Chapter 1: The Restroom

Once he ordered her to stand in the handicapped restroom at work, to strip and stand on display and close her pretty blue eyes. He would come later.

The handicapped restroom as wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair user. There was a low sink under a mirror, and a toilet in the corner with a handrail on the wall. She closed the door as silently as she could, absurdly afraid that someone would hear. Her coat, her shirt, her long pleated skirt, she removed it all, folded them neatly and laid them on top of the toilet tank. Then she took off her shoes, which she put neatly against the wall, out the way. Her fingers struggled unordinarily with the closure of her bra, and she realized she breathed so heavily that it moved. When finally she took it off she felt her small breasts sag just a little without its support. Let him like them, she hoped, and give me what I want. The thought alone of it made her breathless. She was a junkie, she thought. The pull was so much stronger than the cigarettes she had given up for him, because he did not like the smell on her mouth and on her flesh.

Her fingers were in the band of her panties when she thought she heard a noise outside that rattled her heart. Would the door open? Was it him or someone else? Her mind raced, grasped for a terrorized explanation, that she had forgotten to lock the door, and she had taken the handicapped restroom because the other was full, and she had been undressing because...

She shook her head, forced herself to move on before he arrived. She stepped out of her underwear, stumbling a little, and put it ruffled on top of her clothes pile. Now she was naked, as ordered. She stood with her back straight, legs slightly apart, and made sure to pull all her hair behind her shoulders before placing her hands behind her head.

Then she closed her eyes and waited fervently, on display. The door opened, someone went in, and it took so much effort not to open her eyes she felt a jolt of absurd pride through all the fear and hope. She deserved it as much as she needed it. And the man came closer.

By now she was sure it was him, surely some surprised stranger would not cup her breast in his thin hand and fondle it. His fingers pressed it painfully hard. Then one went down, caressing her skin, her navel, the little strip of pubes she had kept on his orders, and then entered her slit, roughly. He moved closer and kissed her. His breath was warm, perfumed yet subtly dirty, like bathwater. His lips grabbed hers, played with them. She took no pleasure except in anticipation.

“Open you eyes,” he ordered. He was not ugly, not handsome either, just an average middle-aged man with a thin, hard face and specks of white in his short beard. Only his eyes looked ugly, and sometimes his smile.

“Suck me.”

She fell to her knees, eager. She opened the fly of his trouser, hooked one of her fingers in his black briefs and pulled them down, fished for his half-hard penis. It weighed on her hand, heavy and warm, the foreskin barely retracted over the paler glans. She uncovered it all, ran her tongue over it, then engulfed it in the pleasure pit of her mouth, careful not to graze it with her teeth, which would make him angry. A drop of preseminal fluid prickled her battered tongue, exacerbating her need for the gush to come. She worked his penis avidly, impatiently, consumed with the need for his semen. His shaft was wholly in her mouth, rigid, wide, throbbing with the first signs of his imminent ejaculation. She closed her eyes, and he withdrew, to her surprise and horror. He had thought of something more to torment her.