Dinner was eggs and toast because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking long enough for anything else.
I stood at the stove naked, six—no, more—loads shifting inside me, ass and cunt both used and leaking onto the tile every time I moved. Marcus sat at the table in his jeans, watching. Every few minutes he told me to turn, spread, and show him. I did. The mess ran down my thighs in slow white pulses. He made me clean the floor with my fingers and push it back in before I was allowed to plate the food. We ate in silence. I sat carefully on the chair Mom used every morning. He watched me clench.
Halfway through, her text came. Landed. Traffic’s bad. Home in two hours.
He read it over my shoulder, then set the phone face-down.
“Finish eating. Then upstairs. I’m not done, and you’re not cleaning
