I cupped my hands below my breasts as he came around the corner. It was a stupid law, but it was the law, and the punishments too severe to risk. I’d had a friend that had let her hands drop, hadn’t presented her breasts to a passing man; she was now in a harness, wrists permanently attached to her shoulders for the next 8 months, completely dependent on others for her every need.
I didn’t want that. It was bad enough being helpless with men around, but at least in private I could relax, use my hands normally. But not now, not with this man here. Worse, I needed the toilet, couldn’t legally leave the room before he did, so I stood there, the mandatory smile on my face, waited patiently for him to go.
He didn’t go.
Instead he sat down, looked at me, laughed quietly to himself. “You’re a nice one,” he said, a compliment I didn’t want.
“Come here,” he said, and of course I obeyed. Some commands could be ignored but this one was ostensibly harmless, I’d never justify transgressing it in court.
“That’s it, now, stop. One step back please. Yes, just there. Oh, you look lovely.”
I sighed inside. This wasn’t unusual but it was thankfully uncommon. I hated being looked at like this, and I did need the toilet. Fortunately the law recognised that being unable to leave the room meant no going to the toilet, so other measures were permitted. Almost every woman took advantage of this, wore thick absorbent diapers any time she might meet a man, protection against an unwanted delay that she couldn’t avoid.
“Lift your skirt.”
I cursed inside. I could ignore this one, would ignore it. Men could do what they pleased but the law had an exception, let women choose not to comply with orders that would invade their privacy. Invade them. He could legally rape me but I could choose not to be complicit, even if actual resistance would get me punished.
I didn’t know anybody that had resisted. The stories of those punishments were urban legends, except they were documented in court papers. The survivors never spoke about it, some of them now in mental institutions, one of them dead.
So when he stood up and lifted my skirt for himself I just stood there, hands still cupping my breasts, presenting them to him. Nothing I could do.
Except… I still needed the toilet. As his hands reached around from behind me, one holding me close to him as the other was placed just below my belly button, the heel of his hand on padded plastic, his fingers clearly reaching down, I gave them something new to feel.
As he felt the warmth wicking up to meet his hand he squeezed the padding, forcing the wetness against my skin. “I see you’re nice and wet for me,” he said, a terrible pun to precede a rape.
Not just wet though. I pushed as hard as I could and the diaper bulged out at the back to meet him, gave him something soft to rub his erection against.
Whether that sensation or the smell did the trick wasn’t important. What was important is that he left the room, a curse of disgust and dismay that he hadn’t found a proper woman. I finally let my hands drop, adjusted my skirt and waddled off to get a change. At least acting the baby stopped me getting raped.