Chapter 9 Fairytale of New Vibrator
Chapter nine
Fairytale of New Vibrator
Miranda
The second the door shuts behind Jasper, there’s a silence so charged it might as well come with a warning label.
“Oh my God,” Amelia swoons.
Bri clutches her chest dramatically. “He brought you reindeer socks.”
“And kitten food,” Lizzie adds. “And actual chocolate. This man didn’t just turn up with a basket. He turned up with a gesture.”
I blink at them. “He said it was a housewarming gift.”
“Oh please,” Bri says. “Bread and salt is a housewarming gift. Chocolate for SJ is thoughtful. But novelty socks? That’s flirting. Polite, winter-themed flirting.”
“It is not flirting,” I say. “It’s quirky. It’s practical. It’s—”
“Personal,” Amelia interrupts, eyes gleaming. “It’s cheeky. You don’t give novelty socks to a tenant.”
I shake my head. “It was just a kind thing to do. A neighbourly thing. He’s being polite.”
“You’re deflecting,” Amelia says, smug.
“I’m redirecting,” I mutter, pouring myself a glass of water and pretending not to look at the basket again. “He’s just being nice.”
And yet. There’s a flicker in my stomach I don’t fully trust. A fizz.
Nothing dramatic—just the tiniest flare of maybe.
It’s been years since someone flirted with me.
Real flirting, not pub banter or Sim-Sim’s tired half-compliments.
This felt... different. Warmer. Intentional in a way I didn’t expect.
“Tall,” Lizzie says, counting on her fingers.
“Broad shoulders,” Bri nods.
“And silently competent,” Amelia sighs. “Honestly, if he’d handed me that basket, I’d have proposed.”
“He knocked. He gave me a gift. He left,” I say flatly. “That’s not romance. That’s with manners.”
“He lingered,” Bri says.
“He absolutely didn’t.”
“He lingered emotionally.”
“Oh my God.”
I lean against the worktop, sip my water, and try not to think about the way Jasper said reindeer socks like it wasn’t ridiculous. Like it wasn’t the softest, most unassuming way anyone’s tried to make me laugh in months.
It was a good basket.
That’s all.
And yet—
I glance down at the socks again.
They’re red. Hilarious. Cosy-looking.
I do sort of want to put them on.
Still… I’m not dating. I’m not even thinking about dating. I’ve barely finished unpacking. My marriage is still warm at the edges. I’ve got a child to settle, a life to rebuild, and two kittens who think my dressing gown is a climbing wall.
No complications. No crushes. No topless, brooding types with good eyebrows and thoughtful baskets.
Still.
I may need to start brushing my hair before opening the door.
Just in case.
It’s just after ten. The flat is quiet, except for the rhythmic whir of the boiler and the occasional sleepy grumble from one of the kittens, who’ve made a nest out of a laundry bag and refuse to be dislodged.
SJ fell asleep quickly despite protesting that he wasn’t tired… at all. And I have a feeling I won’t be far behind because this has been a lot. For now, the thrill of having a job is keeping me up.
I’m still half-stunned Stella even called… or remembered that I said I was looking.
An admin role, of all things. I hadn’t considered admin—not really.
My mum will have a fit if she finds out.
With my degree, I should apparently be tucked into the archives of some respectable museum, gloved and whispering about pigments.
But that version of me hasn’t existed for a long time.
And the truth is, I don’t even know if I want to be her anymore.
A job in the village. Five minutes away. Flexible hours. Something I can do and still be here when SJ gets home. It’s not glamorous, but it’s a way in. A way back. Or sideways, at least. Something to do until I figure out what’s next.
It’s strange, really. I used to feel clear about who I was.
I worked my socks off at Uni so I could land my dream job at the British Museum.
I worked my way up to senior conservator quickly.
I was even discussing publishing a paper with a colleague.
Then I ran into Sim-Sim and my life took a different direction.
The lamp throws soft light across the wall—blank, still. The kind of magnolia that estate agents call “warm neutral” but which makes me feel vaguely like I’m living in the waiting room of a very polite dentist.
There’s a stack of boxes in the corner. I’ve unpacked all the useful things—clothes, shoes, bras that don’t dig in like they’ve got something to prove—but the rest remains untouched.
Books. Trinkets. That weird clay sculpture SJ made of “the family,” which looks like three potatoes having a standoff.
I’m lying on top of the duvet, book in hand. The Duke of Thornbury’s Sinful Bargain. Old favourite. Tried and tested. One of the filthier titles in my collection—the kind I used to joke about hiding behind the toaster in case my mother-in-law came over unannounced.
Usually it works. Comforting filth. Escapism with a corset.
But tonight… it’s not landing.
I read a line about a heaving bosom and a velvet tongue and immediately picture someone trying to lick upholstery.
I flip the page. Try again.
The heroine gasps. The duke growls something about propriety and punishment and my brain promptly swaps him out for Jasper—cool voice, unreadable expression, gently pulling on my ponytail.
I groan and let the book fall across my chest.
What is wrong with me?
I don’t fancy him. I don’t. I’m just… needy. Tired. A little emotionally dehydrated. And—yes, alright—it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me with anything other than indifference or mild exasperation.
I close my eyes.
He really did say reindeer socks like it was a perfectly normal thing to give a woman you’ve never spoken to for longer than six minutes.
And then there was that tiny beat, right after he handed the basket over—like he was waiting for something. A reaction. A thank you. A smile.
I sigh and flop onto my side, shoving the book under the pillow. The kittens stir in their fabric cave and one of them lets out a tiny sneeze, followed by a deeply offended meow.
I should go to sleep.
I’ve got a hundred things to do tomorrow. More boxes. A school form I forgot to scan. Something’s leaking under the sink and I’m ninety percent sure it’s coming from the pipes.
But still I lie there. A little too warm. A little too aware of the shape of my own body under the duvet. Nothing urgent—just that slow, crawling feeling. Restless. Antsy. Horny, if I’m honest with myself.
I roll onto my back again and stare at the ceiling, willing my brain to stop picturing Jasper in a towel, which is ludicrous because why would I ever see him in a towel.
But he’d probably look good. Obviously. That’s half the problem.
I close my eyes and try to focus on literally anything else. Bricks. Tupperware. That time I sneezed in front of SJ’s headteacher and accidentally peed a tiny bit.
Nothing helps.
There’s a pulse in my belly now. Soft. Persistent. As if my body’s decided, without permission, that it’s ready to feel again—and that perhaps reindeer socks were the sign it was waiting for.
I sigh, tug the duvet higher, and slip a hand down, mostly out of irritation. If I get it over with, maybe I’ll sleep. That’s the deal, right? Standard biological maintenance. Like flossing. Just with slightly more enthusiasm.
Except... it’s not happening.
I try. I give it a decent effort—the sort of focused, practical approach that used to work without much fanfare. Eyes closed. Breath steady. I reach for the usual images: hands, heat, pressure. The murky but effective greatest hits reel.
But my brain has apparently gone freelance.
Instead of something slick and sexy, it keeps coughing up mental snapshots of Jasper—not even undressed. Just him, standing in my doorway, basket in hand, expression unreadable but steady. And the way he said socks, like it was the sexiest thing in the world.
Not arousing. Not explicitly. But still there. Lingering.
I switch tactics. Try a little more pressure. A bit faster.
Nothing. My clit is stubbornly semi-aroused but too tired to give me the release I am hoping for.
All I’m left with is the creeping frustration of trying to light a fire with damp matches. The longer I go, the more it starts to feel ridiculous—not sensual, not freeing, just... stubborn. Like my body’s rolled its eyes and gone No, thanks; come back when you're actually in the mood.
I groan and give up. Hand flung across the pillow, legs tangled in the duvet, heart lightly irritated.
So now I’m under-stimulated and annoyed. Excellent. All I need is a cramp and a moth in the room and I’ll hit the bedtime hat trick.
I glance at the reindeer socks at the end of the bed. Snatch them up. Yank them on.
They’re cosy. Smug, almost. Like they know they’re part of the problem.
I stare at the ceiling and let out the quiet, exasperated laugh of a woman fully betrayed by her own libido.
I do not fancy Jasper.
I do not want anything complicated.
I just wanted a quick, efficient release and a bit of sleep. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently yes.
I sigh, sit up, and reach for my phone like a woman on a mission. If hands won’t do the job, throw technology at it. It’s practically modern self-care. Somewhere between moisturising and replacing your dish sponge.
I type vibrator into the search bar, already regretting what the algorithm’s going to do with that later, and scroll past the pink monstrosities shaped like cartoon dolphins. I’m not after whimsy. I want results.
I find a nice-looking one. Slim, unthreatening. Quiet, allegedly. Rechargeable. ￡29.99. Sensible. Respectable.
I’m about to click buy when I spot another model on the side panel.
It has features.
Lips. Not metaphorical ones—actual soft silicone lips, apparently designed to “focus precision stimulation on the clitoral area”. There’s also a flicky bit, curved, promising to “target the G-spot with rhythmic pulses.”
I stare at it.
It looks... capable.
Seventy-five quid. Which, frankly, is a grocery shop and a half. Or a decent coat for SJ. Or many other much more practical and necessary items.
I add it to my basket anyway. Sit there staring at the total like it’s a moral test.
Then I remove it. Obviously.
I sigh again, open the group chat and type:
Me
Is ￡75 too much for a vibrator if it’s got lips and a flicky bit?
I’d add Asking for a friend, but we all know the game’s up.
Amelia instantly reacts with a crying-laugh emoji. Bri sends a gif of someone being baptised in a river. Lizzie doesn’t respond. Suspiciously quiet.
Two minutes later, my phone buzzes with an email.
Subject: Happy (Early) Birthday, You Deprived Legend
It’s a ￡100 voucher for a website called , which I absolutely did not know existed before now. There's a note:
Get the one with the flicky bit.
Early birthday present from all the girls.
Use the rest for lube and condoms in case the neighbour pops over.
Love, Lizzie x
I let out a laugh before I can stop it. Loud. Genuine. The kind that bubbles up from somewhere slightly ridiculous and completely needed.
I stare at the screen a moment longer, then follow the link in the email, find the right vibrator and click Add to basket.
Because why not.
If I can’t sort myself out tonight, maybe I’ll be better equipped by Thursday.
And if nothing else… it’s good to have friends who know when to crowd-fund your orgasm.