Finn looks at Grant, totally vindicated.
Grant looks at the ceiling.
I lie back down on the couch, arms at my sides, legs together. I breathe out slowly, and let everything behind my eyes go quiet. It takes about eight seconds.
I’m gone.
* * *
What I know, in doll mode, is sensation without narrative. There’s no story with any kind of context. What exists, it’s what’s happening to my body, incoming signals without an interpreter.
So it’s: hands. Multiple, immediately, and they’re not coordinating with each other.
Loud. They’re arguing.
“I go first, I’ve gone the least.”
“Bro, you went in the truck!”
“That’s still less than Walker who’s been goingevery morning.”
“Yeah, Grant and I have equal claim here since—”
“You went at a party, that doesn’t—”
“How is that relevant to the order of—”
Hands on my ankles. Someone pulls my legs apart, and then someone else adjusts them wider. My sweatpants go. Then my boxers. Someone’s mouth lands on my throat, and someone else immediately says “I had that spot”,and there’s a brief physical negotiation that I’m not part of.
Grant’s voice: Alright, here’s the play. Miles and I are going first on the grounds that Walker and Finn have had significantly more access.”
Walker: “That’s not how fairness works, bro.”
“It’s exactly how fairness works. Miles, you want the mouth or—”
“Mouth.”
“Great. I’ve got the ass. Walker, Finn, you’ve got everything in the middle. Do whatever you want.”
“Bro, there is nothing in the middle,” Finn complains.
“Get creative.”
My shirt goes. My nipples: two mouths, immediately. I don’t know whose, and can’t track them. Someone slaps the inside of my thigh, and then a hand wraps around my dick, strokes once and stops. Someone spits on me. I feel it land warm, and feel a palm spread it around my skin. I can’t tell who or why, and it doesn’t matter.
Miles tilts my head back.
I didn’t need to pay attention to their talk earlier to know it’s Miles because he’s always gentle about it. He arranges me the way he wants me, and I let him, fully limp. Then his cock fills my mouth.
Grant’s hands on my hips. They’re massive, and they grip hard, and they leave marks—they always leave marks.
Someone’s got both hands on my chest. Both nipples, pinching and rolling hard. I feel the pain everywhere—it connects down to where Grant is about to split me open, and up to where Miles is fucking my throat.
There’s a mouth on my ribs. Then lower. It bites the inside of my thigh, sharp and sudden, and my leg tries to buck. I don’t let it.
I stop cataloging. There’s too much to catalog. Every nerve in my body is occupied. Everything is being used. Nothing left over.
My brain, which runs all the time, goes quiet to anything else other than this. And I just feel.
