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No. It can’t be. I wouldn’t dream up a man like Drake. The specifics are too vivid, and I know I’m not tripping. Furthermore, when I swing my legs over the edge of my bed to go to the bathroom, I gasp. My pussy aches and my bottom smarts violently. Oh yeah. He definitely claimed me in both of my orifices, and the aftereffects are with me today. Even crazier, my insides feel squishy and there’s moisture on my thighs. I know that it must be Drake’s cream. He filled me with so much fluid that I’m literally dripping with his seed, oodles of the gooey stuff seeping from my bottom. That’sdefinitelynot my imagination.
I take a deep breath, bracing both my hands on the edge of the mattress. I can do this. I can get up and go to the bathroom. I have to, just to clean myself off.
Yet I don’t want to, in a way, because the drippy mess is a memory of Drake. I love feeling his wetness inside my body, and it’s a mark of his possession. I feel connected to the alpha male because of the hard loving we shared, and it makes my cheeks flame and insides clench, re-living that dirty ceremony.
Are you crazy, Amy?the voice in my head scolds.You were defiled! You were taken in both holes in front of an army of men. If that isn’t the ultimate humiliation, then I don’t know what is.
But I bite my lip and shake my head. In my heart of hearts, I know I wasn’t humiliated and defiled. If anything, I feelcherished. Worshipped, even. The men of Deux initiate their women by sitting them down on their double-dicks in front of the appreciative eyes of the Deux community. It’s a sacred rite, and I was the lucky girl who got to take part in it.
You’re out of your mind, the voice in my head says scornfully.You’re well and truly batshit crazy. Have you ever heard of Stockholm syndrome? Maybe you have that.
But when I look at my reflection in the mirror, I know I’m not crazy. It’s the same Amy Ryan looking back at me, and yet she’s different too. My eyes glow with womanly knowledge, and my cheeks are flushed and pink. My hair is wild and my breasts enlarged, and suddenly, I know why I look different. I have that just-fucked aura, and it suits me. My red hair looks tousled and sexy, instead of frizzy and wild. My curves are lush and tempting, instead of too-big and too-fat. Everything about me screams “desirable” and not “lonely spinster.”
But where is Drake? And how do I find him? That’s when my stomach drops to my feet because the fact is that I have no idea how to find the island. There’s no map with an arrow pointing to Deux. I was lost during my hike and simply stumbled upon the causeway leading to the isle. Not only that, but I can’t exactly google “Deux” and expect to unearth a Wikipedia page complete with location coordinates. The island just appeared from the mist, and now, it seems to be gone.
The blood rushes from my face, and I literally collapse, my hands grabbing the sink edge for stability. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Horror fills my eyes and my mouth is a slack line because suddenly, it’s obvious. I will never see Drake again. Somehow, the men transported me home without my being aware of it, and I will never set foot on the Isle of Deux again.
Tears fill my eyes, and I’m about to drop to the floor when suddenly a sharp knock sounds on my bedroom door.
“Amy?” my mom calls. “Are you in there?”
“Um, yes,” I say in an unsteady voice. “Just give me a second.” Oh shit. Amity is outside, and I need to say something, anything, to reassure her that everything’s normal. I pat my cheeks and stare at myself in the mirror. It’s going to be okay. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and then walk out of the en suite and into my bedroom before opening the door.
“Hi Mom,” I say in a chirpy voice with a smile plastered on my face. “Good morning.”
Amity doesn’t even notice my slightly watery eyes and the waver to my voice. Instead, she rushes into my bedroom and begins digging through my closet.
“Goodness, I didn’t know when you were going to wake up. You came in so late last night, and we didn’t even realize you were home until we saw the mud you tracked in. I swear, Amy. Some things never change. You were a dirty child, and now you’re a dirty young woman. But never mind because it won’t be our problem for much longer. It’s good that you’re back because today’s your wedding day, Amy! Your fiancé is out of rehab, and it’s time to tie the knot.”
I stare at my mom. Events are happening at light-speed, and I have no ideawhy. I just got back from a long hike where I encountered a handsome, mysterious man, and now my parents are dragging me to my wedding?
“Wait, what?”
My mom’s voice is muffled as she digs around in my closet.
“Don’t say that you forgot, Amy. What girl forgets about her own nuptials? Ah ha, here, I found it. This will work.”
Amity reappears with a light pink ballgown in her hands. She bought it for me two years ago when we went to her client’s daughter’squinceañera, which is like a Sweet Sixteen party for Latinx girls. It’s a gorgeous dress but something that Belle would wear in theBeauty and the Beastmovie, with a huge poufy bottom that goes to the floor, lots of bows and frills, and a sweetheart neckline. I could be Cinderella dancing at the palace, and I wouldn’t look out of place. But as a wedding dress? No.
“You must be kidding,” I say in a flat tone. “There’s no way that I’m wearing that, under any circumstances whatsoever. Besides, it’s not going to fit because I’ve gained about fifteen pounds since we bought it. It’s way too small.”
But Amity ignores me. She nods approvingly at the puffy ballgown, admiring the intricate lace.
“I know you didn’t love this dress, but it was perfect for thequinceañera, don’t you agree? A lot of times dresses like this never get a second wear, but in your case, the timing is perfect. Of course, we didn’t realize it would become your wedding gown, but all’s well that ends well. Try it on, Ames,” she says, holding it out to me.
I stare at the layers of frills and bows, shaking my head. Then, I try to change the subject.
“Hold on, Mom. Slow down about the outfit because I want to find out more. I’m so confused! Let’s talk more about logistics. I came in last night from my hike. What time did I get back? Where did I go?”
My mother shrugs, still admiring the frothy mass of tulle and silk in her hands.
“I don’t know, Amy. You told me and your father that you were going on a short hike to “get away from it all,” and we let you go because your fiancé was in rehab. Your absence wasn’t going to be a problem. But we found out yesterday that he’s just gotten out, and we were beside ourselves with worry. You weren’t picking up your phone, and we had half a mind to call the Parks Service to see if they could fly a helicopter out to do a search. But everything turned out okay because this morning, your boot tracks were on the kitchen floor. Sure enough, you’d come home! It’s perfect, Amy. You’re getting married today.”
“But … but…” I stammer.
“But nothing,” Amity says, holding out the pink gown to me. “You’re tying the knot with a wonderful man this morning! You should be happy.”
I stare at my mom.
