The reflection staring back wasn’t quite me. Or maybe it was the most me I’d ever been, stripped down to nerve endings and a desperate, churning mix of fear and excitement. I stood before the full-length bedroom mirror, the one Mark had insisted on getting because he loved watching me undress. Tonight, he’d be watching me do a lot more than that.
My fingers traced the edge of the black lace bra. He’d bought this one last Christmas. His note had said, ‘To frame my favorite view.’ My breasts felt heavy, full, pushing against the delicate fabric. The nipples were already hard pebbles, betraying the riot going on inside me. Below the bra, my stomach muscles clenched tight, a knot of pure adrenaline right below my ribs. I ran a hand down my side, over the curve of my hip squeezed into the pencil skirt. It was dark red, tight enough to show everything, short enough to make Mark nervous when I wore it out. He loved my legs; he told me all the time. Tonight, they felt long, almost unsteady. Ready to run, or ready to wrap around someone else.
I shifted my weight, catching Mark’s reflection behind me. He wasn’t looking at me, not directly. His attention was consumed by the small, silver digital camera in his hands. His knuckles were white where he gripped it. Sweat slicked his temples, dark strands of hair clinging to his skin. He fumbled with a setting, his thumb slipping on the tiny dial. Pale. Resigned. That was the look. Like a man walking to his own execution, only he was the one loading the gun and handing it over.
How did we get here? The question echoed in the tense silence of the room, broken only by Mark’s shallow breathing and the faint whir of the camera as he finally seemed to get it right. It started, like so many dangerous things do, as a whisper in the dark. A drunken confession after a party where I’d danced a little too close with someone else, felt that illicit spark, and, fueled by wine and a reckless curiosity, told Mark about it. Told him a
