His hands flew up to cover his mouth as he cried out. At the same time, she felt something hot and salty and slimy spurting into her mouth as the throbbing between her legs crescendoed and sent a warm explosion traveling in wave after wave through her body until she thought she would faint.
She began to remove her mouth from him, but he held her head there with his hands, saying, in a hoarse whisper, “Please… Oh god, please don’t stop!”
She let the slimy liquid trickle down her throat, the action of swallowing stimulating another couple of short spurts, which she also swallowed, continuing to gently lick him and hold him in her mouth for a while, until she felt him beginning to slide out from between her lips.
She didn’t want to open her eyes; she wanted to just kneel there and feel the waves still reverberating through her. She felt as though she’d been picked up by a tornado and dropped somewhere completely different. She didn’t know who she was anymore.
She opened her eyes and just caught a glimpse of his cock, now looking softer and kind of fragile, as he pulled up his underwear, then pulled up and fastened his pants and belt.
She wanted to talk to him about what had just happened, ask him how it had felt for him–ask him a thousand questions!
But before she could, he looked down at her, still kneeling on the floor, and said, neutrally, “You can go home now.”
He reached past her to unlatch the door, then carefully eased past her and walked out, his footsteps echoing on the tiles. She heard the bathroom door open and slowly sigh shut.
She was stunned. Was that all? Was she suddenly invisible again? She didn’t know what to think.
Now the waves of pleasure had faded away and she felt empty. And sad.
But no matter what she was feeling she couldn’t stay here. She clambered painfully to her feet, noticing, with a distant amusement, that she still had her socks and one of her penny loafers on. She gathered up her clothing and carried it out of the cubicle, draping her dress over the sink while she untangled her turtleneck. She suddenly remembered her glasses and was relieved to discover them unbroken in her dress pocket–she was afraid she had knelt on them. She placed them carefully on the edge of the sink.
She was just about to put her arms into her sweater prior to slipping it over her head, when she heard the bathroom door open. Oh god, she was going to get caught after all, standing in the bathroom in her bra and panties. Her sopping wet panties. Instinctively she turned away from the door, covering herself with her turtleneck as best she could.
Quick footsteps. A hand on her shoulder, turning her around to face…him.
Her eyes widened with shock.
He pulled the sweater out of her hands and tossed it onto the sink with her dress.
Then he put his arms around her, pulled her to him, and kissed her–deeply, tenderly.
Then he pulled away and looked into her eyes with an expression that she couldn’t read.
Then he released her and, without a word, was gone again.
Chapter Two
The next few days passed her by without really registering, a distant distraction like a television playing unwatched in a corner of the room.
Outwardly she was still the Invisible Girl, for which she was thankful, because this allowed her to give her attention almost entirely to the stranger she had suddenly become.
Who was this girl who had done all those things, things that played themselves over and over in her mind, things she had never even heard of but knew were bad, things that would shock anyone who knew her? Things she had only done because she’d been forced to, she told herself, but still things she was certain no other girl she knew had even thought about. She felt as if she had not only become a different person, but a different species, outwardly similar in appearance but inwardly totally unlike the people around her.
Sometimes a particular memory would suddenly fill her mind. While changing into her gym clothes she would remember standing in her bra and panties before him, his eyes looking at her. Absently chewing on a pencil in class, she would suddenly recall having him in her mouth, the taste of him. At those moments she would blush to the roots of her hair, and have to look down, thankful for her long bangs and glasses.
And it didn’t help that her history class was studying the Civil War. Every time she heard the word slavery it jolted her. She wondered if slaves then had to do the kinds of things she had done.
And what about him? She could hardly bear to think about him. When she did she would cringe inwardly, overwhelmed with conflicting feelings: anger that he had forced her to do and say such awful, humiliating things, driving her to tears; shame that she had done them–she had had a choice, after all, and could have turned herself in, which would have been the right thing to do–what a good girl would have done. And this brought her to a deeper feeling of shame, one that told her that maybe she had deserved exactly what had happened to her, because she was not a good girl.
And below that, a shame so deep that she dared not allow it to become even a thought: that she had, finally, enjoyed it.
And that he knew.
The thought of seeing him again terrified her. As long as she didn’t see him, it hadn’t really happened; only in her mind, a story she had made up. To see him again, to have him looking at her, would make it irrevocably real. So she scuttled from one class to the next, her head even further down than usual, and dashed out a side door at the end of the day. Once she had recognized the back of his head in the student union cafeteria and had run out in a blind panic. She hated him more for knowing the things she had done than for making her do them. He was a terrible person; only a monster would have made her experience such degrading things.
And yet sometimes, even when overwhelmed by memories that made her want to cry with shame and anger, there would arise unbidden the memory of that kiss–a wonderful, romantic kiss, despite the circumstances. The way he had held her, the tenderness in it. It was the kind of kiss she had only seen in movies or read about.
And that look he had given her afterwards, his eyes searching hers. What was it she had seen in that look? She didn’t know. But she thought that sadness was a part of it.
In some ways the memory–that kiss, that look–haunted her more consistently than any of the others, so much so that even though she was frantically trying to avoid him, she also now found herself paying attention to how she looked, although she wouldn’t admit to herself that she was doing so, resolutely thinking about something else as she picked out her clothes in the morning.
By the end of that week she was no longer drawn to her invisibility wardrobe. That Friday morning she put on a white blouse with matching knee-socks (she hated pantyhose, which made her feel as if her lower body had been shrink-wrapped) and a tartan skirt–nothing that would attract attention, certainly, but not invisible, either. She had even, while defiantly not noticing that she was doing so, put on a pair of panties that she had never worn–white, with a pattern of large and small red hearts–which her mother had picked up somewhere and given her as a sort of jokey Valentine’s day present. She had never worn such girly things, not since entering adolescence, and would not allow herself to wonder why she was doing so now.