Chapter 2: The Afterimage**

Chapter 2: The Afterimage

A merciless sliver of morning light cut through the gap between the stall door and its frame, lancing directly into my eye. I groaned, my head thick and heavy, as if packed with wet sand. For a moment, there was only the dull throb behind my temples and a profound, bone-deep exhaustion that felt like the aftermath of a marathon. The pounding bass of the bar was gone, replaced by a tomb-like silence broken only by the drip… drip… drip of a leaky faucet somewhere nearby.

My cheek was pressed against something cold and unyielding. Tile. Grimy, cold tile.

Memory returned not as a clear narrative, but as a series of blinding, ecstatic flashes. The authority in his voice. The shock of being led into the men’s room. The click of the stall lock. A dark, predatory smile. The overwhelming feeling of being seen, truly seen, and then completely, utterly consumed. The details were lost in a pleasure-induced blackout, a whiteout of sensation that had overloaded every circuit in my brain. I didn't remember his hands, his mouth, or his cock with any clarity, but I remembered the feeling: a tidal wave of submission so absolute it had drowned me.

I pushed myself up slowly, my palms flat against the sticky, urine-tacked floor. My pink platform heels lay on their sides near the toilet bowl, which was stained with things I refused to identify. My tiny white pleated skirt was hiked up around my waist, and my pink athletic top was twisted sideways, exposing the pale, surgically scarred underside of one of my massive breasts. I was a broken doll discarded in a dumpster.

The old me, Eleanor, would have been hysterical. She would have been scrabbling for her phone to call the police, her mind racing with thoughts of violation, assault, and trauma. Her voice was a faint, panicked whisper in the back of my mind now, a ghost shrieking in a haunted house.

But Bambi… Bambi was purring.

A slow, languid stretch arched my back, my body feeling exquisitely used, tenderized. The scent of stale piss, cheap soap, and something musky and male—his scent—clung to my skin, an intoxicating perfume of transgression. I felt branded by the experience, marked in a way that went deeper than the skin.

And then I saw that it was on the skin, too.

Scrawled across the pale flesh of my stomach, in thick, black, undeniable permanent marker, were the words: PUBLIC PROPERTY.

My breath hitched. My fingers, trembling slightly, traced the aggressive, masculine loops of the letters. It wasn't just a scribble. It was a declaration. A claim. My eyes scanned down. On my right thigh, just above where a garter would sit, another word: SLUT. On my left, its twin: WHORE.

Eleanor’s ghost screamed, a silent, horrified sound of pure violation. This was permanent. Defacement. A crime.

Bambi shivered with an ecstasy so profound it was almost painful. My nipples hardened into tight pebbles beneath the thin pink fabric, and a slick, hot wetness bloomed between my legs. Shame? Humiliation? Yes, they were there, but they weren't the main course. They were merely the salt, the spice that made the main dish of raw, primal pleasure taste so much sharper, so much more real.

He hadn’t just fucked me. He had redefined me. He had taken the fantasy I was building for myself online, the persona I was carefully crafting, and he had made it brutally, physically real. He had seen the words I secretly wanted to be called and had written them on me for the world to see.

My gaze fell upon the centerpiece, the tattoo on my lower belly that Chloe had lovingly designed for me years ago—a delicate, stylized womb. It was a symbol of my reclaimed femininity. Now, it was framed. The word FREE was written above it, and USE below it.

FREE USE.

A choked sob escaped my lips, but it wasn't one of sorrow. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated release. This was it. This was the pinnacle. This was the feeling I had been chasing through operating rooms and online forums, the feeling I had spent a fortune and burned my old life to the ground to find. The feeling of being completely and utterly owned.

My movements became urgent, driven by a new, powerful need. Not the need to clean myself up or escape. The need to capture this. To immortalize it.

My purse was on the floor, its contents—a glittery lip gloss, my keys, a pink wallet—spilled near my feet. My phone lay screen-down beside it. I snatched it up, my hands shaking so much I almost dropped it. The screen flared to life, showing a dozen missed calls and frantic texts from Chloe. I ignored them all.

I swiped to the camera, switched it to the front-facing lens, and stared at my own reflection. I was a beautiful disaster. My platinum hair was a tangled mess, my lipstick was smeared in a Joker-like grin across my cheek, and mascara had left black tracks down my face like tears of tar. My eyes, though, were the real story. They were wide, pupils blown, gleaming with a mixture of dazed pleasure and feral excitement.

I angled the phone down, centering the shot on the stark black words defiling my skin. PUBLIC PROPERTY. FREE USE. I snapped a picture. And another. And another. My breath came in short, sharp pants. This was better than any professionally shot content I could ever create. This was raw. This was real.

This was my art.

I switched to video mode, my thumb hovering over the record button. My fans, my followers, the thousands of anonymous men who subscribed to my fantasy—they needed to see this. They needed to witness my glorious degradation. They didn’t need to know his name. They didn’t need to know about Dean. They just needed to see the result. The afterimage.

The analytical part of my brain, the remnant of Eleanor that was now being repurposed for Bambi’s goals, kicked in. This was content gold. This would cause a fucking explosion online. This was the moment that would elevate me from just another bimbo creator into something legendary.

A fresh wave of arousal washed over me, so strong my knees felt weak. I leaned back against the graffiti-covered stall wall, the cold tile a shock against my bare back. I raised the phone, my expression a perfect mask of vacant, blissful submission. The last whisper of Eleanor died, and Bambi took full, triumphant control.

I pressed record.

"Hey guys," I began, my voice a husky, broken purr. "Look what happened to Bambi..."