You attempt a new normality

You peel your forehead off the door. It feels to you like the wood grain has left a faint impression on your current body's soft skin as you turn. You lean back and breathe out slowly. The hallway is dark, and in the darkness looks so much bigger, and more intimidating, from your new perspective - more so even than when you had left, so recklessly, at the beginning of the evening, without any idea of what lay ahead.

You walk slowly through the hallway, your bare feet sticking to the hardwood with each step toward the bathroom. You can feel the dried semen pulling between your thighs like tacky glue. Although you are appalled at what you have been doing, there is also something weirdly liberating - exciting - about that young buck having left his mark on you, about you having been subjugated in the way that you were.

The bathroom light flickers on and you catch yourself in the mirror — wrecked hair plastered to your neck, lipstick smeared past your lip line in a red crescent, the cheongsam hanging off one shoulder, silk dark with sweat from collarbone to hip. The split now runs from mid-thigh to the hem. You look like a street slut pulled from a gutter.

You go to the shower, and reach in. The realisation that you can't now reach the controls in the way you used to, reminds you yet again of the pickle you are in. You step into the bathtub, your short arms able now to turn on the water, and run the shower hot.

Steam fills the small space as you peel the ruined dress down your body. The silk makes a wet sound hitting the tile floor.

You step out of it, liberated in your nudity, but also curiously oppressed by the reminder that you are now a petite girl.

You step back into the bath, and under the water, you scrub — first your thighs, then between your legs, where his cum has dried in thin white streaks into the creases of your skin. Your fingers pass over your cunt and you flinch. Swollen. Tender. The pill's ache pulses low in your belly, a warm insistent throb that has nothing to do with the hot water.

He came inside you. The thought surfaces again before you can stop it. Your hand stills between your legs. The water runs over your knuckles, over the soft folds of your pussy, still puffy from being fucked in the back of that patrol car. You think about his huge girthy cock. You think about it being inside you, filling you, then exploding inside you, marking you...

You press two fingers against your opening and feel how loose you are, how slick even now, and your clit tightens under the pad of your thumb.

You yank your hand away and grab the soap. Scrub harder. The cheap floral scent does nothing to mask what's underneath — the memory of his uniform fabric against your bare back, the cold metal of the handcuffs, the grunt he made when he buried himself fully and held still while his cock twitched inside you, filling you, owning you... impregnating you?

What would the baby be like if he had? Why are you thinking that? But as you ask yourself, you feel oddly proud at the thought it could grow to be a tall, dashing young man - as commanding as the officer.

You can't carry on like this.

You force yourself to turn off the shower, and step out of the tub.

Your nipples ache against the rough terrycloth as you dry off.

In the bedroom, you pull open dresser drawers. Everything you own is wrong - too large, cut for a frame you no longer have - and you never planned on spending long like this.

You settle on a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs, the waistband loose around your hips, the cotton bunching between your legs. An old T-shirt — some faded band logo — drops past mid-thigh. The collar slips off one shoulder. You look in the mirror and see a girl swimming in a man's clothes, collarbones sharp, wrists thin as kindling. Still sexy as fuck...

Stop thinking like that, you say to yourself.

You set an alarm and collapse onto the unmade bed. Sleep comes fast and deep and wrong.

In the dream, the police officer is beneath you. His uniform shirt is open, the white undershirt pushed up to his armpits, and you are straddling him in the back seat of the patrol car. Your hands press flat against his chest, fingers spread across the hard ridge of his sternum. His cock is deep inside you — so deep you can feel the head pressing against your cervix, and you rock your hips forward, grinding down, taking him to the root. The Compliant-Breeder heat blazes through your lower belly. You ride him with your head thrown back, hair swinging, your small breasts bouncing with each slap of skin against skin. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hipbones, and he pulls you down hard onto his lap as he thrusts up into you. You feel him cum — the hot spurting flood of it — and your cunt clenches around him as your own orgasm rips through you, muscles locking, thighs trembling, a sound tearing from your throat that is half-sob, half-moan.

You wake with your hand between your legs, fingers shoved inside the boxer briefs, two knuckles deep in your own wetness. The alarm is beeping. Morning light cuts through the blinds in pale strips.

You pull your hand free. Your fingers glisten.

The cheongsam needs cleaning. You soak it in the kitchen sink with hand soap, working the fabric gently between your fingers, watching the water cloud grey then clear. The silk is torn beyond repair — the split gapes wider now — but you wring it out and hang it over the shower rod anyway, because it's the only thing you own that was made for this body.

The mall is twenty minutes by bus. You can't go like this though. You hunt out a pair of old tracksuit leggings, and wade into them, looping the over-large waistband around so that they don't drop. You glance in the mirror. Fuck - you look like someone's one-night stand on a desperate walk of shame. Not so far from the truth...

You leave through the back door, cutting through the side yard to avoid Steve's porch, but when you reach the sidewalk he's already standing at the end of the walkway. Coffee in one hand. Stubble catching the late-morning light. Gray eyes tracking you with that slow, unblinking focus. You'd never really appreciated how masculine he looked before...

"Hey," he says. His voice is flat, quiet.

You stop. The oversized T-shirt shifts on your shoulder, baring your collarbone. You are desperately conscious of your bunched up tracksuit trousers. You are barefoot in sneakers that are two sizes too large, stuffed with balled-up socks.

"Hey," you say back. Your voice comes out thin.

He takes a step closer. There's a glimmer in his eye — not quite a smile, something more careful than that. His gaze drops to the T-shirt, the clown trousers, the too-large shoes, then back up to your face. He must think squatters have moved in...

"Where's Michael?" he asks.

The question lands like a slap. Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You can still feel the ghost of Michael's cock inside you, the weight of his cum, and your face burns.

"I'm — I'm house-sitting," you stammer. "For a friend. Old college friend. She's — she's out of town, so."

Steve's eyebrows lift a fraction. He takes a sip of his coffee. His throat moves as he swallows, and you watch the line of his jaw, the pale stubble following the angle of it, the way his free hand hangs loose at his side, fingers long and still. He's wearing a faded flannel over a white undershirt, and the fabric pulls across his shoulders when he shifts his weight. Average build, but solid. The kind of stillness that makes you aware of your own fidgeting.

"Must've gotten into some trouble last night," he says. Not a question.

Your stomach drops. He saw you. The blue lights, the torn dress, the cum on your thighs, the barefoot walk up the path. He saw all of it.

"I — there was a — the taxi—" You press your palms against your thighs, the cotton of the boxer briefs warm under your fingers. "I had too much to drink. The cab driver was — it was a whole thing. It's fine. Everything's fine."

Steve watches you for a long moment. His eyes are very pale in the morning light, almost colorless. He doesn't blink.

"Right," he says. "You let me know if you ever need a... similar hand... in such a situation again?"

Oh no. Was that a command or a question. You hope the former... but your tight little pussy gives a flutter at the risk it could have been the latter.

You take a step backward. Then another. "I've gotta — I need to get to the mall. Errands. For the — for my friend. The house-sitting."

He lifts his coffee in a small salute. You turn and walk fast, sneakers slapping the pavement, the T-shirt billowing around your thighs. You don't look back, but you feel his gaze on you — on the loose sway of the baggy trousers against your hips, on the bare curve of your shoulder — all the way to the bus stop at the corner.