For Her Good

Chapter 1: For Her Good

The problem was that she had three roommates.

Yet Sir always said that never being alone was For Her Good.

Sir said it just like that, in a text message, in response to a cavalcade of her worries. Sir said that life goes on. Sir also said that...

I will not bury the lead. I will not sugarcoat it. Consent culture rightly necessitates that I lay this more bare than anything.

We are trying to change your life.

Remind yourself once again, Mari.

Are we entering this agreement purely for sensation?

Only conversations like these could make Mari blush more than the details of their agreement. Sir's language stripped Mari like she'd brought a bomb through TSA. Sir had so effectively undressed her fantasies and fears, Sir had so quickly probed and unwound her proclivities, that Mari sometimes felt like a child seeking a parent with something as trivial as a hopelessly knotted shoelace. Except that Mari had come to Sir presenting her own tangled up psyche. Yet in just a few months, Sir had unraveled her problems as if her shoes were actually fastened with velcro.

Sir had found her mental G-spot with the precision and command of an award-winning chiropractor. Sir never had to say things like: You will cum for me now.

Instead Sir would just say: ahhh...that got you there, didn't it? And Sir, as if they were in Mari's head and not merely in her phone, would always be right..

Big girls would respond with more than just emojis, wouldn't they?

Sir's presence was digital yet encompassing. Texted but seemingly scriptural. No manager, professor, teacher, or other esteemed individual in her life had so thoroughly outclassed her. When Sir's messages crowned her phone banner, she felt like a rowboat bobbing beside a cruise ship. Never before had she been so blissfully cowed. Nothing crossed her mind that Sir had not thought of first. No mental caverns existed that Sir could not, with just a few whispers, lead her out of.

I understand what you mean. Know this. You are the brave one. You are facing who you are.

Let us discuss your sense of unworthiness, Mari. Let us say that you're the fuckup. The dropout, the girl with the dead end job. The under-performer. Let's pretend that your three roommates are indeed smarter and better grown-ups than you. Let us say that you've screwed up every relationship you've been in because you're a needy crybaby.

Let's own that, Mari. Let's ball it up – put it in a diaper.

Change it often enough and it won't leak. If we do this, perhaps none of your faults will leak into your worthiness either.

***

A few days before the beginning of her agreement, the first cardboard box (Sir said that there would be very many), lay unopened beside her bed. Once she'd fetched it from the landing where the courier had dropped it off, she'd scurried with it back to her room and tucked the delivery between her bed and the closet. Her room was small, and that was the best place to hide it for now, even if it meant wedging the box so tightly that the corners buckled. Mari couldn't even exit her bed to that side without crushing it.

It dawned on Mari that this was sort of symbolic. She was sure that if Sir could see her room, Sir would point out that her inability to navigate her own space without stepping on her diapers was a microcosm of her inner life.

She was thankful, though, that the box barely stood out among the mess she called her bedroom – another token of fuckupery that even Sir did not know about. Her roommates called her Monster Mari for the way she'd opted to skip her drawers and kept her underwear, socks, and clothes piled on the floor. At her best, she told herself that it was organized. That there was a method to Monster Mari. At her worst, she knew the panties were going in a shoebox, destined for the mail. For Her good.