In a very short time, I was leaving the lights of the city behind and driving home yet again.

How short a time? You ask.

Did you and Steve fuck all night long?

Did you talk?

Very. No. No.

That is the short, unadorned answer.

You do, of course, want details. You are probably amazed at my reaction.

Back to room 424.

We both collapsed in a sweating heap, breathless and exhausted. It had been quick, swift. Almost desperate. I had gathered my frantic thoughts immediately, though, and rolled out of his embrace, out of his bed. To his amazement, I dressed swiftly. I have to say it was an inner battle between my head and my body. My body was screaming at the top of its voice to get right back into that bed. My head won though. It kept telling me to get into my car and head home.

On the journey into Leeds, I had tried to plan. I knew there would be sex, the answer to a ten-year question. I also understood this could be a really big deal.

Neither of us had forgotten each other after all those years. Yes, we lived other lives and hadn't looked back, but…

Against all odds, we had met and ended that itch.

I liked my life. No complications, no husband to answer to or submit to, a great, somewhat unorthodox sex life that I controlled, a successful career as an artist, and my time as an exotic dancer, which fulfilled my need to expose my body and talents in public. It turned me on knowing that all these men wanted me and imagined doing all sorts with me and to me.

I wasn't going to let some hot male from my past change that.

I'd ticked off the unfinished sex and could now move on.

Liar!!! That inner voice screamed at me.

Ok. Not unfinished. I knew I'd go back for more.

You are curious though, how I developed into this Siren, exhibitionist, dancer and probably a whore from a 16-year-old girl on the threshold of womanhood.

Let’s go back. Not to every detail of the last ten years.

Fuck no! Too boring. Just the juicy bits.

When I returned to school after THAT summer with Steve, I did indeed have a story to tell my friends. To say they envied me was to put it lightly. They shared their holiday stories of inexperienced, adolescent boys groping their breasts clumsily after unbuttoning their tops. A few had let the same boys pull their knickers down and fumble around in their pubic undergrowth. Most hadn't managed to penetrate the barrier though, and hadn't found an entry point.

After hearing their tales, I decided boys weren't for me. No, I don't mean I was into girls; it was the men I was after!!!

Move forward in time. I left school and went to Art School to fulfil my love of painting. I also left home and moved into a flat with other students. A bit shabby and cramped, but it was clean and reasonably tidy. I was still untouched, well, by a penis, at that point, but during Freshers week, a third-year friend of one of my flatmates finished off what Steve had started. He was a potter and had very skilled hands and fingers. His mouth was pretty good too. I wasn't disappointed.

During my first year, we partied, studied and had lots of great sex. We loved each other in a non-committed way and parted on good terms when he graduated and moved away.

In the second year, the rent went up, and like many students, one way to make some extra money was to pose naked as a still-life model at the Art School. No, not for fellow students but for evening classes.

I signed up. I knew I had a good body, particularly my boobs, which were full, well-rounded, with large areolae and perky nipples. Because of my red hair and voluptuous curves, I was in demand, as those evening class enthusiasts imagined themselves as Titian and their work another Venus of Urbino.

Truthfully, their work was utter shit. Their interest in art was nil; their main aim was to gaze at my naked body each week and have a sneaky pull down their trousers. I discovered though, that I loved taking my clothes off and having them stare at me hungrily.

I had to take a job to survive – well, not survive, but to pay for my social life! I worked as a waitress in a coffee shop. Hard work but fun. I became friends with another girl, a few years older than me, Linda. During a break one night, she confided in me about a sideline which was proving lucrative. Was I interested? Of course, I was.

This was a site set up by friends of hers, pretty amateurish but profitable. She would chat to men on camera, not about football or the weather, but dirty talk about whatever they wanted. It paid well. Count me in. I was good at it. After a week or two of talk and heavy breathing, my “bosses” suggested that if I went topless, I’d get more hits and more money. Great. The bra came off, and “Slutty Steph” appeared in laptops everywhere, talking dirty, displaying her naked breasts to randy, horny punters who thought they were the sole recipients of my attention and boobs.

I would pout and pose and play with my nipples and get well-paid for it, while thoroughly enjoying myself.

Yes, it was inevitable that the panties would come off too and the boobs, pussy and butt would be shown in close-up for anonymous eyes. I earned a fortune and would lie on my bed in my room, masturbating and using toys for “their eyes only”. No, it wasn't for one special person; there were hundreds online at a time. I enjoyed it. My body would tingle and jerk and flood at the thought of all those eyes scrutinising every inch of me while pulling at their erect, dripping cocks.

If that makes me a whore, then so be it. It paid the bills, I had fun, I got sexual gratification, and I used my skills. I harmed no one. I fulfilled a function. While jerking off to me, the wives who no longer wanted sex could watch EastEnders without the unwanted attention of their husbands. They should be thanking me. Their husbands could wank away undisturbed. Win-win, I say.

During this time, I also took up dancing. Another tale for perhaps another time.

Surprisingly, with all my extra activities, I excelled at Art School and graduated top of my year. My paintings, especially landscapes, are as much in demand as my appearances as Siren at the Purple Plume. I am well rewarded for both.

Now here I am, driving through the darkness to my cottage. Mind racing, body churning and sticky, and breathing rather rapidly.

I could, and should, be in bed in that fabulous hotel with a hot, sexy, and I suspect dangerous, man. All sorts of erotic, explicit images of what we should be doing flashed in front of my eyes.

I knew I would not sleep that night. These images would have to be translated onto the canvas. The colours and brushstrokes would be vivid, bold and lifelike. My erotic art was displayed in galleries around the globe. Most though, ended up in the hands of private collectors.

As earlier, the village emerged through the darkness. Most homes were unlit. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was 1 am. I was home, and this time I was not going back to Leeds.

On entering the kitchen, I saw that Sam had not stirred. He was completely oblivious to my turmoil. Once again, typical male.

I headed straight through the kitchen to what had been an outbuilding but was now my studio.

My art supplies and canvases were all there. An easel with a canvas all prepared stood ready.

My commissioned work of Swaledale, for a wealthy client, would have to wait.

One side of the building was glass to let the natural light flood in and also to showcase the wonderful view. Now though, it was dark outside and only reflected the studio and the artist.

I got to work immediately without donning my usual artist's garb. I relaxed, a little, in the familiar, well-loved surroundings, absorbing the smell of linseed, oil and thinners and the faint smell of the lavender oils and candles I had lit that day.

I attacked the canvas with almost a frenzy, hoping that by painting, I would release my inner turmoil. The brush flew, and my fantasy materialised in front of me. I gasped and stared at it. Probably the best work I've ever done.

Graphic, raw, erotic, sensual and wild. There was no mistaking who the two intertwined figures were.

It stood in pride of place. I carefully cleaned my brushes and washed my hands at the practical Belfast sink I had installed. Then I wandered over to my rack of stored work and browsed before heading for the kitchen. This time, I would finish my cup of Yorkshire tea.

My phone did not ring. Steve did not call. I was not surprised. He couldn't. I had withheld my number. I needed to be in control. I know my next move now. I hadn't before.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, I headed back, yet again, to the Leeds Dakota. There was a bubble-wrapped package on the back seat. The roads were quiet. It was still early.

I found a parking space and went inside. No, not to Room 424 but to reception.

“Good morning. I have a special package for Mr.Baxter, room 424. Please ensure it is delivered promptly. Thank you.”

The smiling receptionist assured me it would be.

In the car, yet again heading for home.

This time the sun was rising, and the landscape was tinged with early morning splendour.

Sam greeted me warmly as I entered the house.

He wanted to be fed. Typical male. I seem to say that frequently!

I strolled into the studio, now bathed in morning light. Propped up on my easel, my masterpiece of colour and movement dominated the room.

You thought my masterpiece, which I am going to call

“Decade’s End ”

Is in room 424, didn't you?

How could it be? The paint is still wet.

There was a knock at the door. I emerged from the tangled sheets. I had not slept. How could I?

I couldn't seem to breathe. Had she returned?

I grabbed a robe and rushed to the door. A smiling young man stood there holding a package.

“Special Delivery, Mr Baxter “.

I mumbled my thanks before closing the door.

Impatiently, I tore off the wrapping.

It was a beautiful landscape of the Yorkshire moors; I knew this place. There was a waterfall and a pool. In the pool were two figures gazing into each other's eyes. I had gone back in time.

The painting had a title on the back.

“The Beginning”

The artist was Stephanie Wilson.