[Part 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i19kdz/1_ignorance_brings_chaos_not_knowledge_or_the/)
[Part 2](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i1qyla/2_how_i_learned_to_stop_worrying_and_love_getting/)
[Part 3](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i2b6bb/3_learning_is_always_a_painful_process_ff/)
[Part 4](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i2zdek/4_im_out_of_smart_titles_lucy_peed_on_me_once_ff/)
As is normal, right and proper, time passed and I began to think of Lucy less and less. There was no ‘one last time’ sex; nor did we go out of our way rekindle our friendship either. We saw each other in university corridors every now and then, we said hi with neither great enthusiasm nor great apathy. We graduated: I heard that she had moved to the south coast somewhere with her girlfriend; I moved to London to do a Master’s, coveted the bookish boys in my classes, had brief relationships with one or two of them, drank too much instant coffee and carved out something like a life for myself.
It had been years, probably, since I thought of Lucy. Then I had an uncanny experience and she was propelled back into my mind for a while.
I was on my way to meet someone at the British Library. It was earlyish in the morning, and Liverpool Street station was thick with commuters as I changed Tube lines. I was walking up the escalator from the Central line platforms when I stopped dead, a line of harrumphing men in suits nearly colliding with me as I clung to the left-side handrail for a moment.
A pretty woman stood on the escalator on the other side, looking down at her phone. She had a funny, slightly screwed-up expression on her face—I couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though she was trying not to laugh at something she was reading from her phone screen. She had her hair in a crinkly, blonde bob which fell in perfect complement around the sharp angles of her face, and she was wearing only the slightest touches of makeup. I guess it was winter, or possibly late autumn, and she was wearing a long, brown coat, but it was unfastened, and her big breasts were artfully contained by the simple white blouse she wore underneath.
For a second or two, I was completely convinced that it was Lucy. I craned my neck and saw only the back of her head as she neared the bottom of the escalator, then I was at the top on the other side. I knew that, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t reach the bottom before she had disappeared onto a train. As I walked over the bridge to the Circle line platform, doubts began to take hold, and by the time my train pulled away, I was equally sure that it hadn’t been her at all.
This, in itself, wasn’t such a strange thing. Even if it had been Lucy, this wouldn’t be at all surprising. But it was once I got out of the train at St. Pancras that things became really odd.
As I tend to do, I walked through the main station for a while, so I could take one of the side exits and avoid the crush and the traffic on Euston Road. I was looking absent-mindedly around myself, and I saw a poster in the window of one of the clothes shops. There, modelling some cute new line of winter knitwear, or something, drawing my eye immediately with curves more dramatic than you usually see on a catalogue model, was Lucy.
This time there was no doubt in my mind. In the picture, her hair was long, as sleek and as golden-blonde as I remembered it, thrown in careless waves over one shoulder. Her face was cast in a slightly downward angle, and she had the same kind of surly, possibly very-distantly amused facial expression that I always associated with her. But her hands were loosely clasped, in a way which might almost have seemed carefree but, to me, looked strangely vulnerable and self-conscious, Lucy’s fingers not seeming to know how or why or where to knit into each other.
I had seen this kind of gesture on Lucy before, just not very often. Usually, her hands were confident and fluid. She threw out occasional, assertive gestures when she talked in front of people, as rare an occurrence as this was. She typed her essays stunningly quickly, looking away from the screen or closing her eyes as though to concentrate better on some thought that had occurred to her, her fingers still moving quickly and accurately over the keys. And, of course, she applied her hands expertly to me, whether she was just exploring the textures of my skin and hair with amused interest, grasping my hand to lead me somewhere, or steadying me with a hand on the back of my neck while the fingers of the other were somewhere inside me.
But sometimes, if Lucy was nervous or preoccupied, she would take out her frustrations on her own hands, wringing and playing with them, fiddling with her cuticles, lacing her fingers unevenly together. She was doing this when, one day that must have been one of the last we spent together, she sat fully clothed on her bed while I watched her from the swivel chair nearby.
I feel terrible for not remembering—perhaps not really understanding at the time—why she was upset. With some stupid, adolescent arrogance, I might be tempted to look back and say that she knew things were going to turn sour between us, very soon, but I’m sure it had nothing at all to do with me.
‘Would you hit me, if I asked you to?’ Lucy said.
I don’t know if the question came out of leftfield or was part of a conversation we’d already been having, but I remember not really knowing how to answer. On one hand, the act itself didn’t seem in keeping with the usual dynamics of our relationship. On the other, I couldn’t imagine saying no to anything Lucy asked me to do.
‘I don’t know,’ I told her. ‘You mean in the face, or something?’
‘No,’ she said, perhaps a little amused by this. ‘Maybe just, like, my arse.’
‘Would I have to hit you with anything?’
‘You don’t have to do it at all.’
‘I would, though.’
Lucy nodded, sagely, and nothing much happened for a little while. I wondered if maybe the idea would come up again sometime later, or maybe if it was purely a hypothetical. Perhaps Lucy didn’t actually want me to do it at all, and perhaps the question was just some means of learning something about me.
I turned out to be wrong about this. Lucy shifted from her sitting position and lay face-down on the bed. She carefully threw aside some pillows to make space for her head. She positioned herself roughly in the middle of the bed, as though this mattered a great deal to her. Then she pulled down the navy pinstriped trousers she was wearing, and rested her head on her forearms.
‘Do it, then,’ she said, without looking at me.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Mmhmm.’
A bit gingerly, I got up from the chair and sat cross-legged alongside Lucy on the bed. Her face was turned away from me, and further obscured by her hair, which fell in ripples over her forehead and nose, with just the angle of her jaw showing. I hadn’t imagined that this would be a difficult thing, but the angle seemed wrong; I felt like Lucy should have been bending over something, but I wasn’t about to correct her decision. I didn’t know how hard I was supposed to hit her.
Lucy’s bum was beautiful, soft and yet impossibly shapely and round. It was as though Lucy had fat in none of the places I did, and all of the places I wished I did. The skin was so very pale and incredibly smooth, like the skin just above and below the creases of my elbows. As though stalling for time, I touched it with my knuckles and my fingertips, then dug them harder into the flesh of her. I squeezed hard enough for my fingernails to leave little crescent-moon impressions, and Lucy moaned.
Taking this as my cue, I raised my hand and slapped her. The flesh of her ass shook prettily, and the sound of my hand striking her was thick and hollow and satisfying. Lucy made no sound at all, so I did it again.
‘Harder than that please,’ she said. I couldn’t remember her ever saying ‘please’ before.
I thought I had hit her pretty hard. I raised my hand a little higher this time, and my palm stung a little as it connected with Lucy’s ass. She grunted a little bit, and so I slapped her ass again, maybe four or five times more, and she exhaled more sharply each time.
Lucy’s skin was turning a warm, pinkish red under my hand, and I paused to stroke it a little, rubbing the soft flesh of her in firm circles.
‘Harder, Lottie,’ Lucy said, again.
‘Will you tell me if I do it too hard?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Lucy said, and I could practically hear the eye-roll in her voice as she said it.
I twisted from my hips and rotated my shoulder, and I hit Lucy about as hard as I could. My hand landed right on the red patch which had already risen on her skin, and a high, breathy sob of pain escaped her lips. I squeezed her, hard, and then hit her again, just like before. She yelped.
I’m not sure how many more times I hit her—probably not that many—but I thought, throughout, that if anyone overheard us, they would assume that it was Lucy administering pain to me, not the other way around. I found it hard to imagine what was happening in Lucy’s head. When I pictured myself in her position, I couldn’t really see myself liking this, but then again, I would have said this about a lot of things before I met Lucy.
The last time I hit Lucy, she howled and gritted her teeth, and I didn’t really want to do it again. I reached down to brush the hair out of her face, and there were a few warm tears pooling in the crease of her nose.
I felt exhausted. My hand hurt. I lay down alongside Lucy and let my face fall into her hair at the side of her neck. Without looking at her, I stroked the warm skin of her ass all over, the pressure feeling good against my sore palm, cupping and squeezing and caressing her. She let me slip my hand down between her legs, and she slightly shifted her weight so that my fingers could reach her clit. I breathed in the smell of her neck and, without any ceremony or variety or complex motions, I touched Lucy until she orgasmed, soundlessly, next to me.
‘Did I do it okay?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Lucy said. ‘Thank you.’
—
To this day, I’m still not sure if I liked the experience or hated it. But I do know that, as I tore myself away from the poster of Lucy and crossed Pancras Road, I sent a text explaining that I was running late for my meeting. I ducked into the cavernous bathrooms downstairs at the British Library. I walked urgently to the end of the room and locked myself in the last cubicle in the row. I frantically unzipped myself, pulled my knickers down no further than was strictly necessary, and stuck two fingers in my cunt. I was drippingly, stickily, clingingly wet, my underwear stretched dark and glistening between my thighs, my pubic hair slicked and stuck together, and my fingers slid palm-deep into me without the slightest resistance. I pushed them roughly, greedily into myself, hooking them inside me and grinding my palm into my clit, or my clit into my palm, or something.
Still standing, I braced my weight against the cold, tiled wall, and allowed my head to fall forward onto my forearm. I think I was keeping pretty quiet, but I was past the point of caring if anyone heard me; if anyone came in and out of the bathroom while I was there, I don’t think I even noticed. But I do know that I bit the soft flesh of my forearm, hard enough that throughout the day I was self-consciously playing with the sleeve of my jumper, worried that it would ride up and that somebody would notice the marks my teeth left.
Certainly, though, I cared little for the mess I was making into my hand, nor for the salty-ozone smell of my pussy which probably clung to me still as I rearranged my hair, left the bathroom and showed up for my meeting. I came with the muscles in my thighs, my ass and my calves trembling, chewing like a wild animal at my own flesh, my cunt gripping my fingers for dear life, and in the wet, quiet calm of the bathroom I closed my eyes and allowed the pounding of my heart to settle.
Carefully, I wiped clean the lines of moisture which trailed their way down my thighs. I dried the lips and hair of my pussy as best as I could, and the crotch of my knickers before I put them back on. I avoided making eye contact with anyone else in the bathroom, and I washed my hands enough to make my skin feel dry and sore later.
Quietly annoyed with Lucy for interrupting my day, I resolved not to walk past that poster again. I hoped she was happy.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i3i55d/5_lucy_finished_ff
Wow! So hot.