Chastity clicks her bedroom door shut, pulls down her pleated skirt and knickers in one movement, kicks them aside. She takes a second to appreciate the new strangeness of being fully dressed from the waist up and naked from the waist down. She pulls the mirror from her dressing room table, presses it into the carpet and squats over the top, one T-bar sandal on either side. She ducks her head, scrutinizes for a second, then reaches down with both hands and pulls out the sides of her labia. She holds them deftly, clinically, like a lepidopterist of the flesh. She presses them back together, watches the skin cling to skin, then slowly peel away. She uses two fingers of her left hand to spread the wrinkled pink lips and with her right hand presses her index finger inside to the first knuckle and frowns at the ribbed wet mystery inside.
Chastity has just found out what her name means, and she’s pissed off.