Petunia on Paper: She Knew First

Part One: She Knew First

Just as my glossy pink nails disappear around the handle, a mild gust of summer breeze presses against the heavy glass door of the PennDOT Driver License Center, and I struggle to pry it open, nearly tipping forward off my tall, skinny heels. Hip and shoulder against the glass, I stutter step into a blanket of stale, artificially cooled air. It seems to press in on me, thick with the scent of ink, plastic laminate, and the sharp, lingering odor of burnt coffee from a neglected vending machine in the corner.

I freeze just over the threshold, heart skittering, and glance around. Along the back wall there’s a long counter with workers, helping customers, typing, droning on. In the middle of the room, are eight rows of rigid plastic chairs filled with people already trapped in the slow torment of bureaucracy. An old man gripping his cane like a lifeline, a mother whispering threats to a fidgety toddler, a teenager slouched low, hoodie pulled up, thumbs scrolling his phone. To my right, a small kiosk with a sign that says, “Start Here.”

No one’s looked up yet, but it’s inevitable. My nervous fingers reflexively smooth the front of my blush-pink pencil skirt. Scandalously snug. It feels like the bulk from the chastity device and gaff betray me every time I move. Which is exactly why Brooke picked it this morning. My cheeks grow hot.

A weary woman sitting behind the kiosk, blue dress faded beneath a gray cardigan, mechanically chews gum. Her eyes flick up, barely registering me before she returns to the paper she’s reading. “Take a ticket,” she says. Flat.

My carefully manicured nails, lacquered a delicate pale pink, fumble at the red dispenser. The little white slip I pull away is dominated by the number 78. One quick scan and I find the glowing LED display high on the back wall. 63. My stomach knot tightens. Too much time. Not enough time? I’m torn between wanting to finish so I can run, and wanting to savor the last few minutes of my old life.

But it doesn’t really matter what I want. I close my eyes and drive out a slow breath, just trying to regain a handle, but it doesn’t really help.

Mincing toward the waiting area, I feel more exposed with every precise step. The steady click of my rose patent leather stilettos against the faded linoleum is an unrelenting announcement of spectacle. As I walk, I feel more eyes awaken from tedium to gawk. I pretend not to notice.

There’s an empty chair in the back row, somewhat hidden from curious eyes, and I lower myself as slowly as I can manage, but it doesn’t help. The jeweled base of the heavy plug clunks against the unforgiving plastic seat. I wince, ears scorching. Folding my hands in my lap, I grip them fiercely, fighting the urge to look around to see who might have heard. Who might already know.

I stare straight ahead, smiling vapidly, just waiting for the final few gawkers to realize their faux pas and look away. This is where I’ve learned to shine. Passively pleasant no matter what.

A chime sounds, crisp and impersonal, followed by a crackling voice over the speaker. “Sixty-four to window four.” I find my ticket again. Fourteen people ahead of me. That has to mean at least an hour of sitting here, trying to avoid the looks. Pretending I’m just another bored patron.

I find my fingers absentmindedly clutching my glossy pink patent leather purse, brushing the edge of the manila folder inside. Feeling the weight of its contents. Official. Final. Permanent. Can I do it? What do questions like that even mean anymore?

Looking for a way to distract myself from pointless thoughts, I start to steal cautious glimpses around the room. The walls are painted that same lifeless shade of gray that seems to exist solely in government buildings. Oppressive in their uniformity. The ceiling tiles haven’t been white for ages. A television in the corner drones quietly, looping bland PennDOT announcements, too soft to hear over the restless hum of the waiting room.

When a rough-looking man in a worn flannel one row ahead turns his head my way, my adrenaline spikes. I drop my chin before our eyes meet, hiding behind my thick lashes. A curtain of honey-blonde curls spills forward in a protective golden veil. I clamp my jaw, willing my nerves to stop vibrating, wondering for the hundredth time today how it was I ended up here.

As I breathe, reality wavers and blurs, slipping quietly away.

Suddenly I’m with Brooke, back in our old house, on our old couch, the soft cushions familiar beneath me. The flickering television the only light in the room, casting shifting, comforting shadows across the modest home I once owned. That Peter once owned. Not Petunia.

We’re curled up, watching some exaggerated action show she chose. Hyper-masculine heroes solving impossible crises with steely gazes and clenched fists. I sat quietly, pretending interest.

“I’ve always dated softer men,” she said. Just announcing it out of nowhere. Casually. A smirk dancing across her lips as she looks at me. I’d been getting used to comments like these. Seemingly innocuous, but each one struck deeper than I cared to admit. I guess she already knew who I was even before I did.

This time I decided to stay silent. By then I knew that anything I said in protest would just earn me the charge of being “defensive.” No matter what I would say, the following conversation would only draw teasing reassurance about how it was okay to not be a “manly man.”

Brooke didn’t let me off that easily though. Something was different about her this night. Probably the three glasses of wine she’d had. Or, maybe she had prepared for my newfound indifference. She stretched languidly, toes playfully grazing my thigh, her smile deepening.

“You know,” she murmured, twisting a strand of dark hair around one elegant finger, “it might be fun to explore that.”

I remember forcing myself to look at her with confusion, but I knew what she meant. Somehow I knew. I just couldn’t let her know that I knew. It might let on.

Her hazel eyes looked to be calculating for just a heartbeat before she drenched her countenance in allure. “With… the idea of it. Of being softer.” Her foot was caressing me. She kept going, voice lilting, teasing but not cruel. “What if you tried wearing panties? Just once? Just for me?” She batted her lashes, and puckered her heart shaped lips.

The question hit like a spark in dry brush, igniting something deep inside me. I remember the rush. I remember hesitating just a heartbeat too long before I forced a laugh, feigning casual dismissal. “I don’t know. I’d probably look ridiculous.”

A desperate lie that Brooke saw through so easily she didn’t pause. Her playful suggestions quickly becoming gentle but relentless insistence. She’s always known how to get her way. I don’t remember her words, but she she pushed and prodded until I gave in.

“Just a little fun, just for you,” I agreed. Blood was already surging to all the right places.

At first, she made it feel like a game, but the moment the silky fabric hugged my hips, something shifted. She turned ravenous. Her body enveloped mine.

Thinking about it now, I can almost feel her lips, hot and demanding. She gripped my hair and pulled me down, mouth to pussy. She pushed me back onto the bed, crawled on top, and rode me hard. First my face and then my cock. Her nails leaving ghostly trails all across my back and shoulders.

She’d always been the one to steer our sexual encounters, but before that night she’d never taken me like that before. Never with such control. Such certainty. It was amazing. And after that night, she never stopped.

A soft chime breaks my reverie, just loud enough to cut through the restless murmur of the PennDOT waiting area. Everyone around me, all at the same time, looks up at the harsh red glow of the LED display. 65.

Closer.

One of the clerks behind the counter, a heavyset woman with bright red wavy hair and sagging cheeks, forgoing the microphone, calls out saccharine sweet, “Number sixty-five.” Her smile doesn’t reach past her cheeks. She’s trapped here just like everyone else.

A gray, liver-spotted man sitting three rows ahead of me and one seat to the right hauls himself up with his cane and starts a slow shamble to her counter.

“What can I help you with?” Dead-eyes asks him before he reaches even half way to her desk. Her words, still full of empty cheer, trumpet across the room.

He ignores her, concentrating on one slow shuffling foot at a time. She keeps her giant cheeks raised into that forced smile, staring impatiently. Like she can speed him up with veiled irritation.

I tug my lustrous short skirt further down my soft, tan, bare thighs, shifting my body first one way, and then the other. The girthy toy Brooke buried in me this morning joysticking back and forth when I do. Massaging me deep. My body hums as I close my eyes and remember the first night I felt that addicting sensation.

“You look perfect,” Brooke whispered into my ear, voice like velvet as she stood behind me in the bedroom light, both of us staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Her fingers trailed the curve of my hips, caressing the purple babydoll she had brought home for me. My very own. “This suits you.”

It was the first thing she’d bought just for me. Until then, I had only borrowed her clothes. Little pieces here and there, always pretending the game was still hers. A protest rose in my throat, but it never made it past my lips. The softness of the fabric clung to my skin in a way that made any complaint feel absurd. The person in the mirror was soft. Gentle. Alien but familiar. It was like I noticed a crack running through me where I once thought I was whole. I wanted this. But I didn’t want to want this.

She stepped away from me, and I missed her warmth, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from my reflection. What she was helping me become. Then she was back, and holding something up for me to see. The nightie wasn’t the only thing she brought home that night. She stepped up behind me again, resting her breasts against my back, chin on my shoulder. Her breath warming the edge of my cheek. In her hand, she held something small, dark, and gleaming.

A black silicone butt plug. Tear-shaped. Modest in size, but unmistakable.

“I figured since you’ve been enjoying the panties so much,” she murmured, brushing the tip of the toy along my inner thigh, “you might like something else down there.”

I blinked. I looked up at her through the mirror. “You’ve been enjoying the panties, babe,” I said too quickly, too defensively. 

She smiled faintly. She didn’t answer right away. She just stared at the plug in her hand, my denial hanging between us like an unraveling thread she’d found in my seam but left. For now.

When she finally spoke, it was soft and patient. “I think if you try this, you’ll like it. And it will turn me on so much.”

The memory’s fuzzy, but I don’t think I pretended to object anymore. Not really. I was too rattled by the realization that the game, the dressing, the submission, had never really been her fantasy. It was mine. It had always been mine. And she had known it.

Moments later, I found myself down on all fours on our bed, babydoll hem lifted high, matching lace dragged aside by one of her hands. My feet dangled over the edge of the mattress, thighs parted. She stood behind me, gloves snapped tight against her wrists, the cold lube kissing my entrance. I gasped when she pressed in the first time. She chuckled and rubbed slow circles over my lower back.

Every time I tried to speak, she interrupted with a playful swat. “Shh. Let me do this for you.”

When the tip began to stretch me, I trembled. It was strange and too much, and then, not enough. She coaxed it deeper, rocking the base slightly, letting it pulse and grind until I whimpered. Then she seated it. My breathing hitched. My cock strained.

“Good girl,” she whispered.

By the time she climbed onto the bed, straddling the space in front of me, my face flushed, I was hers completely.

I spent nearly an hour buried between her thighs. Eager. Devoted. Wordless. She rode my face with the same control she always wielded. Moaning softly, praising me when I got it just right. Each time I reached for myself, she slapped my hand away, laughing, calling me naughty. Her voice glowed with amusement. A wicked warmth that left me eager, throbbing, and frustrated. That somehow made me want to please her even more.

She came again. And again. Her thighs gripped my face, her body quaking as her moans filled the room. I was a mess. Sweaty. Trembling. Desperate. When she finally pulled away and reached down, her fingers wrapped firmly around my cock, still hidden beneath velvet and lace.

Three sharp, merciless strokes.

I spilled with a gasp, moaning softly into the mattress. It coated my thighs. The nightie. Her hand. I collapsed.

She laughed.

Not cruelly, but with that same amused reverence she always had when she knew she’d gotten her way. Like I had handed her something precious. Something secret. Like I had just given her that missing piece of me.

“Number sixty-six, window one,” another announcement over the speaker cuts through the sterile air. The LED counter rolls forward, and I realize my breathing is heavy.

I squeeze my purse and the edge of the folder inside almost slices into my palm trying to draw a blood oath from me. A tangible reminder of what’s to come. The paperwork is complete. Brooke has had everything ready for weeks. She’s always prepared. Always driving us forward.

Another memory floods my mind, carrying me back to Brooke’s twenty-seventh birthday. She had decided she was over the club scene and just wanted a quiet night at home “where her girl danced for her.” How could I say no?

When I walked in from work she was already curled up on the couch in her oversized hoodie, snug leggings, and dark hair twisted into a careless bun. Warm lamplight cast gentle shadows across her perfect features as she smiled at me. A queen pleased by the sight of her jester.

Before I’d even shut the door, her playful voice was already prodding me forward. Ignoring all the hesitancy I’d expressed since she announced the private celebration I’d be giving her. “I laid the stockings and garter out on the bed for you,” she said. She never asked anymore. She expected.

The room got smaller. There was a hammering in my ears. I opened my mouth to object, but found my throat too dry. I wasn’t even sure why I felt angry. I’d agreed to this days ago. Still, the truth gnawed at me. Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped having a say in it.

She simply sat there smiling, eyes glittering like topaz. Calm. Confident. It always seemed like she was daring me to stand up. To say no. I didn’t say a word, I merely nodded. Her smile grew even wider and she tilted her head, like I was some sort of pushover.

Then she hit me with it.

“Sweetie, you know what would make my birthday show extra special? If you shaved your body.” She shook her head as if driving an image away, adding, “Could you imagine the sight of your fuzzy butt cheeks shaking in my face?”

I watched her in silence, heat surging across my face, as she cackled at the thought.

When she finally settled she waved her hand toward the bedroom saying, “I left a fresh razor and shaving cream in the shower,” before turning back to her reality show. Some trashy drama she loved and I couldn’t stand.

After I was already halfway down the hall, she called out again, stopping me mid-step. “Sweetie? Wouldn’t it be hot if you cooked that lemon leek dish you do while you were dressed too?” I continued walking, heart pounding, trapped in her web. What could I have done? Any hesitancy I ever voiced always got thwarted by some airy instruction on my “true nature.”

The buzzing of conversation starts to pull me back to the present. Realizing I’ve been staring off into space, I blink rapidly, trying to force the memory aside, but flashes of the rest of the evening cling stubbornly. The feeling of the lacy material as it slid up my smooth legs. The electronic music she kept me dancing to for what felt like hours. The guttural laughter that erupted from her as I rocketed up, hands over my butt, after she jabbed her finger right between my cheeks while I was bent over in front of her.

It hits me all at once, right here in this waiting area. That was the moment. The night that permanently changed the way she saw me. The way she treated me. My last chance to stop this freight train if I’d have just been brave enough to speak up. But I didn’t. Probably couldn’t even if I knew. Brooke’s intentions always ran deeper, subtler. For her it was never just about panties. She wanted everything from me, and it is obvious now that her careful guidance over the following years was always meant to drive me toward this.

I suppose after that night I could have insisted she only control my private life, but somehow she spread beyond that too. My surrender came quietly, as she slowly introduced more things that rippled across my life. The nightly skincare routines, the growth and meticulous grooming of my hair and nails, the way she taught me to move, walk, and talk more feminine.

These things piled up and eventually became impossible to hide from curious coworkers and inquisitive friends. I’d try to make jokes about it. About how modern men aren’t afraid of the softer things in life anymore. It never worked, and their probing questions helped to chip away at my already fragile confidence.

So I came up with a plan. A way to tell her no without telling her no. To shift my reluctance to something else. The need for professional conduct. One night, tucked neatly into the fold of her body, my face and chin drenched with her juices, my head rising and falling with her chest, I summoned all my courage and whispered up to her, “Maybe we’ve gone far enough.”

She lifted her head to look down at me, brow raised in taunting surprise. I tried to meet her eyes, but couldn’t. I just laid my ear back against her chest.

I forced myself to press on. “People at work are noticing.” My voice was tissue paper.

She tutted and began gently brushing my cheek. After a long disquieting lull she finally responded. Sympathetic yet firm. “Judgments are unfair. I understand, baby.”

I breathed a deep sigh of relief, and melted into her. Until I realized she never really addressed the issue. What exactly was her decision? I couldn’t bring myself to ask her. My ribs tightened around my heart every time I tried.

Less than two days later, her true intentions were revealed with ruthless clarity.