The Photograph

She wouldn't have noticed it ordinarily, but she was sprawled at an angle, staring straight at it: a black and white photograph of Tower Bridge someone had chosen to decorate a West End hotel room. It had been taken at an angle, perhaps even by a passing cyclist. The effect reminded her of German Expressionism, an oppressive Mise-en-scène that was starting to suck her in Dr Caligari style.

She was drifting anyway, free floating above her own body, so letting herself be carried into the picture made sense. It was getting far too intense in that room. He had licked and fucked and spanked and sucked and caressed her so much that she was worried about what she might say; what she might let slip.

She had written in her blog about being worried about letting him see what lay beneath. The truth was that she didn't have a fucking clue what lay beneath and was quite nervous about finding out herself.

On the whole, the photograph looked a much safer place to be.