The Good Girl

Bigger in me, impossibly bigger, hotter - and the rhythm broke, shudders running through him. He gripped me by the hips and drove himself deep, his body unco-ordinated, twitching, almost spasming into me, once, twice, three times.

Hot fluid.

He collapsed slowly onto me, and we toppled over slowly to our left.

He curled himself round me, both our breathing rapid. His hands found my breasts, squeezing gently. With my cuffed hands trapped awkwardly between my naked back and his clothed belly, I tried to respond.

Inside me, he softened, and shrank. When he left me, I was bereft.

---

"How are you?" she asked.

I was sat wrapped in her fluffy dressing gown, on her sofa, a mug of hot chocolate cradled between my hands.

"Elated," I said. "Angry. Wonderful. Sore. Satiated. Abandoned. Confused."

"Yes," she said, kneeling on the carpet in front of me, the discarded leather hood and cuffs on the floor behind her.

"Can you forgive me?" she asked.

"Forgive?" I said. I thought about it. I took a careful sip of hot, rich, comforting chocolate.

"I planned this," she said. "Organised it. Enabled it."

"Yes," I said. "For my birthday."

"Yes," she said.

"Look," I said, "the question is too big. I can't answer it."

"I made a cake," she said. "Would you like a bath? A shower?"

I smelt of him.

"All my clothes were destroyed, weren't they?"

"Yes," she said. "I've got clothes in your size - just from the charity shop, but..."

"Thank you," I said. "I think I'd like to go home."

---

I stood, naked, in front of my own mirror in my own room, the door carefully locked, the curtains carefully drawn.

My... groin... was still damp. There was pink in the sticky fluid, blood, not much. I had been a virgin. I had had a hymen. I wondered if he'd noticed, what he'd thought, whether - to him - it had mattered. The fluid smelt foreign, ammoniac. Male.

Again I felt that wash of virtigo, of elated ambivalence. Of course he should have worn a condom. But... Of course I didn't want to be pregnant, didn't want to be diseased. But...

I licked my fingers, tasting the lubricious cocktail of our fluids.

There was seed in this. Semen. Raw, male, dangerous, explosive, life changing, life creating, magical stuff. Of course I didn't want a life created - not now. But...

I closed my eyes, and remembered - tried to remember - the pounding, accelerating rhythm, the blunt force, the unfurling petals, the welcomed slide.

I opened them again, and inspected myself. There were fewer bruises than I'd expected - in fact, honestly, except for a little bit of carpet-burn on my right breast, there weren't any. My wrists were a little sore from the metal cuffs, and the skin there was scraped, but...

I smelt of him. Of us. Of sex.

I smiled.

I went to bed.

I slept.

---

"How are you?" she asked again, anxiously. A night had passed. She had got to the cafe before me, was waiting for me.

"Still processing," I said.

I was in old, sloppy, unsexy clothes, not wanting to be noticed. Beneath them, I was still consciously - self consciously - unwashed.

"Can you forgive me?" she asked.

I sipped my coffee.

"Look," I said, "I can't answer that yet. And it may be the wrong question."

There was a pause. I put my coffee down. I looked at her carefully, catching her eyes.

"I can thank you," I said. "I do thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Forgive? I don't know."

"Yes," she said. "I see."

"Yes," I said. "What happened to the cake?"

"It's in the fridge at home," she said. "It's yours. I made it for you."

I sipped my coffee.

"I should go," I said. "Shall I come round tonight?"

"Please," she said.

I got up to leave.

"Have you looked at your phone?" she asked.

"No?" I said, looking back.

"There are pictures," she said. "Just on your phone, no-one else's. You could delete them. Or not."

---

There were pictures. I sat in a quiet corner on the top floor of the library, and looked at them.

None of them showed his head; mine was encased in the mask. So they weren't identifiable - we weren't identifiable. We. Me, and him. His skin - what I could see of it - was white, pale against mine.

There was one picture which clearly showed the place where we joined, where he entered me. I blushed darkly and flicked quickly to the next; gulped, took a long, slow breath, and flicked back.

The picture seemed to be taken on the out-stroke. He was so broad, so big, where he entered me, my... parts so stretched to accept him, to enfold him. The dull tan of my skin darkening to chocolate around my anus and where... and then turning to brightest pink around the pale, glistening shaft. A small picture, a close up, a detail shot, quite unlike the others. Absolutely anonymous. But us. Me and him. Conjoined. In flagrante. Copulating.

I pressed my finger on the picture until the menu popped up, and set it as my screen background. And then, after a moment, set the background back to the default again, because...

He had been in me. A man I didn't know had inseminated me. That photograph was proof, and precious proof. Part, forever, of my identity. I was proud of it. But I wasn't - yet - ready for even my friends to know.

In other pictures I realised - in a way I never had, standing naked in front of my mirror - that my body was actually beautiful, aesthetically pleasing, sexy. I flicked forward once more, froze, then frantically tapped the screen.

The movie paused. I hurriedly dug my earphones out of my bag and plugged them in. I tapped the screen again.

In the picture I was sobbing, slightly muffled by the mask. His hands held my waist. At each forceful stroke a shockwave travelled up through my gluteus maximus until arrested by his grip. Oh. My. God. I slumped back in my chair, gazing transfixed at the screen, enraptured, amazed. Oh, My, God!

The clip was short - a minute or two at most. When it ended it was a couple of moments before I recovered enough to touch rewind.

I watched it four times. At the end I was dazed, dizzy, desirous.

---

After we had eaten cake, I let her take me into her shower and wash me with a sponge; afterwards, I let her take me into her bed and wash me again with her tongue. Nothing happened, and I was glad that nothing happened, but at the same time I was glad I had let her try because I felt she'd earned the right. But I didn't let her use her vibrator on me because I wasn't confident that if she did that nothing would happen.

---

When I got home from the gig over the pub, a month later, it was late. The lights on the landing had failed. I cursed, as you do, and went to unlock my door.

He must have been waiting behind the lifts. The first I knew he was there was his hand at my throat, pulling me hard - not violently, but forcefully - back against his chest.

"You know what is going to happen now, don't you?"

My body was again boneless, but this time I knew what to say.

"Yes," I whispered, turning the key its last quarter turn, and pushing the door.

"If there's anything you want to say about it, now's the time."

"Yes," I said again. "Please. Quickly. Now."

He pushed me, gently but firmly forward through the door. I reached for the light switch, but he told me not, so I left it.

"If you pull the bow at the back of my neck," I said, "the dress will come off, if you want it off. Or not if you don't. I've knickers on, but they don't matter, you can cut them if you like."

"Thank you," he said, coolly. He pulled the bow, and let go of me so that the dress could unwrap and slither down my body.

I looked at him in the gloom, surprisingly relaxed, knowing my body was ready for him.

"Oh," I said, "would you use a condom this time?"

He laughed.