writhe in embarrassment

There was one period, sometime after the first hour had ended when I began to feel markedly ashamed. I had dared to venture out of my hiding place, confident I could quickly regain cover should the hall light come on, driven by a desperate thirst to search for something to drink. I crept into the Walters’ bathroom, a veritable shrine of ostentatious tile and light, thinking perhaps I could find a Dixie cup dispenser to quench my parched throat. I guess it should have come as no surprise to find there were no paper cups in this luxurious jacuzzi and shower stall lounge suite. It was when I began opening the cabinets, desperate for something cup like to help satisfy my thirst, that I began to writhe in embarrassment. Shame struck me hard when I opened the doors beneath the sink and faced a bevy of feminine toiletries. As to the intimacy of her body, Elise just seemed too ripe for mere respect to keep my curiosity at bay. The privacy of her bath, well, that was just another thing entirely.

Lord Malinov, Journals of Lord Malinov

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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