It was a warm night in early June.
I had planned the whole thing: I would get ready in my bedroom, wait until my parents were having dinner downstairs, and then grab the keys from the bowl by the front door, hurry down the steps to the road, and take the car. Then I would drive across London to the club and park nearby.
I was nervous, of course, but more excited than anything else. My heart was beating hard in my chest as I slipped into lilac-coloured lace-trimmed lingerie, tiny blue denim shorts and a dark bralette—neither of which, it had to be said, left much to the imagination. I was slim if reasonably broad through the shoulders, but my legs were long and lean and the outfit was flattering. I studied my face in the mirror after putting on my makeup, batted long dark eyelashes once or twice, and, after slipping on a pair of heels and some gold jewellery, made my way to the car.