He’s moving steady now. Each thrust pushes all the way in—thick, reaching the end—then draws back until only the head stays. The wet sound is loud every time he slides forward again. I can feel the drag along the walls, the way the head catches a little on the way out. At first it was only cool pressure. Now there’s heat building where he keeps hitting the same spot. My hips want to tilt up to meet him, but I don’t let them. If I move on my own it will look like I know what I’m doing.

The sofa creaked under the rhythm. His hands stayed on her thighs, keeping them wide.

Viewers would see exactly this: legs held open, me lying still while he does all the work. They would see how little control I have—how he set the angle, how he decides the depth, how my body just takes the strokes. The loud sounds coming from me aren’t something I’m choosing. They just happen because he’s moving. If the camera is on, that’s what they get: a maid who doesn’t know how to close her legs or set her own pace, just lying here making wet noises while he fucks her.

He shifted slightly, grinding deeper for a few strokes. The pressure sharpened.

That—right there—feels fuller. The head is pressing hard at the end of each push. It’s warmer now. Part of me notices it feels better than the first minutes, but I can’t settle into it. Every time the sensation gets clearer I think about how it must look from the corner: my stomach shifting with his thrusts, my legs staying spread because his hands are on them, my face probably blank or worried. They would judge that. They would say I had no control over my own body in this position. And they wouldn’t be wrong.

His breathing grew rougher. The pace shortened but stayed deep.

He’s getting close. The thrusts are heavier. I can feel him swelling a little, the head flaring when he pushes in. More wet sound, louder. If they’re watching they’ll see the moment I stop even trying to stay perfectly still—the small rock of my hips I can’t quite prevent—and they’ll decide that means I wanted it. They won’t see how much of this is just him moving me. They’ll see a girl on her back who let her body answer and call it a choice.

He drove in and held, pulsing. The sudden heavy warmth spread inside her.

There. All of it. Thick, a lot, filling the space he just opened. It’s leaking already around him. On a recording that would be the clearest part: me open, him finishing deep, the mess starting while I’m still on my back. No control over when it happens, how much, or how it looks. Just the sounds and the way my body stays where he put it.

After he eased out she kept her eyes on the ceiling, the residual fullness and the slow leak impossible to ignore, the dark equipment in the corner equally impossible to ignore.

They would see a maid who didn’t know how to do missionary, who needed her legs opened for her, who made loud wet sounds she couldn’t stop, and who stayed in the position even after she saw the camera. That’s the lack of control they would judge. And lying here now, still open, still full of what he left, I can’t tell them they’re wrong.