The Good Girl (M/F)

The Good Girl

She was a good girl. You’d look at her and think “pink.” Even if she weren’t wearing something pink (and this would be unusual, because she almost always wore something in that shade – a fuzzy pink top, a skirt with pink polka dots, pink nail polish) you’d still think it of her. Let’s look at the way she was good. She recycled. She was the first to bring the ice cream when you finally left your jerk boyfriend and needed some convincing that he was in fact a jerk. She was nice to small children and helped lost puppies. She told the truth. She voted Democrat. She rode her bike. She didn’t eat tuna.

She was good. She didn’t own a black bra. A black bra with lace on it. A black bra that was ever so sheer and treated her nipples not as two sisters to be squashed and repressed into non-sexual glands, but rather treated them as a lover would. Teasing them into hard little targets of desire and want, flaunting, poking through the black fabric, saying to the world, “Look at us, goddamn it! Don’t you want a taste?” No, she didn’t have a bra like that. A black bra.

This lack in the lingerie drawer almost made sense (she did, after all have half-a-dozen pink bras), and may not seem like a big deal, but it would be her key to open a door that she so desperately wanted to open. It’s not what you might expect. She didn’t want to be a bad girl. Not really. Not fundamentally. We are who we are and she knew that. She also was smart enough to know that a black bra, in and of itself, wouldn’t make a nice, pink girl into a bad girl. The red leather jacket did not make James Dean. It was the actions of James Dean that made James Dean, and it would be her actions and the resulting consequences of those actions that would make her who she was and would be.

The bra was the key. It opened a door. Behind that door was the little girl who stole the package of M&Ms at the 7-11. The little girl who found herself skirt up, panties down, bottom over the knee of her father later that night. The little girl who learned a lesson about being good. About character. About who she was. Fundamentally. The next day, her bottom still smarting and pink (ironic, isn’t it?) the little girl went back to the 7-11 and paid for the M&M’s. Those M&Ms became not “a” package of M&Ms; but “the” package of M&Ms. Years later, the little girl was gone. Closed and locked behind a door of the good girl’s making. A door of shouldn’ts, couldn’ts and wouldn’ts, slammed tight with all a force of will that would impress a German philosopher. Until tonight.

Tonight she’s getting ready. The good girl hooks the bra. Her fingers shake. She twists it around her waist, pulls it up, and adjusts it over her breasts. These breasts celebrate. There is a sinking feeling in her stomach that doesn’t stop until it gets to her sex. She rubs as she pulls on her panties. A plaid skirt follows. Then she puts on a thin, white blouse. The bra, being black, is more than a simple fashion statement. It is declaration.

The waiters notice. The people at the restaurant notice. He notices. The little girl pokes her head around the open door and gulps. There’s that sinking feeling again. For the first time, the little girl notices the hard nipples. She feels good. She feels bad. She feels nasty. They skip dessert and go to his place. The little girl – as much as she loves all things chocolate with the exception of M&Ms – doesn’t mind. The little girl is well past the door.

Afterwards. Still wearing the bra.

He looked at her anew. “That was amazing.”

She can only moan.

“No, really, really, like mind-blowing amazing.”

She stops moaning to say the only thing that makes sense, “We fucked. We didn’t make love. We fucked.”

“Yes, my dear, we did,” he laughs.

She closes her eyes, reliving the moment and little girl speaks up. “It was the bra, it’s black.”

He’d noticed, of course, but now, since it’s been pointed out, he’s conscious of it. Of not just how new it is, and how sexy it is, and how strange it was she insisted she keep it on as he was pulling this bit of clothing and that bit off of her, but how it seems to have changed her. “It’s nice. Is it new?”

A voice, languid and without care answers, “I stole it.” It is the little girl, post-coital, awash in her newfound sexuality. “I was at that boutique on Maiden Lane and I saw it and I wanted it and I just put it into my purse and just left.”

She opens her eyes and there’s that sinking feeling again, now only stronger and she wants nothing so much as to spread her legs once again and let him take her but she does something else that surprised her more than it did him. She gets on her knees and making her way over to where he rests, his back against the headboard, settles face-down over his lap. She raises her ass, inviting. Holding her breath. She wants it so badly.

Slap.

She breathes out. “I stole it.”

Slap. This one not so tentative.

SLAP!

She moans.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

“Please.”

He stays his hand. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Please more.”

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

“More, more, more, more, more….”

He settles into a steady rhythm. Soon his hand is smarting, but he doesn’t stop.

SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP. Her nipples harden, kissing the black bra in gratitude.

SLAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! She wet. She is dripping on his leg, she is moaning. The little girl is gone. The good girl is gone. She is all that remains – she, herself, the woman – and he stops spanking and rolls her onto her back and enters her.

END