passes through the noir mesh.

      Then the ultimate surprise – what I’d taken for straps are actually wraps, removable for play (or punishment). As designed, I wrap myself up and sigh as it envelops and lifts me. In the mirror, the V of the silken throat tie teases the eye down towards the circular rose-gold 'S' charm I adore.

      While the sensible part of my brain thinks of wearing a high collar to work, the imaginative side blocks it with vivid dreams of log-cabins, snowy peaks, a rug and roaring wood-fire, someone’s hot skin pressed close… I shake my head. I need to get dressed.

      “High collar,” I say out-loud. My brain argues, repeating, ‘all wrapped-up.’

      Delighting in sensations of sin, I get ready while my mind turns to yesterday night. I went to a new bar where I told my friend Jess about the mystery gifts.

      She’d said: “It must be someone you know well.”

      “Why?” I asked.

      Hiding behind her deep auburn bangs, she replied: “They know where you live; the time you leave for work and more importantly, what you like … It could be Jhal, you know.”

      “Jhal?” I said confused. “I thought he was still abroad.”

      “No, he got back last week.”

      I raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Later, it went a bit surreal. Dancing close together in the dingy, humid air, she’d leant teasingly into me. A bit of a surprise but, tellingly, I didn’t back off. However, her rouge lips went to my ear:

      “I know you very well too,” she whisper-shouted above the music, before giggling and high-heeling it to the bar.

      I check the clock. Already late, I overindulge and take my time: past and future don’t matter - All Wrapped-Up is my present today.

       Thursday

       Sorry, we missed you.

      ‘Not as sorry as me’, I think, as if a delivery note could reply to my thoughts.

      It’s 8.30pm but I head straight to my neighbour’s and knock loudly. Still in work dress, I shift impatiently in my heels. ‘Come on’, I plead silently, ‘hurry up’. Excitement flares as I hear the door unlocking and yet it has nothing to do with Mark answering in a towel – that’s fairly normal.

      “Sorry, just back from the gym,” he explains, his hands indicating himself.

      His smooth pecs bulge and droplets drizzle a six-pack as he runs a hand through wet, black hair. To the point, I flash the courier note.

      “Hi Mark,” I say. “Have you a delivery for me?”

      “Yep, just here,” he replies, disappearing behind the door. Returning, he passes me a black, ribboned box and asks with raised eyebrows: “Anything nice?”

      “I hope so,” I reply, reading the note.

      “You can show me,” he says amiably then: “Time for a glass of wine? I’ll just put on some clothes.”

      “Don’t worry about it…” I reply absent-mindedly as, confused, I re-read the sender’s note. “The wine that is…” I say, “not the … er, another time maybe? And thanks.”

      “Sure,” he says with a little side-grin