The sound of the running water filled the bathroom. Wafting plumes of heavy steam rose up from the tub, coiling and curling about her body as she observed herself in the mirror.
Her name was Clara Ellison, and she was pretty normal on the face of it. Of course, she knew that most people would describe themselves as pretty normal. It would be weird not to, right? Or then again, maybe she was just fooling herself and she wasn't normal at all? What really was normal anyway?
Clara sighed and tried to start again.
Her name was Clara Ellison and she was - as far as anyone else knew - a pretty normal girl. She'd only recently turned eighteen, she lived with her parents in a small town on the edge of nowhere. She'd done okay in school. She was no genius but she had gotten by. She had friends, goals, and her whole life ahead of her.
According to her family, her future was so bright that it was shining but she suspected that would have said that anyway. Clara had one great talent, but she was self-aware enough to know that it wasn't her intelligence,
She got on with people. She networked. She could talk anyone around to her way of thinking. Introduce her to a room full of strangers and within minutes, she'd be laughing and joking with them as if she'd known them for years. Clara was warm and friendly, and hardly anyone had a bad word to say about her.
Very few people considered just how exhausting that was. She made it look effortless, but that came with skill and practice. The truth was that Clara put a great deal of effort into it. Learning about people, learning how to talk to them, how to lower their guard. How to joke and laugh and get them to play along too. It had taken her years to put it all together.
Sometimes, she wondered why she did it but the reason was lost to the years. Presumably, she'd started years ago for some purpose but at this point, she'd been doing it so long that she didn't even remember why she did. It was just easier to keep going. To keep building herself up, never to admit that the person most of the town knew was not in fact the real her. It was a construct, someone designed to be as safe and approachable as possible. Clara who was always laughing, mischievous, but never in a threatening way. Bright and sunny and full of cheer.
She hated that mask sometimes. She hated the way it had moulded itself to her and she could not escape it. She hated how her fantasies went so far against the image, how she was torn between them.
Because you see, Clara Ellison had dreams of things that she probably shouldn't have. She woke at night, sweating, her skin tingling. Her hardened nipples pressed against the inside of the blankets, feeling the dying images of her nightmare-fantasy fade away.
She didn't want to have sex with some nice boy with a cute face. She didn't want her first time to be some innocent little bubble she would treasure forever.
Clara wanted to be used. To be fucked. To be chained up and made to writhe and cry out in pleasure. She wanted to feel helpless, humiliated and ashamed. The very idea sent spikes of heat flaring through her body. Even now, looking at herself in the mirror, her chest was fluttering. Blood rushed to her face.
She was struggling. She knew that these sorts of thoughts weren't the kind an innocent small-town girl like her should have. If anyone knew, well, they would never quite look at her the same way again. But she'd felt this way for years, ever since she'd come into her own. She knew by now it would not fade, it was exactly what she wanted.
She bit her lower lip, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She was naked. The steam from the bath gently caressed her pale skin. Her body was slender, her legs were long. Clara was a runner, who enjoyed the rush of feeling the wind against her dark hair. Her eyes were blue, and her face was finely featured, but she was no great beauty. She looked good in a girl next door kind of way, but she knew she would never be one of those women who could command attention from across the room.
A shiver raced through her body, thoughts of her fantasies turned her mind towards the very dream which had woken her up only an hour ago. It was very early morning, the rest of the house was asleep. She'd decided to take a bath and clear her mind, but it was obviously not working!
Absently, she ran one hand along her chest, her fingers brushed against her breasts, teasing and edging the hardened flesh of her nipples. A soft moan escaped the back of her throat. Her body was still aroused from the nightmare.
She couldn't remember all of what it had been. Mostly, there were impressions. She remembered darkness, chains, and the feeling of something cracking against her back. A whip? Her legs had been shackled together so she couldn't walk very far, and she had been naked. Was she being sold as a slave? Maybe... that did sound familiar.
Clara pursed her lips, her heart beat faster. There was a distant throbbing echoing between her legs, growing stronger and more urgent the more she thought about the dream. She tried to focus, tried to claw it back. What had it been about? She had been naked... in chains....
She had been a slave!
Yes, that was it. It was an auction and she was being sold. She remembered the damp darkness of the shipping crate, the shackles that had bound her arms and legs. She had been paraded naked through the street, forced to march through a crowd of gawkers who had come to see the naked women. There had been an iron collar around her throat, and she remembered how hot she'd felt, the eyes on her body had made her wet and aroused, and the feeling of helplessness had taken root and bloomed inside of her like a flower.
Fuck, even now she was awake it turned her on. She felt hot, shivers raced down her spine. Her legs trembled, and one of her hands moved towards her pussy, rubbing it slowly. Her eyes closed and she enjoyed the feeling. Aching need filled her up, and she felt the last of her guilt melt away at the promise of the pleasure to come.
She looked around, seeing an old bottle of shampoo lying in the corner. It was empty, waiting to be discarded. It had a narrow tip, reminding her of something quite different. Though in her current state, most things would have reminded her of that.
She grabbed it and sat herself down on the floor. Her back was pressed against the porcelain side of the bath. It felt cold against her bare skin, raising goosebumps over her body. Her skin tingled, but she didn't feel as if she was exposed enough just yet. She spread her legs, stretching them as far as they could go. If anyone came into the bathroom now, they would see everything. Her legs spread, her pussy wet. It would destroy her reputation.
Had she remembered to lock the door? Probably, yes. But only ''probably.''
She tried to imagine that she was back in the dream. In the slave auction. Bound up on some stage with her legs spread and held apart by chains. Her pussy open to anyone who cared to walk by and see it. Would she have weights or clamps on her nipples? Probably. They would want to make it as humiliating as possible for her. She imagined the strangers, their eyes on her. Their fingers trailing across her body. They would feel her up, grope her, trace the outline of her pussy. They would make her moan and whine, wanting to see the innocent small-town girl blush and cry out for mercy.
And there would be toys beside her too so that they could test her out.
Clara bit her lower lip, feeling her arousal surge. She pressed the tip of the bottle against her pussy, feeling the pressure of the cold plastic. She was already wet, her womanhood ached to be filled and used. Her fantasy and the dream which had come before it started to meld together.
The bottle was not a good dildo. Clara did not have a dildo. She was pretty sure that no one in the small, boring town did. But somehow, the clumsy shape of the thing only added to her burning lust. It made it feel more real like it was designed to show her off to someone else than to pleasure her. She pressed forward, feeling the tip sink between her legs. A small moan escaped her lips, and she imagined she was surrounded by a smirking crowd. They watched her humiliation eagerly, their eyes glinting and fierce.
