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And she is so good after what feels like—and might actually be—hours of edging, and she finally eats without me forcing her to, watching us as she does. The more she chews, the faster I go, until I'm hammering into her wildly, and she's staring up at the ceiling, enchanted by the reflections of us. She finishes the bar, and I fuck her even harder, watching her mirror image as she bounces on my dick and comes, calling my name as she does.
Her walls clench around me, and I follow quickly after her, spilling inside of her and coming harder than I ever have before, desecrating her perfect walls with my cum. I feel it begin to leak out of her as my eyes roll back into my head, and I'm lost in heaven.
22
AVERY
Gabe says I've been down here for four days now. I can't tell if he's lying or not, though. It could've been four days, or it could've been forty too. Time is measured when I see him, and the rest of it is spent sleeping, staring at myself in the mirrors, reading the books he brings me, or blocking everything out. I used to hate looking in the mirror, and if I'm being honest, it still makes me uncomfortable, but at least I think I'm starting to see myself for who I really am now. I don't hate my body when I look up at the hundreds of reflections puzzled together across the ceiling. I don't see the bits of fat and cellulite stuck here and there across my skin. I see him holding me, the muscles in his back rippling as he rolls his hips and drives inside of me. I see him buried to the hilt, wanting me and going crazy for me. I see his brown hair colored black by his sweat as I make him unravel. I see us, together, and the beautiful picture we create.
We talk. We eat. We fuck.
Gabe lets me out of my cell to use the restroom, but that's only because I refuse to use the bucket. We had a lengthy, loud debate about it, which ended in me convincing him that making me go to the bathroom in a bucket wouldn't exactly be good for my self-worth or whatever. The same argument did not work in my favor, however, when I tried to use it to get out of being caged in my cell like I'm his own personal zoo exhibit.
There's a small bathroom on the floor just above us, where the maintenance rooms, the boilers, and the big pipes that feed this place all reside. The bathroom isn't anything fancy, just two porcelain sinks and two stalls, each with a toilet, but I relish the times he lets me out to go up there. I find myself looking forward to them.
The first time he took me there, I tried to run.
The second time, I tried to kick him in the balls and then run.
The third, when he threatened to make me use the bucket if I didn't learn to behave, well . . . I learned to behave.
Speaking of bathrooms . . .ugh.I look down between my legs and sigh.
I got my period this morning. It's been so long that at first, I thought I peed myself, but then I spotted the red stain on the bed linen and it hit me.
Gabriel Edward Soros kicks my ovaries into overdrive, apparently.
When was the last time I got my period?
Six months probably, maybe even more. My monthly gift is sporadic on a good day, but when I barely consume enough to keep a Chihuahua breathing, well . . . it skips out entirely. I wadded up toilet paper and stuffed it into my underwear, but I'm feeling remarkably gross by the time Gabe arrives at lunchtime. Well, he says it's lunchtime when he walks into my cell, shuts the door behind him, and places a tray full of food onto the bed beside me.
"What's wrong?" he asks, stealing a grape off of my tray and popping it into his mouth.
"I need a tampon," I tell him. "Well, tamponsactually. I need a box of tampons."
I don't give a shit if it makes him uncomfortable. Menstruation is a normal bodily function. He can suck it up. My last fuck buddy was freaked out by periods. He said he preferred being with me so he didn't have to deal with that "disgusting shit."
Like my suffering made his life easier, the bastard.
I refuse to be made to feel that way again.
Not now, not after everything, and especially not with Gabe.
Gabe chews his grape slowly as he does that unblinking stare thing I'm getting used to before he swallows the fruit.
"Tampons?" he asks, arching an eyebrow.
"And clean bed sheets," I tell him. I pull back the gray linen blanket on top of the bed and show him the stained sheet. He blinks at it for a long moment, plucks another grape from the tray, and feeds it to me. I chew, swallow it, and open my mouth for another.
Somewhere deep down, I hear the count begin.
Five calories per grape.
One down, another incoming.
I tell it to shut the fuck up.
"Okay," he says to me.
