She looked into the dirty water at her reflection. Without makeup, she could hardly recognize herself. Her hand dipped into the water and her body turned away. The setting afternoon sun penetrated the broken blinds and kissed her face at odd angles. She wore no clothing, sitting on her bed and looking down in disappointment. Her most unladylike limb peered up at her and she touched her face, remembering where Sebastian had hit her, called her a pervert, turned away from her. The few moments of contact were heavenly, but afterwards—afterwards she felt hollow, and craven, and prurient, and ghastly. She pushed it down with her palm, covered it, only to find resistance. With a sigh, she gave in, wrapped a few delicate fingers around its sticky length and distastefully squeezed, tugging softly, in catlike, feminine movements. Soon it was hard and aching. She lay on her back, her legs dangling off the corner of the unmade bed. She lay away from the light, into the darkness and the decadence of the unloved. She lay with both hands on it now, pumping softly, silently as her frown contorted and she swallowed her own chagrin. She lay and closed her eyes, tilting her head back into the lumpy mattress, imagined someone—possibly Sebastian—caressing her legs, scraping soft fingers over her chest, whispering into her ear, nuzzling in her red hair. The sunlight's warmth drained down her body into night and she lifted her pelvis, pumping between her legs, eliciting soft, lady-like moans from her lips which quickly became muffled high-pitched screeches, "ugh, Sebastian, Sebastian, yes, please, Sebastian, Sebastian" as her arousal mounted and all her muscles clenched and her fingers rolled over the tip, dancing in the shadows and the greyness that was the Whitechapel night. Finally, her knees locked, straight out, her ankles tensed in near pain and her hips jerked involuntarily once, twice, again, again, over and over releasing her torment upon the mattress and the sheets and her hands, but the smell was not Sebastian's, but her own, and the hands were also her own, and when she opened her eyes, spent, cum dripping down her thigh, the muscles in her legs aching from the tension, she merely dipped her hands into the basin and stared up at the ceiling, wondering how a lady like her could ever be in this situation—and—at her lowest point—whether or not anyone would ever consider her a lady.