Unfortunately, Becky was 29 and had never slept with anyone. She still lived with her mother in an apartment and worked at a small community library. She wasn't bad-looking, but she was awfully stiff, and a little slow to social cues, or so people said.
Her work mostly involved reshelving, issuing new cards to children and retirees, taping grandfather books that were falling apart, and keeping watch over things left behind.
Important things--phones, rings, money--people always came back for those. But the small things, the mundane, the easily replaceable--they were forgotten. A water bottle. A mitten. Keys. Nameless little keys, perhaps for mailboxes. They had a whole drawer of them, tiny copper mysteries.
Becky liked to imagine she had keys to the whole town, to every door. If only she could try them all, she might find the one that opened the home of a married man. A nice family man. The kind who drove stick and helped out at community barbecues.
She would sneak in at night, past the dogs and the children's rooms, and stand by the bedpost, watching his hands on his wife's shoulders, obsessed with jealousy, not knowing what she wanted more: the man, or the victory over his wife.
It was recently discovered that her library held a small collection of eroticas, secretly stocked over the years by a previous librarian. No one quite knew what to do with them, and since it was bad taste to engage in censorship, the irreverent books were stashed at the far end of the back aisles, well out of a casual reader's reach.
Becky took an interest in the eroticas without anyone knowing. They were small, thin booklets, easy to hide inside bulky history tomes. Her colleagues were amazed by her sudden enthusiasm for such dusty subject as the Civil War.
She sat at the checkout desk and read with a childish, guilty thrill. She skimmed through the good and bad kisses, the good and bad sex, and thought only of the body. Sex, she surmised, was just a series of angles a body could bend into.
Becky was sick of standing straight, or sitting with her knees pulled in. She'd had enough of her life, the stiffness of it all.
If only someone would bend her over. Make her reach down and hug her knees. Lay her back on a desk and fold her until her toes pressed against the wall. Go around her legs and grab the back of her neck, thrust her knees into her chest, pick her up and use her, use her--two feet dangling like wings of a dove.
Too often, Becky felt numb, leafing through the layers of her life, day in, day out, like an under-seasoned lasagna. The smuts refilled her spice jars. She started cooking again--in her kitchen of love--and regressing into teenage fantasies.
One of her enduring favorite was the ice cream van.
The van toured a nameless city--something between New York and Paris--selling cones and sundaes to kids, while Becky lay pinned to the floor inside, a boot on her face. They gagged her with her own knickers. "Think of the children," they hissed, so she didn't make a fuss.
The van shook violently, but everyone just thought it was the machine working overtime. The serving window was high enough that no one could see inside. It was hot in the van. Her hair was soaked. The orders never stopped coming and neither did she. What a mess! Sauces and toppings dripped all over her as the men juggled the cones and filled up her holes. Rainbow jimmies melted in her hair.
These men beat and spat on her, bit her tits like beasts, and fucked her viciously like they hated her guts. But there was also an understanding, that they were doing it out of love, for her and her alone, and with one word she could have stopped it all. But she bit her tongue and persevered.
At the end of the day, they tossed her into a back alley, onto a pile of rubbish--big, black bags, swelling like their ballsacks. She was filled up too, all the goodies leaking slowly down her legs.
Such riotous fancies changed Becky. She began to wear heels, even though she didn't like the immobility, as if they now became a challenge she had to overcome. She experimented with tights, and sometimes wore them without anything underneath. The bare sensation made her want to giggle.
Now she had to be careful with the squirrels in the park. They'd chirp adorably and stare into your soul until you tossed them a peanut. But sometimes they'd sniff her out, climb up her legs, and ruin her tights. Her mother noticed the change but didn't say a thing, rather pleased that Becky had a lover at last.
The park was on her way to work and home. It had a public toilet with a small window for ventilation. Dirty, unwatched, dangerous toilet. Becky's body tingled.
The fetishists saw her heels, her tights, the cute black dress--and they wanted her. They dragged her into the toilet and roughed her up. She couldn't be trusted to behave, not even in her own story. "What are all these fancy stuff?" they barked, tearing through her clothes. "You rich bitch!"
They strung her between two urinals, feet tied to the pipe above her head. Her pretty heels were set upon the ventilation window like a calling card. "Watch while I tear you a new one! You'll get knocked up a thousand times."
So she spent the night with them. Scum. Animals. Wild night; sacred night. They taught her, stripped her of name, habits, pretensions. She had to start from zero, no, below zero.
First, a shy urinal--trembling, unsure. Then a toilet: steady, curious, keen. And finally, a wide-open porta-potty--shameless, proud of what she had become, forever grateful to be pissed at, shat on, filled to bursting, then flushed from the inside out.
Every inch of Becky's mind was clogged with such filth. She began carrying a myriad of toys in her bag--ropes, ball gags, butt plugs--just in case. A surprise for whoever that takes her into submission. She wandered the city, imagining all the little dark corners where she could learn some new tricks.
Her lust had grown violent and insatiable. Some nights it wound her up so tight she couldn't sleep. She'd get up to her desk, a leg tucked under her thigh, the other leg dangling, and switch on the light. Yes, she wrote now, slowly, a little, just to please herself. But maybe.
It was raining and the rain came beating on her windows.
There is always a story, a story, she thought, mindlessly.
Becky grabbed her pen and wrote:
