Also Known As Tamsinbyfiat_knox©
It took less than twenty seconds to snare Amanda Haldane.
It was a warm, humid summer afternoon. It was Wednesday, and everyone was off to work or college. Amanda's daughter Jenny was off to study her art course, and her husband Michael was at work.
Amanda was 38, with wavy auburn hair, a slim body which she kept in trim with visits to Fitness First every Monday and Thursday. Her eyes were brown, her face a triangle with a little pointed chin, and pouty lips. She was wearing a plain white blouse, dark grey slacks and the slip - on house shoes with flat soles she always wore while cleaning about the house.
Amanda herself had been cleaning her home when she saw the folded up note on the glass surface of the coffee table in the living room. The house had been scrubbed clean, top to bottom, by the time her work had brought her to this final room of the house, and to the mysterious piece of paper on the table, folded neatly in half.
Amanda had been in the process of reaching for the note on the table when the telephone rang. Her hand hovered over the note as it rang a second, and then a third time. Amanda looked up, wondering if she could pick up the note, or if the person on the end of the line would hang up first.
The phone rang again. Amanda sighed, straightened up. She'd go and answer the telephone first, then come back and read the note at leisure. If the phone call was from those damned telemarketers again, though, she'd spend a few moments roundly cursing the voice on the other end of the line first. THEN she'd read that note.
By the time she got to the phone, it was on its sixth ring. Amanda picked up the receiver hurriedly; if it went on to a seventh or eight ring, the BT Call Minder service would take over, and the call would be redirected to an answerphone. And that, after Amanda had made a special effort to come and pick up the phone, would simply not do.
Amanda placed the receiver to her ear. "Hello?" she asked.
For a moment, all she could hear was music on the end of the line. Strange, she thought.
There was a drawing in of breath on the end of the line. A male voice answered: a voice she'd never heard before.
"Hello," the voice said ...
... in delicious, rich, smoky tones that made Amanda shiver all the way down her spine.
"Er, who are you?" Amanda asked, after a moment during which she realised she'd involuntarily let out a gasp.
"Am I talking to Mrs Amanda Juliet Haldane?" asked the man.
Ah, thought Amanda. He is a telemarketer, after all. "Look, here, now, I don't want to buy a timeshare or double glazing off of you -" she snapped curtly down the line.
"You are Amanda Juliet Haldane, then?" asked the man. "I must know."
"Yes, I am," Amanda blurted, not knowing why she was suddenly seized by a compulsion to divulge her personal details. "But you'd already know that, wouldn't you? So why would you need to ask -"
The voice paused a moment, then resumed: "Also known as Tamsin?"
Amanda stopped speaking in mid - sentence, stood silently in the hallway, the handset held firmly to her ear as she trembled.
And in that silence, the background music played on.
"How did you know that?" Amanda asked.
"You do go by the name of Tamsin, then?" replied the voice.
"On the 'Married But Looking For ... Fun' chatroom?" The voice carried an odd emphasis over the word "fun."
A pause. "Yes."
"And are you still looking for ... fun?" Again, the odd emphasis.
Amanda gulped, began to blush. "Y - yes," she stammered, her heart beating more vigourously now. "But a- all I - I did was jus - just leave my - my name," she said. "I didn't leave any - anything else beh - behind to identify m - me, ohhh ..."
Amanda felt a wave of sexual arousal course through her body. "Who - who are you ...?" she gasped.
"Never mind that, Tamsin," replied the voice. "Tell me, truthfully, and hold nothing back. Do you still want ... fun?" Yet again, the emphasis.
A knot of fear tightened in Amanda's solar plexus. What was this man asking her to do? She prayed he wasn't going to come in the door and ... at the thought of what he might do, the knot tightened further. Amanda's heart hammered wildly as the fear mixed with the strange sense of arousal.
But something in the word "fun," or maybe it was that background music, just washed a wave of warmth throughout her body, bringing a flush and pinpricks of sweat to her face and neck, and melting the fear like a wash of warm water dissolving a hard lump of sugar.
"Yes," Amanda breathed huskily, "fun."
"Good, Tamsin," said the voice. "But first, you must tell me about yourself. What I will need to know. I will need some information before we can proceed. Will you tell me what I need to know, fully and truthfully?"
"Yes," Amanda replied.
"Even if it's so deeply personal that you'd never even dream of discussing it with a stranger?" added the voice.
"Yes, anything," Amanda replied. "Anything."
"Even secrets about yourself, Tamsin? Secrets so deep that you'd rather die rather than divulge them?"
"At this point," Amanda breathed, "I'd tell you my bank account Pin number and my dirtiest sexual fantasy."
"All in good time, Tamsin," the voice replied, calm and unruffled as he had been at the start of the conversation. "All in good time."
There was a pause, during which time all Amanda could hear was that music in the background. There was a rustling sound, like somebody turning over papers. Then the indrawn breath again.
"Let's begin. Tamsin, how old are you?"
"I'm - I'm 38."
"Oh, dear, Tamsin, I meant your age."
"I'm ... I'm eighteen."
"And your hair colour, Tamsin?"
"Brunette." Amanda was auburn.
"Tamsin, what is your favourite rock band?"
"I love U2," Amanda said, wondering why. She couldn't fucking stand U2.
Her breath caught. But Tamsin did ...
"And now, I've got to ask you. Tamsin, do you smoke?"
Amanda shook her head. She didn't smoke. Filthy habit. She opened her mouth to speak ...
"Yes," she replied.
"Have you been a smoker for long, Tamsin?"
"Not really," replied Amanda. "Since my eighteenth, two weeks ago."
"Do you love your husband?" the voice asked.
"I think so," Amanda responded, amazed that she wasn't responding as 'Tamsin' this time.
"You only think so?" the voice asked.
"Well, I did when I married him - I thought I was in love with him, only -"
"You disappoint me," said the voice. "The truth, now. Do you love your husband Michael, yes or no?"
Amanda found herself trembling, trying to withhold the answer, but there was that strange compulsion to speak the truth; as though releasing the truth, however bitter, would bring relief from a still deeper inner pain. Her jaw unclenched of its own accord, and the answer rose up in her throat, emerging from her lips with a force beyond her volitional control:
"No," she said. "No, I no longer love Michael."
Gasping, Amanda leaned forwards, struggling for breath, propping herself up against the wall with her free arm for support.
A pause. Then: "That's good, that's fine. Now let it all out. All of it. All of your hidden feelings. I want you to express them all."
A wash of unwanted emotions emerged, in the wake of the public revelation. Anger, bitterness, fear, misery, ennui; all of these tore their way up through her vocal chords.
Twenty years, they'd been married. Twenty years, of quietly raising Jenny, of being the perfect mother, of being Michael's perfect wife. Twenty years.
When Amanda had been Tamsin's age, she vowed to see the river Ganges at Benares by the time she was thirty. Then she'd met Michael, and started dating him. They'd got married, and Jenny had followed a year later.
Amanda'd spent her entire thirtieth year at home. She'd wanted to wander halfway around the world by the age of thirty; for twelve years, she'd not gone further than Benidorm, and the rest of the time, she'd not gone much further than the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom.
Amanda struggled to hold the emotions back; but the emotions were too strong, too insistent. Clenching the handset in her fist like a bone weapon, she threw back her head and howled out her frustration as a single, long drawn - out primal scream of rage.
Then she leaned forward again, sobs emerging from her; sobs of relief. The secret was finally, finally out.
Slowly, the sobs died down, replaced by heavy, ragged breaths. Amanda heard a voice, faint and distant, calling her name calmly. After a while, she realised to her surprise that she was still clutching the handset; that the voice hadn't gone away; and that she still wanted to listen to him, after all that he'd just done to her.
Her breath ragged, she put the phone back to her ear. "What are you doing to me, you bas-"
"Be silent," said the voice, calmly, as if discussing the price of beef at the local Tesco's.
Amanda fell silent, suddenly and completely, as if someone had flicked a mute switch inside her. It wasn't as if someone'd told her that her vocal chords had been paralysed. It was as if suddenly, speaking was the very last thing she ever wanted to do.
Anything that would displease the voice was unthinkable.
"Now," said the voice, "we will have some ... fun."
"I want you to answer me, truthfully," the voice said. "Everything that turns you on; everything that makes you feel hot, sexy inside you; it's all been sublimated into Tamsin, hasn't it?"
Amanda gasped, as a sudden wash of sexual arousal flushed her body. She found herself grinding her hips against the small table the phone rested upon. "Yes," she said.
"And that is why you chose that name on the chatroom board, wasn't it?" asked the voice. "Tamsin is a sexy name, isn't it?"
"Yes," Amanda replied. "God, yes."
"Do you prefer me calling you Tamsin now?" asked the voice.
"Please," Amanda replied, earnestly. "Call me Tamsin."
"Very well, then," said the voice. "From now on, you will respond only to the name 'Tamsin.' Not 'Amanda.'"
Tamsin shrugged. "Why would you want to call me Amanda?" she asked the voice. "That's not my name."
"That's very good," said the voice. "Now, Tamsin, why do you think you chose that name in the first place? Why do you believe that you really have the personality of an eighteen year old brunette rebel?"
"Whore," Tamsin replied. "I'm not a rebel. I'm a who - whore." She shuddered; her breath came out ragged. Tamsin felt her nipples hardening under her blouse. She squirmed underneath as the space between her legs began to grow hot.
"Would it surprise you, Tamsin, to know that I gave you this personality?"
"No," Tamsin replied. She was really getting wet underneath. Whatever this guy was up to, it was really turning her on.
The voice paused, and the music seemed to get a little louder, a little more insistent, urgent. And then, an indrawn breath, and the voice returned: "Now, Tamsin, I want you to do something for me."
"Okay," Tamsin replied.
"Your handbag," the voice replied. "Reach for it. I programmed you to keep it within arms reach of the telephone at all times."
Tamsin looked around, saw the handbag hanging up beside her coat. There were two empty hooks on either side; Michael's and Jenny's, both from Tamsin's oldlife. Tamsin reached for the black, shiny handbag, took it down from the hook.
"I want you to open it," said the voice, still as calm as ever, like a silver mirror, or a pool of mercury in a quiet laboratory. "Open the inside zipped side pocket you never even notice."
Tamsin smiled, looked inside the handbag. Now she knew why she'd picked it in her oldlife, even if it really didn't suit her. One of the side pockets had come with a hidden zipped side pocket, designed to conceal something personal, like illicit correspondence from a love affair or whatever.
"What do you see inside?" the voice asked.
"A ... a bottle of Rohypnols," Tamsin replied, "and ..."
Tamsin took out the packet of cigarettes and the slim gold lighter. "More Menthol. My favourite brand." she said. "When did I buy these?"
"Two weeks ago," said the voice. "When we found you, and programmed you the first time."
"The first time?" Tamsin said. "To do what?"
"To have fun," replied the voice. This time, the inflection caused a wellspring of lust to emerge within Tamsin. Without a second thought, she lowered the handset to the table, ripped open the plastic wrapping, popped open the carton and withdrew one of the slim brown cigarettes. Popping the filter end into her mouth, Amanda dropped the packet to the table, lit the cigarette, sucked in the menthol scented smoke deeply.
She picked up the handset again, breathing out smoke slowly in a sigh, her face flushed with arousal.
"And now," the voice said, "follow your programming, Tamsin."
"Okay," Tamsin breathed, putting down the phone.
She found her free hand pressing urgently against the blouse material, feeling the rigid little bump of her stiffened nipple, tweaking it to send little shocks of pleasure throughout her body. Her vagina responded to the touch, sending echoes like little electric shocks back and forth.
Tamsin's breath grew shallow, rapid, ragged. Her face was really red, now; little pinpricks of sweat dotted her face, soaked through her blouse, making portions of her clothing partially see - through.
Tamsin kicked off her shoes with force, flinging them halfway down the hall. She stood in stockinged feet, feeling hot. She took the cigarette from her mouth, blew more smoke into the air, nearly choking at the sting of nicotine at the back of her throat. She transferred the slim brown More from her free hand to the hand clutching the handset, then let her free hand slide down to rub her belly, cup underneath her breasts, to slide between her legs.
A wave of pleasure rocked her body, causing her to nearly double over; the combination of arousal, guilt at smoking and the strange music had brought about a small orgasm. Tamsin straightened up, tried to take the More cigarette from the fingers of the hand clutching the handset, swore and put the handset down. Then, with the More in her mouth, her face wreathed with fragrant blue smoke, Tamsin reached down with both free hands, now, to begin undoing her blouse buttons.
A moment later, the blouse hung open, sometimes revealing Tamsin's breasts, sometimes concealing them. She'd not been wearing a bra. Tamsin's hands played with her nipples freely, now, unhindered by the blouse material. The pleasure generated was raw, intense, undiluted. Tamsin's breath grew ragged; she coughed blue smoke, drew on the cigarette again, then put it down in the ashtray that she only just noticed now sitting on the small table beside the phone.
Tamsin found herself laughing, blue smoke flying out of her mouth as she let her hands unclasp the belt about her slacks. Slowly, she stepped out of her slacks, kicked them down the hall to join the discarded house shoes. A moment later, the blouse joined them.
Tamsin stood in the hallway, naked now, but for a tiny pair of knickers, little more than a G string. Her arousal mounting, knowing that she was doing something extremely dirty and loving every moment of guilt, Tamsin slid her hands down towards her knickers, gently pulled them down to reveal her thatch of auburn pubic hair. It was glistening with vaginal juices; her labia were already swollen, her clitoris visibly gorged.
Tamsin shuddered. Her left hand began toying with first her left, and then her right, nipple like never before, coaxing the maximum sexual pleasure from each touch; while her right hand played with her clitoris, running her index finger along her distended labia, dabbling in her juices.
Tamsin slowly toppled backwards, her body softly impacting against the wall, as her body responded to the increasing pleasure. Her breasts swelled, growing more and more sensitive, and her breath became shallow and ragged as climax approached.
Suddenly, Tamsin could bear it no longer. Biting back a moan, she gasped. Her whole body jerked as the climax rocked her body like a small earthquake. Her breath, up to that point sucking in air heavily, suddenly changed, became deep outward breaths. Her face relaxed, her expression softening, a great smile forming as she returned to consciousness, and looked around her.
She wasn't Tamsin; she was Amanda Haldane, 38. Married, although she had to be candidly honest now and admit she hated the arrangement, and a proud mother of the one good thing her life had brought her.
Breathing heavily still, shuddering as the little aftershocks of the orgasm made their sporadic presence felt, Amanda looked down towards the table, saw the cigarette still burning in the ashtray beside the phone handset. She reached for the cigarette to stub it out, but found herself reaching for the handset instead.
"Did you like that?" asked the voice at the end of the line, as calm as he'd ever been.
"What did you do to me?" asked Amanda.
"Nothing," replied the voice. "I only gave you what you craved."
Amanda nodded. "Fun," she said.
"Fun," the man replied.
"Will I see you again?" Amanda asked.
"We haven't finished with you yet," replied the voice. "Next time, we shall meet in person. And now, I will leave you with some more ... fun."
The line went dead. Amanda, still flushed, trembling, sweat glistening on her skin, now starting to shiver in the cool air, picked up the lit cigarette and the ashtray to take them outside and put them in the bin.
Without entirely knowing why, she found herself taking a long, deep drag on the thing instead, then blowing a perfect smoke ring in the air.
Amanda had no idea how she could have done that.
The door opened.
Amanda turned, saw Jenny standing in the doorway, her door key in her hand. Behind her was Michael, his work suit draped casually over his right arm, his work briefcase dangling from suddenly nerveless fingers, as they both saw -
- Amanda Haldane. Naked, smoking a cigarette, clearly having spent the last twenty or more minutes masturbating herself to a frenzy over the phone.
"How's Dad taking it?" Amanda asked Jenny, some time later.
"He's still taking it pretty badly," Jenny replied. She was pretty, resembling her Mum in many ways - not least in the auburn hair and eyes. "Says it's going to be a few more days yet till he can get his head round what you told him."
"What about you?"
"I still don't know if it's the right thing to tell him you didn't love him any more," Jenny said. "I mean, he's my Dad. I love you both. And I hate to see you both separating like this."
"Well, it happens," Amanda said. She took out a More. "Smoke?"
"Okay," Jenny said, accepting it and allowing her mum to light it. Together, they both sat smoking in the living room in silence for a while.
"I never realised you smoked," Jenny said.
"I had no idea you smoked," Amanda replied. "When did you start?"
"Two weeks ago," Jenny said.
Amanda coughed, blue smoke wreathing her face. "What did you just say?"
"I said, two weeks ago ..." Jenny replied. "Day after my birth ... day ..." She looked stunned a moment, stared at Amanda.
"This is what that voice said," Amanda said. She reached the end of her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the unit beside her. "I'd just started smoking, two weeks ago, after my birthday."
"Your 'eighteenth,'" Jenny said. "I'm nineteen."
"I know," Amanda said, "but our birthdays are two days apart. Your birthday is two days after mine. Ours were both on the same week this year."
"Is that when you put your name down in that chatroom?" asked Jenny. Amanda nodded. "When you assumed the identity of this ... Tamsin?" Again, a nod.