The morning after the night before

The morning sun wasn’t just bright it was violent. Kara groaned as the light lanced through her eyelids like a scalpel. Her mouth tasted like a pub carpet, and her skull pulsed in time with the distant wail of police sirens.

What the fuck did I—

Memories erupted like flashbulbs: Mohammed’s disappointed exit. The abandoned bath now sloshing over the tiles. The government issued "stress relief dildo" (as if calling it that made it less pathetic) still lay on the coffee table in a puddle.

And the window.

Oh god, the window.

Kara peeled her cheek from the leather sofa, her naked body sticking to it with a sound like Velcro tearing apart. She wasn’t in bed. She wasn’t covered. And her living room curtains weren’t just open—they’d been yanked wide with theatrical flair, as if she’d wanted an audience.

Male voices barked outside.

She hit the floor army-crawl style, her robe snagged from the back of the couch with a **** lunge. Peering through the lower window pane, the scene crystallized:

A man in a neon pink t-shirt "ILLEGAL EJACULATOR" stamped across his chest in prison-yard font was jabbing a finger at a disinterested policeman. His government mandated chastity device glinted in the sunlight like a bad joke.

"It wasn’t my fault!" Pink Shirt’s voice cracked. "She was right there in the window, going at herself like a—"

The cop didn’t even look up from his tablet. "So let me clarify: You’re admitting to both consuming illegal pornography and being a peeping Tom?"

The squad car rolled away, leaving the man sputtering on the curb.

Kara’s stomach dropped. She fumbled for her phone, praying she hadn’t drunk texted Mohammed. Instead, the Bate-Girls.com homepage glared back at her, a notification pulsing:

"MESSAGE RECEIVED. SOLIDARITY, SISTER. WE’LL WIN THIS WAR ONE COCK AT A TIME."

War?

Her sent folder held the answer. A video link, thumbnailed with a blur of limbs and dark curls. Kara’s thumb hovered—then tapped.

The footage was grainy, shot from her bookshelf. A woman’s naked body arched on the sofa, the stat issued dildo plunging into a thatch of untrimmed pubic hair. The audio was worse, guttural moans she didn’t recognize as her own.

"Fuck… yes… stick it to the… fucking… regime…"

The camera panned to the window just as a tinny alarm blared:

"ILLEGAL EJACULATION DETECTED. AUTHORITIES NOTIFIED."

There in the apartment across the way the neighbour gaped from his window, his face a masterpiece of guilt and arousal. The video ended with a close-up of Kara’s hairy pussy.

The phone clattered to the floor. Kara’s skin burned. This wasn’t her. She voted Conservative. She believed in the fertility mandates. But under the shame… something else fizzed.

Excitement.

The robe slid off her shoulders. Let the neighbours look. Let the whole fucking world see. She stalked to the kitchen, fully nude, and caught Pink Shirt’s curtains snapping shut.

New Messages (23):

"Queen behaviour! Shame the pricks!"

"Need a camerawoman next time? ;)"

"That bush is a political statement! Don’t you dare shave!"

Kara traced a hand through her pubic hair and winced, she needed to get a handle on this

Two hours later, her bathroom looked like a crime scene. Three razors murdered. A triangle of neat brown curls now perched above her slit like a victory flag.

She dressed slowly. Summer dress. No bra. No panties.

Lets see what fun I can have she thought.