Under My Enemy's Roof - Under Him

Moving down my body and back up my legs, it came time to wash my nethers. Something that had always held an odd type of tension. I knew it needed to be done, while ever conscious of the effects that can be caused by even the lightest friction on my pussy or clit. I was really sensitive, even a light gust breeze, while I was naked, capable of making me moan.

Bracing a hand against the wall like I had before, I touched myself. Running my fingers along my tender pink lips. The tensions rising up inside me. I spread my lips letting the water get at me, before gently massaging them in a slow circular motion.

A long, moan escaped me before I could stop it. Ordinarily I would have clamped my hand over my mouth, mildly shamed. Worried that someone would hear. At that moment, I officially stopped caring. My notion that pleasure was okay and, if anything, was created by God for us to enjoy becoming a full-fledged conviction.

I started going faster, plunging two fingers into my aching pussy, vocalizing openly as I worked myself to orgasm. It was a rebellion I suppose. Though, more than that, it was a reclamation. A way of saying my body and my life were my own and not for anyone else to be compromised. I was so happy I cried. Gentle tears rolling down my cheeks as my body shook with sweet release.

Swaddled in my robe, still gloriously naked beneath, I pushed two PopTarts down into the eight-slice toaster that came with the kitchen. An instance of flagrant excess that would surely turn my father’s face red. I smiled at the image waiting for the time to tick down.

Despite having always been taught to eat at the table, ‘like a proper lady,’ I damn well took my plate of processed, sugary goodness into the living room and sat on the couch. Fully intending to watch something on the flat screen TV hanging unobtrusively on the wall.

Neither Dad nor I had noticed it when I moved in. I wasn’t sure about Dad, but I’d taken it as some kind of post-modernist painting, commenting on the void. As well as the obvious nod to Yves Klein.

My very selective powers of observation also made it so I’d completely missed the sheaf of paper on the coffee-table. Partly covered by the plate. The pages held together with a staple in the upper left-hand corner. Like the notes Augustus had given me.

Of course they were! What else did I think? Some invisible tutor had broken in, slipped in during the dead of night and placed a fucking study guide on the table. Right where I would see it in the morning.

I blushed at my mental profanity. Another step in the reclamation process. I had no intention of becoming a potty-mouth or someone with a dirty mind. Though it was a relief to know I could use such words, even mentally, when and where they were called for. There being some situations, usually involving absurdity, pain, or terror, when only cuss words would do.

When the initial shock wore off, it was replaced by a sense of wonder, coupled with confusion. Even after our last meeting and my obvious efforts at avoiding him, Augustus still went out of his way to try and help me. I wondered for the moment how he knew I was having trouble before remembering the online discussion group.

I knew I hadn’t done well. Hardly coming up with the bare minimum in terms of comments. I wasn’t happy about it. I’d always prided myself on being a good student but that had only been in areas I knew. The curriculum at Convent school was not really very broad when it came right down to it. Of course, they were pretty traditional. Most of the girls graduating from there expected to become wives and mothers, with no other aspirations at all.

Moved by forces unseen, which could have come either from my Lord or his, I stood straight up and marched to Augustus’s room. Hellbent on having it out with him. I knew almost for a fact that I’d misjudged him and had the sneaking suspicion he had done the same with me. We had to talk if we were going to have any chance of a co-habituation that wasn’t extremely awkward. The two of us constantly tip-toeing around each other. He had made the first move. It was only right that I try and reply.

His door was closed, as it often was. Though I somehow doubted that he kept a chair wedged under the knob. It was unlikely that I might try to baptize him in his sleep. If half of what I’d heard about people like him were true, it would not be a pleasant experience. Steam starting to rise from his skin as soon as it was touched by Holy Water. Fuck, my dad used to talk about Satanists like they were fucking vampires.