Clean up

The kitchen is gratefully empty, save for a single young man doing dishes and laundry in a back corner. You swipe a towel and proceed to clean yourself of the still steaming mess between your legs. Your hands tremble as you wet the cloth and wipe, though you're not quite sure if it's shame or excitement. Your face flushes a bright red the entire time as you continue to wipe yourself well past the point of cleanliness. You can still feel it and smell it, even after the last visual traces are gone.

Did you really just do... that? You can't summon up the will to even think "pleasure a gladiator." You were **** and manhandled into it. And a gold piece is quite a bit of money. You just weren't thinking straight after such a long day. You weren't complicit. It just happened. You were a passive actor. Excuses rapid fire through your mind, but deep down you know that each is a paper shield to hide from the unavoidable truth. You enjoyed it. As you wipe, you dare to slip your fingers a little higher. You're still flush with need and a pant slips past your lips as you brush your nethers delicately.

Pleasure. You pant. Pleasure makes one forget. It makes one forget that you're not supposed to be a girl. You should be ashamed of yourself. You shouldn't be enjoying this, but rather stoically insisting your masculinity onto the world. But pleasure makes on forget.... And in this case it's also made you forget your surroundings.

You hear a snicker and look up only to find that the busboy who was doing dishes has been watching your entire show. You flush brightly, and huff in indignation, as if he intruded on you... Then throw the dirty cloth at the laundry pile and scurry out the back door. Last you saw, he had picked it up and brought it to his nose for a smell... The lech.