This is a very short one-shot story that popped into my head. It's a tiny back story snapshot from the new story I'm planning on writing so I needed to get this down on paper to help it along in my mind.

Thanks to those of you who asked at the end of Symphoricarpos if and when I'd be writing another story. You gave me such wonderful reviews so how could I possibly not keep writing?

Hope you enjoy it.

Next story coming soon.

A mistake!

Such a bloody silly mistake.

How the hell had she let it come to this?

What was wrong with her?

She carefully turned her head to the side, her eyes searching through the semi-darkness of the late summer morning.

What exactly had she been hoping to achieve?

The clock said half past five.

A mistake. Last night had been one huge mistake.

Her heart was beating a heavy tattoo in her chest now, echoing uncomfortably at her brow.

She needed her clothes.

It was time to go.

But then she felt his fingers curve against her hipbone and she froze as though his very touch had turned her to ice.

Was he awake?

She hardly dared to breathe as she waited for some sort of indication.

She just wanted to get up and leave. She couldn't face even the thought of him groping and kissing and… expecting a repeat performance.

Last night, the Vodka has assured her it was what she needed. It had jollied her along, telling her with such conviction that it was exactly what was required.

He snorted once and she grimaced, tense and restive.

Oh God, what had she done?

It has all his fault. He had made her do it.

She risked moving her head to look across at him and found his face was only an inch away from her shoulder.

That tousled dark hair that last night she had so gratefully run her fingers through; the dark stubble around his chin and cheeks and the slight curl to his lip – all so unbearably familiar yet now, in the wake of a sobering new day, these very features filled her with a hideous antipathy.

His hand lay heavily on her hip and the desire to pull away was almost irresistible.

She wanted to shower, to rid herself of every trace of what they had done but in the time it took to make herself presentable he would have woken up and would be there, waiting for her with an offer of breakfast and slightly awkward platitudes.

No, she simply couldn't face him.

And she wouldn't be able to look him in the eye.

Her senses were on red alert.

Too hot under the duvet; anxiety, along with the heat from his body beside her making her perspire .

The sound of his unattractive, lumpy breathing. Thick. Guttural.

The smell of him. She should be intoxicated, seduced, but he just smelt unwashed and ugly.

A mistake.

With the sharp, focused attention of a neurosurgeon, she concentrated on getting herself out of bed without disturbing him.

Twisting her hip around, she succeeded in ridding herself of those grasping fingers. But then she held her breath when a deep, throaty rumble sounded… could you clear your throat in your sleep? Surely you had to be at least half awake to do that.

Panicking now.

She slid to the very edge of the bed, her heart racing and nerves tangling up when she heard a couple of mattress springs pop.

But then she was free and the cooling air around her naked body brought both relief and shame.

Swiftly scanning the floor, she spied her black party dress lying swathed along the base of the built in wardrobes.

She quickly retrieved it, noting the creases as she lifted if up for inspection. Still, it was tight fitting, they wouldn't show.

Lord! Did it really matter?

She hadn't worn a bra but where were her knickers?

Pulling the dress on over her head, she smoothed it into place, her fingers running over the fall of screen printed gold metallic leaves that ran from the right shoulder to the hem.

She wouldn't wear it again.

A gut-wrenching flash of memory assailed her brain; he had pulled her knickers off her in bed, they would still be there. And so that was where they would have to remain.

A penance for being such a slut – to be made to feel like some sleazy little tramp who got her kicks out of not wearing any underwear.

Her eyes darted over to the bed… a restless sigh as he stretched across to where she had been lying. She registered the well-defined musculature of his arm and shoulder and the coarse, dark hair upon his forearm.

Both arms had held her close last night and she had trailed her fingers up and down, relishing the strong, masculine feel as she told him how much she wanted him, gave herself to him and let him love her.

A mistake. A sick and twisted mistake.

She pushed her feet into the high stilettoes that had been kicked off by the door and picked up her clutch bag.

There had been no polite foreplay etiquette involving flirtatious conversation over coffee or a nightcap, just a stumbling race to the bedroom.

She crept out into the hall and found the bathroom. Cleaned herself. Heckled silently at the mirror.

And then in the living room she made a hushed phone call and fled the flat to wait for a taxi out in the street.

Another penance; parading herself in a short, obvious evening dress that, in the cold light of day, screamed of last night's misdemeanours.

Angry and close to tears, she slammed through the front door at six thirty to the sound of a ringing telephone.

She snatched up the receiver, knowing exactly who the caller would be.

"What do you want?" she barked.

"Yo! It's me." Chipper. Jocular.

"I know it's you, Dempsey, that's why I'm asking, what do you want?"

"Whooooa, Princess! You get outa bed on the wrong side this mornin'?"

She felt ill.

"Or did you just get in?" he asked humorously, "Only, I called twice already and you didn't pick up."

Her stomach turned. "I was in the shower," she lied. "Is there an actual point to this call?"

"I was kinda hopin' you'd swing by and pick me up on the way into work later..."


"…Don't wanna use the car - got a hottie wants to take me out for a drink right outa work, ya know."

It was like he was rubbing salt into the wound. "I said fine!" she grated.

There was a pause at Dempsey's end. "Somethin' up, Makepeace?"

"Yes! It's only half past six in the morning and you're irritating me already."

"Do I take it your big night out last night didn't go so great?"

"Oh it was wonderful, Dempsey!" she told him, her voice thick with sarcasm. "I was having a marvellous time until I got lumbered with this complete and utter arsehole." And then she added with an unfounded caustic bitterness, " Reminded me an awful lot of you, funnily enough."