Reyna's Anniversary Part 8 (Patreon)

***

Later, she might say that she had no control of her body, that it moved on it’s own. That would be a lie. The flames of curiosity had licked Grace too long. She had to know. She had to see for herself. 

Grace stepped forward for a hug, but as their bodies pressed into each other, Grace’s hand cupped Esmerelda’s breast. Her client stiffened, but didn’t move. She didn’t push Grace away. She didn’t cry out. 

Grace could feel the eyes of the truckers and other men in the diner looking at them. But they didn’t gasp or moan. They didn’t say anything as Grace Laurence, a paragon of justice and helping those in need, groped her client’s breasts. 

Not until Grace’s hands slipped under Esmerelda’s top. She didn’t care about the breasts. It didn’t matter what they felt like with thin green cloth stretched over them. Grace wanted to go deeper, she wanted to feel the steel through Esmerelda’s nipple. She wanted to feel Esmerelda’s body respond, her nipples to stiffen, as Grace ran her fingers reverently over the piercing. Her fingers slid over the dancer’s skin, looking for metal, looking for the sweet shimmer of beauty Esmerelda had forced through herself. 

Then the woman cried out. 

It started as a moan, and for half a breath, Grace thought they would kiss. She imagined crashing into this woman, in front of everyone, and kissing her deeply the way she deserved to be kissed.

But the moan turned into a shout. 

Grace stepped back, slapping Esmerelda’s hands away. Her face was lined with confusion and pain and … fear? She stepped away, covering herself with her arms, and Grace felt awful. The real world crashed in around her with its consequences. In front of all these people, she’d groped a client. She’d groped a client. 

She’d sexually harassed a client. 

A client. 

A person. 

A woman. 

Esmerelda’s poise, her confidence, her regality, all faded. She was a scared woman, a young woman, being harassed by someone she trusted, someone she needed to trust, betrayed by the sisterhood of femininity, the safespace of another’s woman company. And Grace had done that. Grace had violated that sacred space, that sanctified trust. She’d violated Esmerelda. 

Violated her. 

Grace felt a hand grab her shoulder. She flinched and turned around to face a huge balding man. “I think you should go,” he said softly, but there was no question in his voice, no doubt in his desire. He loomed over Grace, and his whole body said, “or else.” Grace looked around the diner. The same men that were once leering at both of them were now glaring at Grace. A moment ago, Esmerelda was an object of desire to them. Now she was their sister or mother or girlfriend. 

“You’re right,” Grace said. She turned to Esmerelda. “Esmerelda, I’m so -” 

“Just go,” said the dancer. 

“No, but I’m so so sorry, please,” Grace tried to take a step forward, but the hand of the man behind her squeezed tighter on her shoulder. 

“Just go,” he said from behind her. 

Grace nodded, grabbed her things, and left. 

She didn’t go back to her office. She didn’t go back to her house. She couldn’t be in this neighborhood, around these people. Instead, she drove twenty minutes out to the suburbs, to where her parents lived. She made up some lie about her house being bombed for bugs and needing a place to stay. Her mom didn’t ask any questions. 

She went straight to her room and tried to sleep. Tears came instead. She skipped meals that day, preferring the solitude, the darkness of her old room. When people knocked on the door to talk to her, she tried to make it sound like she hadn’t been crying, and then asked them to leave her alone. She said she had a migraine. That was all. 

And yet, when her mind stilled, when she was done spiraling and throwing herself a pity party and calling herself a monster and a pervert or speculating about how this was the end of her career, she found herself coming to a single undeniable truth: 

She would do it again. 

Maybe she would be smarter next time. Maybe she would have Esmerelda come to her in a private space. Maybe she would read the mood or get the girl drunk first. Maybe she would be strategic, but she didn’t think she would stop. 

Because whenever her mind stilled, she came back to one question: what did it feel like? 

Each time she asked, she wasn’t sure what she meant. Was she wondering what the piercing felt like under her fingers? Or was she wondering what it felt like through her nipple? 

But the question terrified her too much to answer. And yet not enough for her to walk away from it. She turned it over and over in her mind, wondering what could have been if only she was smarter. Wondering what could be next time. 

She was damned. She knew it. Her interest had been forged into curiosity, and that curiosity had been built into an obsession. It wormed through Grace’s mind. It didn’t just haunt her; it wore her down. It slowly chipped away at her fear or embarrassment or modesty. It would do so until it killed her. Afterall, wasn’t it curiosity that killed the cat? 

Grace smiled as she fell asleep that night. What a beautiful way to die. 

***

What does Grace dream that night?