All Change for Amy

Amy plodded around her garden, the secateurs in her hand feeling heavy and useless. She was trying to take her mind off the night before, to lose herself in the simple, mindless task of pruning the roses, but the images kept flooding back. The masked faces, the cold felt of the card table against her cheek, the searing line of the cane, the impersonal thrust of the winner. Jack was at work, and the house felt vast and empty, echoing with a silence that was no longer comforting but suffocating. She looked at her phone a number of times, her heart lurching with every notification, but there was nothing. The silence from Geraldine was a new kind of punishment, leaving her adrift in her own shame and excitement.

She gave up on the garden and sank back onto a lawn chair, a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc in her hand. The sun was warm on her skin, but she felt a chill inside. Her mind went over the rabbit hole she had fallen into, the things she had discovered about herself through Geraldine's cruel tutelage. She was amazed Geraldine had spotted it in her, this latent need to be used, to be humiliated, to be stripped of all control and rebuilt into someone else's plaything. She had spent fifty-five years not knowing who she was, and in a few short weeks, Geraldine had shown her. Her hand went down, almost of its own accord, sliding under the waistband of her joggers. She felt the damp silk of the pale pink sil panties Geraldine had sent her, a constant, secret reminder of her ownership. She sighed as her fingers explored the slick fabric, tracing the outline of her own lips through the material. Slowly up and down, a teasing, gentle pressure that was a stark contrast to the brutal invasions of the previous night.

Then a deeper push. She could feel the silk firm up around her as she pressed harder, the fabric becoming a second skin, a barrier that heightened the sensation rather than diminishing it. Her fingers found their way past the damp silk, past the swollen folds, and deep into the wetness of her own core. She groaned loudly, the sound obscene in the quiet garden, as she brought herself to a swift, sharp orgasm. It was a pale imitation of the forced pleasure she had experienced, a fleeting moment of release that left her feeling emptier than before. She wiped her fingers on her joggers and took a large gulp of wine, the taste sharp and acidic on her tongue. She was a slut, just as Geraldine had named her. And she was waiting, desperately, for her next command.