"Bradley is such a tool, babe... I really don't know what you see in him. Honestly you straight girls'll put up with anything." Bethany teases me while I'm down; she's certainly got claws. I can't bite back too viciously given that she's letting me stay the night at her place again, ever grateful to my best friend of 14 years for giving shelter whenever I reach a boiling point at home. It was another stupid fight over things I can barely even recall, sometimes I think he just needs something to shout at. Such droning admonishment, you'd think me his pet and not his partner—maybe I'll buy him a suitably bitchy plushie to punish in my place next time.

"Yeah… he's an asshole, you can say it, but we've made it this far. I'm too comfortable with the security, don't judge me! And besides, I don't ‘put up with anything’, or I'd be cuddling under the covers with him right now, wouldn't I?" We're sitting on Beth’s front porch, chatting away like a pair of old crones. Even if our golden years are a ways away I quite enjoy the slower pace here. Bethany's place is so tranquil, I feel like I can actually be myself while I’m here.

My best friend tilts her head and looks at me, clinking her glass of chardonnay against mine before tipping it back with a roll of her eyes. Such sass. A single woman like her just doesn't understand what it's like being in a long term relationship—you don't just pack your bags and give up on it over a few petty squabbles!

"You should just leave that sack of shit and come live with me." Her voice is lightly slurred, her eyes trained on mine with a passion I must be mistaking the intensity of. I laugh off the strange comment and Bethany joins in kind, telling me it was just an off-colour joke after all. A small modicum of guilt hits the back of my throat along with the red as I interrogate my own discomfort with Beth’s little jokes. Were she a straight woman, I wouldn’t be reading into this at all.

The two of us chat the night away until Bethany catches me yawning one too many times, corking the bottle of wine and ushering me back inside the house like a maternal steward. She always goes on and on about how she's responsible for my safety and comfort while I'm staying under her roof and after a few drinks, it starts to sound really nice. Before hitting the hay I decide to take a shower. As much as I'd love to treat myself and run a bath, it seems I've left it a little too late this evening. It’s a pity, too; Bethany's tub is large enough to host mixers in. No shampoo tonight, but I'll borrow her conditioner and hope she doesn't catch on… if it were me, I wouldn't want somebody else using my personal hygiene products, but perhaps I'm a little too guarded. Warm jets of water cascade over my nude form and I sigh at the gentle touch, like soft fingers strolling across my naked body and treating me just right. Brad's hands are rough from extensive outdoor labour, but the shower's hands are tender. Soothing. It has a woman's touch.

My hand reaches out for the bottle of conditioner and I take care not to chip my long painted nails on the lid, squeezing just a little onto my hand—enough to not get caught. Stepping forwards so that the shower head's feminine fingertips stroke across my lower back, I apply the conditioner. Oh, it has a slightly stronger smell than I'd anticipated. When it first hits my nose, the conditioner assaults me with the strong chemical scent you'd find in cleaning products not meant for humans—like something you'd use to make your kitchen spotless—but then I catch a floral whiff that quickly placates me. My fingers knead the conditioner into my hair slowly and, once I feel I have an even distribution, I leave it in for just a minute before starting to rinse it out.

That scent again. As bubbles roll over my shoulders and down my chest, I start to feel uncomfortable with just how overpowering Bethany's conditioner is. I sniff the air and wonder if the ventilation fan isn't doing its job, leaning back against the wall tiles and beginning to zone out. I feel vulnerable and lost, like I need somebody to come and help me—come and sort me out. In this strange, heated moment, in which I can barely move a muscle in my entire body, I yearn for Bethany to come and save me.

That’s… not right. If I’m fantasising about being rescued by anyone, it should be Bradley. It should be… should… be…

Another deep inhale, and the thought dies.

I’m home. I’m normal. The memory of the shower I took at Bethany’s is a drunken blur, but that’s normal too—as you'd come to expect from a night of porch drinking. It's easier to bitch about your boyfriend when you're a few deep, I find. I'm sitting back at my desk now, trying to write, but the words just won’t come. Bradley's in the other room watching his shows. God… I really do sound like I'm in my golden years. I suppose I feel stagnant here, like I'm not making the most of my youth. I... I think... I think I need a shower, something to refresh me.

A strange excitement builds as I head towards the en-suite. Bethany caught the whiff of her conditioner in my hair almost immediately, she's so attentive it makes me blush sometimes. When I admitted liking it she let me bring the bottle home. Such a strange offer… and even stranger that I didn't politely turn her down. Now I find myself squeezing that soft pink product onto my palm once again, ready to cleanse myself.

The sound of running water spilling out over a woman's form—my form—and hitting the drain is enthralling. The sight of steam rising in the air, and curtains closed to silhouette my secret session, makes me feel like I’m doing something perverse. I'm conditioning my hair, but these thoughts. Oh, these thoughts. Why is it that I think of her again, as I breathe deep that fresh scent and rinse the lovely conditioner out of impossibly soft hair? These are just silly shower thoughts, of course, but I start to imagine Bethany storming into the house and grabbing my wrist. So tightly she grabs me, like she’ll never let me go. She'd never let me down like that, she's always been so reliable. I wonder what else she's good at, distantly, a reverie overtaking me in the privacy of this steamy shower. I imagine her lips, even softer than this well conditioned hair of mine. I imagine her voice—bright and husky in my ear—telling me how proud of me she is for finally leaving Brad. I imagine her fingers, burrowing. Burrowing. Burrowing.

A tiny drop of forbidden arousal joins the swirling water below and finds itself forgotten in the drain. My fingers push deep inside and I hide my shame in strained little moans I tell myself are just my imagination. As the remnants of that chemical scent tickle my nostrils, I fuck myself stupid in the shower to the thought of being saved by her.

A week passes by in a flash, and my memory of the past seven days is alarmingly spotty. I use my free time to try and remember what I can, sitting on the couch with a spaced out look on my silly little face. I've been showering daily, like any good girl should, the same routine each time cementing just how unhappy I am in this house instead of hers. I turn to look at Brad and feel nothing, overlaying that ugly mug of his with the angelic visage of a woman I think I've yearned for half my life. I mean… I've always had a small crush on her at least, haven't I? I… don't think I have, actually, and yet I can't shake the foreign notion. It's an intrusive thought that pushes into my head and tells me what to do—how to think. Feeling confused and disoriented once again, a common occurrence during this past week of conditioning, I raise a few locks of hair in my fingers and hold them up to my face. Deep inhale. Just as my eyes begin to roll, something shakes me out of the sweet trance before it can take hold.

"Are you even listening to me, babe?" A rough, ugly voice rings out and ruins that happy daze I found myself losing to—that Bethany gave to me without asking for anything in return. My eyes narrow at the sight of Bradley and I process his words with a sharp judgement. Only Bethany gets to call me babe, it sounds like a crass joke on his lips. Lips not fit for kissing, but sewing shut so that I can finally think… think about how much happier I'd be with a woman in my life to look after me. Take care.

"Take care, Bradley." I mutter coldly, standing up and collecting my things. I think he must be trying to talk to me, to argue or block my way, but it just seems so easy to tune out now. I'm so well conditioned I can't even hear him anymore. Finally, some peace and fucking quiet.

My car rolls up to Bethany's place and my heart pounds violently in my chest, like a marching drum urging me ever onwards into her arms. The woman I yearn for is sitting on her porch polishing off the bottle from the other week, her cherry lips curled in satisfaction at my arrival. I remove myself from the car hastily, ignoring the head rush I give myself as I barrel forwards and pledge myself to her.

"Kneel." She commands, in a voice I’m unable to deny the power of. My cheeks flush darkly as I look around, taking note of how out in the open we still are. She wants me to do that here? If… If she says so…

"O-Okay, just… take care of me." I swallow my pride, and sublimate my shame, kneeling down against the porch with growing fascination at how far I can fall under her power.

"Good girl," she murmurs, wearing a smug grin and confident gaze that undress me, "but you have it all wrong, dear. I don't want to save you; I want to own you. I said you'd put up with anything, right? I intend to prove that, put you to the test. Make you my shameless, begging slut who’ll oblige any demand I make of her, no matter how unreasonable. If you don't, you'll just have to go back to that twat we both know you despise as much as I do." Bethany's softness recedes and I wonder why I ever thought she was possessed of kindness—like a saviour—when she's always had a mean streak. It's okay though! I don't need her to be gentle with me… I need her to put me in my place. As red wine is callously poured over my head on the front porch of Bethany's house, I am baptised by her dominant apathy, feeling corruption and temptation drip and stain. My hair no longer smells so floral, it smells intoxicating.

I'm just too conditioned to care anymore, I'd do anything for Bethany. I need her in my life; without her I don't have one left to live.

"Come, pet. Let's get you trained properly."

"Y-Yes, Bethany… Anything for you."