Free The Gift of Shame by Sophie Hope-Walker

she felt him hard and probing. She gasped in anticipation of pain as he found her and tried to force entry.
    With a tight grip on her hips he thrust again and she found herself falling forward to rest her arms, to the elbows, on the glass top.
    Then he withdrew, but the respite was fleeting, since he had withdrawn only to better prepare the ground. His jelly-laden fingers searched her out and acted as warning precursors for the giant that would follow in their path.
    Again he addressed himself and this time the resisting sphincter muscle surrendered to him and she screamed as he surged into the breach.
    The mirror relentlessly recorded every flicker of expression, each and every one of her protests against the strange sensation, but there was no escape now. He was lodged firmly and moving smoothly while she stared, in horror, at the maddened face in the mirror.
    Now the rushing sensations were close to unbearable; layers of pain and pleasure so intermingled they seemed inseparable. Now she saw her reflection screaming and she cried out for the lash of him.
    ‘Yes,’ screamed the demented creature in the mirror. ‘Yes!’ and he responded, bucking and rearing into her with even greater vigour, ever greater cruelty. Now, having transmuted pain into pleasure, she rejoiced; she no longer cared about what he was doing to her. Happy only that he could harvest such pleasure from her body, she felt herself thrashing in the grip of an orgasmic wave.
    Insensate to anything, overburdened with delight, she felt him throbbing and pumping, and filling her with his pleasure.
    When his exhausted weight bore down on her she slid forward to lay on the glass, her head now turned sideways away from the indelicate, mirrored, vision and thanked any interested god that she had lived long enough to know this moment.
    They lay for long minutes, he still inside her but now of more accommodating size, in silent communion until she got an uncontrollable fit of the giggles.
    ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, defensively acerbic.
    ‘I was just thinking of poor Lesley,’ she said. ‘“No penetration”! She doesn’t know what “she’s” missing!’

5
    THEY WOKE LIKE lovers.
    Lying side by side in his huge bed beneath a single sheet, they held hands in silent communion, feeling no need to question or explain.
    She was the one to break the potent silence. ‘Yesterday, when I saw you on my door monitor you looked exactly like someone in an old newsreel.’
    ‘Good news or bad news?’ he asked in a slightly puzzled tone.
    ‘At the time I didn’t know, but now I do.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes. Because now I feel exactly the same.’
    ‘As what?’
    ‘As if I was in an old newsreel.’
    Raising himself on one elbow he looked down into her smug, smiling face and was puzzled. ‘Have I missed the point of this conversation – or what?’
    She shook her head. ‘I haven’t come to the “point” yet.’
    ‘Would you mind hurrying up? I have this uncontrollable urge to fuck you.’
    She smiled, cat-like. ‘You must have seen those old newsreels of the Allied troops liberating France.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Well, right this minute, I feel like one of those French women, beside themselves with joy, clambering onto the tanks.’
    Looking down, his expression was still puzzled.
    ‘Liberated,’ she told him. ‘That’s what you’ve done to me. Liberated me after months of oppression.’
    His eyes flickered during a momentary stunned silence. ‘I think that’s about the best compliment I have ever received.’
    ‘My hero!’ she said, but couldn’t contain the giggle.
    His mouth nuzzling into her throat, he murmured, ‘And how, exactly, did those newly liberated women reward their conquering heroes?’
    Purring with pleasure at his caresses she could barely contain her mounting excitement. ‘Well, first they would permit their hero to bring them chocolates and then, perhaps, allow a kiss. All most proper, of course. Then, another day,