Butterflies Read online

  Butterflies

  by

  Georgina Hawes

  A Collection of Very Steamy Short Stories

  Text copyright © 2019 Georgina Hawes

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by Regency Rainbow Publishing

  Cover by Maria Spada Design at www.mariaspada.com

  Introduction

  I like to write, and I do write – piece after piece after piece. I have a near-constant stream of ideas rattling around in what passes for my grey matter (between my ears, that is, not the ‘old white blouse’ rail in my wardrobe), and that’s why I have such a huge collection of little stories that I have penned over the years.

  Not everything I write becomes a novel – or even a novella – and some of the little stories have a life of their own as just that – ‘shorts’. Sometimes I’ll get an idea for something ‘big’ and make a dozen starts before I realise that there’s really not a ‘big’ thing there at all, and the starts become their own little tales. Other times I’ll just experiment with the sensations I feel as I write a little, but then I look at what I’ve done and want to find out where it leads – and a couple of pages become twenty or thirty so that more shorts are formed.

  Anyway, this is a collection of vaguely related little stories that fall into one or other of the categories above, but which all explore the concept of a new beginning for the heroine of the piece. These tend to compress a thousand acts and emotions into a much shorter format than I often write in these days, and the net result is some very (and I mean very) steamy tales. It seemed a very natural process to gather these together for your pleasure – finishing off the stories here and there, adding yet more sex and seductions, polishing the characters and their words and generally having a great deal of fun.

  Then I was encouraged to add a couple of teasers – the first chapters or two – from works in progress. Two became three, as is normal for me these days, and while these may change a little as the rest of the longer books evolve, they’re essentially the final edits of some steamy starts to my planned output for next year.

  I just have to thank my publisher, Regency Rainbow, for their never-ending efforts to get me to complete things, and for their understanding as my carefully laid plans morph into ever-weirder shapes. Also, thanks go to Maria Spada for yet another brilliant cover, and to the Rainbow’s John Money for his editing and proofing (blame him if there are any mistakes left…).

  This has been so much fun to put together – and I’d advise that you have plenty of tissues to hand. Not that are any sad bits in the pages that follow…

  Changes

  Haven't you ever noticed that some days seem to have a theme? Some unusual topic will keep recurring throughout the day until it gets to the point where everything seems to revolve around that subject matter.

  It happens to me quite a lot and apparently it runs in the family -- my mother is often telling me of days like that, and just recently she had one where the topic was birds. She found her pet canary flying around the living room when she got up that morning, was brought chicken for lunch at her local restaurant when she had actually ordered a steak, hit a pheasant driving back home, found out that she'd won a Christmas turkey in a prize draw, and rounded off the day by watching Hitchcock's film, Birds, because it was on the only channel she could get on her malfunctioning television.

  Well, this little tale is all about one of my themed days, only it was a little more... unusual than my mother's. My theme turned out to be change.

  Before I begin in earnest, I'd better tell you just a little about myself. I'm not thirty yet but the big three-zero is beginning to loom and I'm a happily single woman (tried the marriage thing once and found out it wasn't for me). Just to make it clear, although I'm single I do have a number of male friends and I'm never short of admirers, so my lack of a partner is through choice. I'm 'cute' according to a female friend, but personally see myself as being 'okay' -- a little over five-six, one hundred and ten pounds, nice enough figure, and a face that doesn't sour the milk.

  I'm a bit of a fitness junkie and like to keep myself in good shape but it's more a matter of personal pride than for show because I'm kinda shy in many ways. I have a decent enough job at a publishing company and a nice apartment on the outskirts of London. I've a couple of close friends, Jessica and Stephie, a couple of doting parents, and a quietly hectic social life. All in all, it's a busy existence, but a happy one.

  Anyway, the theme day occurred just after New Year, and it wasn't even nine in the morning before I realised what was happening.

  I'd woken up to the Osbournes – Ozzy and Kelly – who were apparently 'going though changes', was asked for 'any loose change, miss' by an old drunk at the tube station, had to change trains unexpectedly at Seven Sisters, and was serenaded by David Bowie (Ch-ch-ch-changes) in the lift on the way up to my office. Even if I hadn't been experienced in themed days, I would probably still have made the link!

  After spending the morning labouring over a manuscript with the working title 'All Change' about a group of vegetarian werewolves, I was more than relieved when the clock ticked around to lunchtime.

  The area of London I work in is described as an 'up-and-coming' district – which is shorthand for 'used to be really grotty, but we've paved over the High Street and built a new shopping mall'. On this particular day, this suited me fine because I was due to go to a fancy dinner the following week and there was a particularly nice clothes’ shop in the new shopping mall.

  The weather was downright nasty that day – freezing cold and drizzling with the sort of stuff that can permeate a wet-suit – and I bundled myself up in half a dozen layers before setting off for the shops. Of course, this meant that by the time I was inside Grace's Gowns, I was sweating like an unshaved polar bear in the middle of the Sahara. Fortunately, the shop's one sales assistant, a middle-aged woman, (Jennifer, according to her name-badge) was both experienced and considerate. As soon as she saw I was a serious shopper she offered to let me put my top coat and jacket behind the sales desk – and I gladly shucked them off before returning to the rails.

  The one great advantage of shopping in such a location is the fact that there are no crowds, and despite it being a Friday lunchtime I was alone in the shop save for an elderly woman looking at scarves and guy in his forties who I took to be her son.

  As I said earlier, I'm kinda shy and that goes double when it comes to the way I dress. I'm not a prude, but I like to be well-covered and although I was looking for something fairly demure to wear for the dinner, I would still have to try it on in the store – so the fact that it was pretty much empty was comforting.

  After fifteen minutes of rejecting dresses on the grounds that they showed too much cleavage or that they were off-the-shoulder or too short or too revealing in general, I had narrowed my choices down to two. They were both rather smart and did little more than hint at what they might conceal – perfect for me, in other words.

  I asked Jennifer if I could try them on and was directed to changing cubicles at the back of the store in a little alcove that offered some privacy in itself. Despite the store's recent construction, the curtains across the front of the cubicles harked back to much older days, but at least they looked as if they would provide total – if flimsy – privacy. Even then I might have felt uncomfortable but for the fact that the only other customers were the ancient lady and her bored-looking middle-aged son.

  I thanked Jennifer, took my dresses into the cubicle in the furthest corner and hung them on the little rail provided. After double-checking that I'd pulled the curtain absolutely all the way across, I started the onerous process of undressing.

  Because of the weather I was wearing a roll-neck jumper over a t-shirt, my most smart jeans and
thermal tights. It was ideal clothing for the temperatures outside, but pretty much the worst combination possible for a small changing cubicle in a dress shop. Everything was tight and took an effort to pull over my head or down my legs, and the cubicle was proving to have a reverse Tardis effect – it was smaller on the inside than it looked from the body of the shop.

  Twice I nearly pushed the privacy curtain open with an errant arm. The first time wasn't so bad because it was while I was pulling off the roll-neck, but the second time was when I was taking off the thermal tights – and the thought of revealing myself in just a small bra and panties had my heart jumping into my throat. I didn't even sunbathe in a bikini and the thought of getting seen in my underwear was sobering, to say the least.

  I reminded myself that I was alone in this part of the store anyway and took a couple of deep breaths before slipping into the first of the dresses. Once I was all zipped up, I pushed open the curtain and stepped into the alcove where a three-way mirror had been thoughtfully (okay, obviously) provided.

  The dress was not bad... but now that I had it on, it seemed to have been put together for someone with much larger hips than me. I shrugged and smiled to myself – I'd already kinda set my heart on the other dress anyway.

  I stepped back into the cubicle and was drawing the curtain when the elderly lady hobbled into view. I gave her a smile and made doubly sure the curtain was secure before slipping out of dress number one.

  Knowing that there was someone close by – even an old lady – was making me feel a tad vulnerable, and I didn't even bother hanging up the first dress before I took the second one from its hanger. This one was a slinky sort of affair, and a much tighter fit. So much so, that when I got it up to my hips it kinda stuck there and I had to check that it was fully unzipped before starting to wriggle it higher.

  I was just thinking that this was the hardest 'change' I'd experienced that day when I lost my footing. With the slinky dress still around my waist I reached out instinctively for support. Unfortunately, I reached out in the direction of the curtain.

  It won't surprise anyone to know that my hand didn't find the support I was seeking, and instead it just pushed the curtain wide open. I staggered a couple of steps before regaining my balance – only to look up and see the old woman's son standing just a couple of yards in front of me.

  It was one of those situations where shock takes a little while to make way for rational thought and I must have stood there, frozen, for a full two or three seconds before I realised that I was presenting this guy with a close up view of my boobs in their little white bra.

  Now when I said 'little' earlier, I meant little in comparison to my boobs -- there was a lot of flesh on show above the lacy cups. I finally gasped and brought my arms up to cover myself before stammering an apology and diving back behind the curtain.

  Once there my mind decided to be all rebellious and replayed the scene – with a couple of details I'd failed to really notice the first time around.

  For a start, the guy had looked both shocked and delighted – and yet a little shame-faced at the same time. Now that I thought about it, I was sure that he had glanced at a cubicle further along where, no doubt, his mother must have been trying something on.

  Then there was something else I'd failed to notice. That look of delight had contained something more than just pleasure – it was the sort of delight that has its roots firmly embedded in sexuality. Not quite lust, as such, but certainly 'liking a hell of a lot in a sexual way'.

  Oh, and there was one final thing that became apparent as I stood there panting in shock. A part of me – a deep down, distant, almost entirely hidden part of me – had felt a thrill at what happened. That I had inadvertently shown myself in a state of half-undress, in a tiny bra that was clearly never meant to be seen in public, and to a guy who was clearly delighted with the view... it had given me a shiver of what I could only describe as excitement.

  The revelation – of how I felt, I mean – was as shocking to me as it was unexpected. For a couple of seconds, I tried to deny it, but the truth of it was right there in the tingling I felt in my almost painfully erect nipples and the warmth in my groin.

  The realisation that there was only a flimsy curtain between myself and the accidental witness to my misfortune sent a shiver through me – and I almost cried out loud with the shock that this was absolute proof of my nascent excitement.

  There's only so much denial that one can impose on oneself and with this evidence I was all out of it. I stared down at my bra-clad boobs and at the curtain a few inches from my face – the curtain on the other side of which stood a guy.

  I ignored another surge of excitement and took a few deep breaths. This was an aberration, I told myself, a weird response to a weirder, one-off accident. I was still the shy, timid creature I'd always been, and accidents don't have to be bad.

  Of all the things I told myself only two stood out as being totally true – it was an accident and it was a one-off. I was still in complete control of myself – and when all is said and done, it was just a quick look at my covered boobs.

  But I've never been one that was slow to explore new possibilities. And it was a one-off situation... and I was in complete control...

  Of course, all of these thoughts flashed through my mind in just a few seconds and underlying every notion that passed through my brain was the simple fact that I was desperately shy about showing my body. That this guy had seen what he had seen was beyond anything that would have crossed my mind at any time and in any circumstances – and yet it had happened, and my body had responded, seemingly of its own accord.

  It was unsettling – like finding out that your mother is really a government spy (mind you, I've often thought that mine was nosey enough to make her a good special agent).

  I reminded myself that I was in control now and tried to shout down the persistent feeling of arousal. As I resumed the struggle with the dress – careful to maintain my balance at all times – I tried not to think about the guy who was standing outside the curtain.

  He was just an average forty-something, carrying maybe a couple of pounds more around his waist than he might have liked, and with hair a little thinner than he would want. A pleasant enough look, but no oil painting. Of course, my rebellious mind kept reminding me that there was one unique thing about him – the sight that he'd just received.

  By this time, I'd managed to slide the dress over my hips and up and over my modest bust – only to find that when I tried to zip it up, it was way too tight. With infinite care I managed to wriggle my way out of it and then checked the label – it was my size but had the word 'small' printed in... well, small print.

  Trying my hardest to focus on the issue in hand, I remembered that there were at least a couple more in my size on the rail and guessed that there was probably one that wasn't listed as 'small'. I had, as I said, set my heart on the dress and just had to see if there was one in the store that fit properly – but now that I thought about it, I wasn't sure that I could face leaving the cubicle, no matter how many layers I put on.

  The guy was still outside to judge by the muffled conversation he was having with his mother, and I could just imagine the look that would be on his face if I emerged again – even if I was fully dressed.

  My mind decided to have another flirt with rebellion, and I glanced down at myself dressed in nothing but my underwear. My boobs were barely covered by the white cotton of the bra and I could scarcely believe that the guy had got to see me like that – and definitely couldn't believe that it was still making me feel so... well... excited.

  I'm one of those people that can't leave a puzzle unfinished, and as I stood there with disbelief and excitement coursing through me in equal measure, I realised that there was a very simple way of finding out whether what I was feeling was real.

  Maybe I could kinda poke my head out of the cubicle and ask the guy to get the sales assistant – ostensibly to get her to fetch me a dress in the righ
t size, but really to see whether such proximity to the guy while I was still dressed like this might prove that the excitement was real.

  Even as I thought of it, I had to double-check to make sure that it really was me considering such a thing!

  I kinda took a back seat as my mind argued with itself.

  On the one hand I really needed to know if this was some sort of sea-change in me, whether there was a latent exhibitionist streak that had just been revealed (so to speak), and here was a perfect one-off opportunity to find out. I needn't even actually show anything more than my face...

  On the other hand, the embarrassment of talking to the guy – even from pretty much behind a curtain – could quite possibly see my cheeks bursting into flame, and what if he thought I was some kind of pervert?

  It was time that brought my argument to a close – or rather, the sudden lack of it. If I was going to find out then it was better now with a guy that had already seen far more than I was used to – but no matter how old his mother was, he surely wouldn't be standing around for much longer. Besides, one-off opportunities are exactly that – one-and-only chances.

  I didn't even have a chance to lodge a formal appeal before I found myself grasping the edge of the curtain and poking my head outside.

  "Um, excuse me." I heard myself say.

  The guy looked across and I could see him try very hard to suppress a smile, "Yes, miss?"

  "I, um... that is, sorry about... startling you earlier, but I was wondering if you could do me a small favour?" My mind was a blank, but fortunately my mouth was on autopilot – or unfortunately, depending on your point of view.

  The guy took one step closer after casting a quick glance at the cubicle where his mother was obviously taking up residence, "No need to apologise, I assure you. How can I assist?"

  His politeness and the quietness of his voice served to bring my heartrate down from 'hummingbird' to 'chicken spotting a fox'. It also served to reassure me that I was in no danger whatsoever. "I was wondering if you could ask the assistant to come over and help me out."