good behaviour

good behaviour good behaviour

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


a short flash fiction about fetishism and bdsm


a short flash fiction about fetishism and bdsm


Submitted: December 30, 2012

A A A | A A A


Submitted: December 30, 2012



she is desperate for a pee but he’s told her to sit still and wait for him.

sunlight oozes through the mesh of the curtain and drips down the curve of her shoulder, runs in rivulets over her knees where they touch, pools on the carpet making islands of her feet. 

her body tenses with the effort of holding still.

on the sunbeams, flecks of dust dance carelessly, tempting her to motion.  she tries gently rocking back and forth on the hard wooden chair.  the relief is short-lived.

she doesn’t want to leave her seat.

she wants to be a good girl.

lacing her fingers together like a prayer she shoves her hands between her legs and grinds herself against the bones of her wrists.

she listens for him, holding her breath.  she can hear her heart pounding in her ears,  but behind that… silence.

does she dare? 

he won’t be pleased if she wets herself.  she doesn’t have permission for that either.

she rises in slow-motion from the chair which creaks in alarm at her disobedience.

now that she’s committed, her bladder seems unable to wait another second.  she has to run down the passage to the bathroom and only just slips the white cotton knickers down in time.her body releases its grip and she feels her eyes burn wetly in empathy.

she can’t seem to stop.she knows she has to get back to the chair before he returns and finds her gone,  but her urgency seems not to impact on her bladder which empties and empties like there’s no tomorrow.  she tries stopping herself mid-flow but she can feel that she won’t be able to hold it.

and now she hears him… now she hears his footsteps in the passage…now she hears his hand on the door…

she looks down at her knees…her heart thuds louder but it’s too late to drown him out and when she looks up again it’s into his dark eyes.

the stream of urine trickles to an end now that it’s too late.

‘i told you to wait for me on the chair,’ his voice is soft and low, its most dangerous.

she can feel her blood running hot and cold. her face flushes, her eyes make a dash for the safety of her lap.

she tries to focus on the movement of her vest, a smooth white landscape in the grip of a tremor… on  the lace trim around the neckline which trembles stupidly like her bottom lip before she cries…

‘look at me when i’m talking to you.’

his eyes are even darker, thick brows lowered, his mouth is hard. ‘i told you to wait for me on the chair,’ he repeats.

‘i’m sorry,’ her voice is tiny in the echoing tiled space of the bathroom.

‘i beg your pardon?’

‘i’m sorry,’ she says again, louder this time, looking up into his face, looking up as if he is the sun.

he gestures toward the roll of white toilet paper hanging beside her.her hands are shaking but somehow she manages to wipe herself dry.

‘now sit on the edge of the bath for me.’

she stands up, automatically reaching for the knickers which have fainted to the floor around her ankles like a pale southern belle.


she has a moment of difficulty finding her balance as she perches on the edge. the porcelain is icy cold against the backs of her thighs.  the pleated skirt is too short to tuck under herself and anyway she wouldn’t dare touch it without permission.

he crouches before her, cupping her knees in his hands and parts her legs.  he spends an eternity gazing at what he sees there…

she can feel the warring of muscle against bone as her heart struggles to break free of her ribcage. the reverberations travel in waves down her limbs until her hands shiver on the edge of the bath and her feet dance minutely against the cold tiled floor, socks slipping in tiny increments that threaten to bring her knees together as her feet slide apart.but then he moves and she freezes.

he leans slowly in towards her until his nose almost brushes the exposed pink flesh between her thighs…. almost … but not quite.  he inhales deeply, as if assessing a glass of wine for its quality, holds his breath.

he  exhales: ‘you’re a dirty girl.’  his breath is hot yet she feels the skin of her thighs contract with goose flesh and her nipples make little fists inside the vest.

she feels a fresh thrill of fear. 

he places his hands on his thighs. his movements are mindful, as if he is consciously controlling something , and more menacing for it.

she hears herself swallow… her mouth is dry and flooded at the same time…nothing makes any sense…the room threatens to spin…

he pushes himself to his feet, the muscles in his lean arms flex against his weight and then he’s towering above her again.  she doesn’t dare to  look up at his face, her eyes cling to the front of his trousers, attaching themselves to the shiny clip of his braces but even so she can barely maintain her tenuous balance on the edge of the bath.

‘stand up,’ he says his voice soft again, ‘and turn around.’

she hears him moving behind her.  the quiet tap as he closes the lid on the toilet, the sound of his zip sliding down.  she is seeing great blotches of colour now,  she should breathe deeper but she can’t.

‘put your hands on the edge of the bath.’

she feels the skirt slide up over her bottom like his accomplice.  she can hear his breathing now, less regular… and the other sound… that strange, slick, slapping sound that he makes when he does what he’s doing now, the sound that makes something deep inside her contract like a cramp, that makes her wet down there.

she doesn’t want to be wet down there… she doesn’t want to be a dirty girl, she wants to be a good girl his good girl but the slick slapping sound gains pace and she is wet and she wants to moan out loud but as her lips part she hears him grunt, a small animal noise, and suddenly all she needs is to hold him, to hold him close, to press his head against her bony chest and hold him…

she doesn’t move, though, he hasn’t said she can move…

his breathing calms, and she hears him moving about, running the tap in the basin, pulling a towel from the rail…

‘you can stand up now…’ his voice is altogether different, light and soft and safe and she releases her grip on the bath and slowly straightens her back.  her face, when she turns to him, is radiant, she can feel it shine, she can see it reflected in his eyes, which are as green as hers now and smiling…

she sits down again on the edge of the bath, spreads her legs and points at the floor between her feet…

© Copyright 2018 Amelia May Wilde. All rights reserved.

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