Her father; her boyfriend

Opposite me on a fairly empty, early morning train sat a lovely young couple, cuddling closely and fondly. She was curled up on the seat with her head laid on his shoulder; his hand rested gently and tenderly on her thigh.

But she looked somehow miserable. It was obvious why. She’d not expected her parents to have waited up the night before, when she’d come home so late from her boyfriend’s house. Her protestations that they’d simply hugged and watched a DVD had carried no sway: she’d been at a boy’s house, without permission, and had been out far later than her weekday curfew permitted. That she was a good girl, who’d not yet done anything naughty with her young man, made it feel so much more unfair to her as she was sent upstairs to her bedroom, to get into her pyjamas and await her punishment.

Her father had made her bend over his lap, and had pulled down her pj bottoms and knickers. The hairbrush had hurt like hell – applied vigorously, as he lectured her on her poor behaviour and reminded her how the rules that were in place were for her own good. She’d cried herself to sleep, wishing she’d been in her boyfriend’s protective arms; the train cuddles the morning after were needed more than anything.

They’d reach the boyfriend’s house a little later in the morning. He’d take straight her to his room; cuddle her; undress her; inspect her marks. Touch her. Gently, slowly, start to make love to her. And then, sensing her squirm as he pressed against her bruises, he’d pin her face down beneath him, and would take her hard from behind – holding her tightly as he made her submit…