Page 54 of The Good Girl Effect
Standing in the doorway, I watch her sleep. It’s like my heart is no longer in my body but now across the room in that bed. As I watch her sleep, I just keep reminding myself—she’s safe, she’s alive, she’s happy. That’s all that matters. She doesn’t need me. I can’t watch her for long before the shame and regret start to creep in.
Swallowing my pride, I close her door and head back up to my room. When I get there, I crawl into my own bed alone and read what she wrote.
Dear Jack,
It feels wrong to call you Jack now. Should I call you sir? I liked calling you that downstairs.
Sir,
I smile to myself at that. I’ve been called sir before, but hearing it from her is different, and I like it.
You told me to write down everything I was feeling tonight, so here you go.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, I love what we do upstairs in that room. It doesn’t make any sense. Being tied up should be terrible. It should make me feel afraid and panicked, but it’s the opposite. I’m relaxed and at ease, and for that short time, my mind is just quiet.
If I were with anyone else, I think I would be afraid. They could hurt me or take advantage of me, and I would feel like a fool for putting myself in that situation. But I know you won’t hurt me. How do I know that? I’m not sure. But I do.
I guess what I’m saying is…I trust you.
And the only other man I trusted was my father. All little girls should be able to trust their fathers.
But then mine died. Which was the most deceitful thing he’s ever done. He left me alone in this world, and now I have no one.
So now I’m letting a grumpy American man tie me up in his secret room.
This letter has gotten off topic. So I’m definitely going to throw this away and rewrite it in the morning.
And since you’ll never read this, I’ll just say… I desperately want to know what it feels like to be fucked while tied up, and I’m sad that you won’t ever let that person be you.
God, I hope you never read this.
I read that last part over and over, unable to keep the grin off my face. Even though this just makes me want what I can’t have even more.
There is so much in this letter to love. For one, the fact that Camille loves being bound. Everything she describes here is exactly what she should be feeling when in bondage.
Second, getting a glimpse into her life and the death of her father feels like getting a gift I’m not worthy of. Camille is not just some mechanical figure to fulfill a role. She’s a living, breathing, real person with a real history. She knows grief.
And like she’s already told me in her letters, she has desires and dreams like every other woman.
We are tiptoeing too close to this line we’re not supposed to cross, but I can’t help it. Something about her draws me closer. She makes me want to throw out all my rules, boundaries, and goals just to have a moment to feel her, touch her, taste her.
With that, I lean back on my bed and close my eyes, holding her letter to my chest as I slide my hand into my briefs and take hold of my cock. It’s already thick and pulsing with desire.
I reread the last line of her letter as I stroke myself. I hear her voice in my head, saying how much she wants to befucked—that word exactly. And not just fucked by anyone but fucked by me.
I hold the letter to my nose, searching for her scent like a dog as I stroke myself faster.
In my head, I have her hog-tied and bound in that room across the hall. I picture her body laid out before me, and I can touch her all I want. I imagine myself playing with her cunt, slipping inside her just to hear the noises she’d make. I picture myself licking and nibbling every inch of her body.
My cock tightens, but I hold back, wanting to let this fantasy play out a little longer.
Then I remember the picture on my phone. Quickly, I drop the letter on the bed and grab my phone from the nightstand. It takes me a moment to open the app and find the photo I snapped, and it’s enough to have my cock leaking at the tip.
Her bent legs are parted, and I can just barely make out the shape of her pussy through the thin fabric of her white panties. I can see the tuft of hair above her clit and the lines of her folds, a hint of moisture darkening the fabric.
I let out a groan as I stare at this image, feeling like a deviant for all the depraved things I’d like to do to her.
When I imagine it’s her lovely cunt and not my fist that I’m fucking, my body starts to strain and seize with my climax. My head is thrown back, and my breathing shallows as I spray my chest with the sticky white jets of my own cum.
