Chapter 13: The Degradation Party
The silence in the apartment the next morning was a thick, cloying thing. Nat moved through it like a ghost, making coffee in the kitchen she shared with five other people who might as well have been on different planets. Micha had, as instructed, slept on the living room futon. He was already gone, off to his programming job before dawn, leaving the blanket folded in a neat, pathetic square.
Chris was the opposite of quiet. He whistled in the hallway, banged cabinet doors, his energy a violent counterpoint to the pall he’d cast. When Nat brought her coffee to the small dining table, he was already there, scrolling on his phone.
“Party tonight,” he said without looking up.
“What?”
“Party. Here. To celebrate.” He finally glanced at her, a lazy smile playing on his lips. “My methods. Your… graduation.”
Nat sipped her coffee. It tasted bitter. “Who’s coming?”
“Everybody. Lucia, Annika, Bambi’s in town. Conzi.” He listed them off like ingredients. “And you. And him, of course.” Him. Micha. Never named anymore.
“What kind of party?” The question was automatic, a formality. She already knew.
“The fun kind.” He stood up, stretched. “Wear something easy to take off.”
By eight pm, the living room was pulsing with bass from a cheap Bluetooth speaker and the sharp, sweet smell of cheap vodka and cheaper mixer. Lucia had brought the drinks. Annika and Bambi were already giggling on the sagging couch, passing a joint back and forth. Conzi stood by the half-finished mural, arms crossed, a bottle of beer held like a weapon in her hand. She wore dark jeans and a modest sweater, her short blonde hair sleek, her glasses reflecting the dim light. She was watching Chris warily, as one might watch a large, unpredictable animal.
Micha sat on the floor in the corner, back against the wall, knees drawn up. He nursed a warm beer, his eyes darting from person to person, waiting for the axe to fall.
Chris, in the center of it all, held court. He was telling a loud, exaggerated story about a girl from a bar, his hands sketching shapes in the air. Lucia laughed, a throaty, willing sound. She caught Nat’s eye and winked. Nat didn’t wink back. She stood by the kitchen entry, wearing the simple black dress Chris had left on her bed. It was easy. Just two thin straps.
“Alright, drinks are low!” Chris announced, clapping his hands. “Nat. You’re on bottle service. Topless. Let’s set the mood.”
All conversation died. Annika’s giggle cut off mid-stream. Conzi’s head snapped toward Chris, then to Nat. Lucia just smiled, leaning forward expectantly.
Nat’s skin went cold, then hot. This was the test. Not in the private theater of his bedroom, but here, in front of her friends, her best friend, her feminist roommate, her broken boyfriend. The air hummed. She could refuse. She could walk out.
She looked at Micha. He had shrunk into himself, his face pale, eyes pleading with her to stop, to not do this, to save him from having to see it. That look decided her. She reached up, slid the thin straps off her shoulders, and let the dress fall to her waist. The air was cool on her bare breasts. She kept her gaze fixed on the pizza box on the coffee table as she picked up the vodka bottle and began to refill glasses.
“Fuck yeah,” Chris breathed, appreciative. He leaned back, spreading his arms along the back of the couch. “Now that’s service. See, Micha? That’s how a supportive partner acts. She gets the vibe.”
Micha said nothing. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Nat moved around the circle, pouring. She passed Conzi, who refused a refill with a stiff, silent shake of her head. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses, disgust and something else—a furious, captivated hunger—warring on her face. When Nat leaned over to fill Bambi’s cup, the young alt-girl didn’t look at her face, her gaze instead fixed on Nat’s exposed chest with frank curiosity.
“Good girl,” Chris said as Nat finished. He patted the couch cushion beside him. “Sit.”
She sat, pulling her dress back up but leaving the straps down, her breasts still exposed. A permanent fixture now.
“So!” Chris announced, his voice booming over the music. “Game time. A little competition. You’re all here, you’ve all heard the rumors. Let’s separate fact from fiction.” His hand landed on Nat’s bare thigh, possessive. “We’re going to find out who can please me best. Winner gets… my attention for a week. Losers watch.”
Lucia laughed, excited. Annika bit her lip, her eyes gleaming. Bambi just nodded slowly, a sly smile on her face. Conzi stood rigid. “That’s disgusting,” she spat. “You’re reducing these women to objects in some… some frat boy fantasy.”
Chris looked at her, his smile never fading. “You’re free to leave, Conzi. Or you’re free to play. But if you stay and don’t play, you’re just another object watching. A piece of furniture. What’s more feminist? Participating on your own terms, or being decoration?”
Conzi’s knuckles were white around her beer bottle. She didn’t leave.
“Lucia,” Chris said. “You’re first. Show us what you’ve got.”
With a confident smirk, Lucia slid off the couch and onto her knees on the floor between his legs. She made a show of it, unbuttoning his jeans, pulling them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was already half-hard, thick and heavy. Lucia didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth with a practiced, eager motion, her head bobbing, her hand working the base. Low, appreciative groans came from Chris. He watched her, then looked at Micha. “See that technique? That’s experience. Your ex never quite got the gag reflex under control, did she?”
Micha looked like he might be sick. Lucia redoubled her efforts, hollowing her cheeks, slurping loudly. After a few minutes, Chris tapped her head. “Alright. Good effort. Wet, enthusiastic. Seven out of ten.” Lucia sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth, a proud smile on her lips as she returned to the couch.
“Annika. You’re up.”
The pale, slim girl practically floated to the floor. She was shyer, less performative, but her hunger was obvious. She used her tongue more, licking teasingly from base to tip before taking him deep, her long black hair curtaining her face. She moaned as if she were receiving pleasure, the vibrations drawing a deeper groan from Chris. “Fuck, you love this, don’t you?” he grunted, fisting a hand in her hair. She nodded frantically, her mouth stuffed. “Eight,” he announced, pulling her off. “Points for genuine enthusiasm.”
Bambi was next. She brought a different energy, playful and wicked. She didn’t just suck him; she worshipped him, kissing his thighs, cradling his balls, looking up at him with deviant adoration before swallowing him to the root, her throat fluttering visibly. She brought him to the edge, pulling back just in time, coating him with her saliva until he shone under the bleak ceiling light. “Nine,” Chris rasped, breathing heavily. “Creative. Dedicated.”
He was fully, brutally erect now, a lurid testament to the competition. The room stank of sex and anticipation. All eyes turned to Nat. Chris’s hand squeezed her thigh. “Nat’s disqualified. She’s the benchmark. Now…” His eyes landed on Conzi, still standing frozen by the wall. “Conzi. The critic. The intellectual. You think this is all beneath you. So prove it. Show us your superior principles. Or show us what you really are.”
Conzi trembled. “Go to hell.”
“I’m already there, baby, and it’s a fucking blast. Get on your knees or get out.”
A full minute passed. The only sound was the thudding bass. Then, with a sound that was half-sob, half-snarl, Conzi placed her beer bottle carefully on a box. She walked forward, every step an act of self-immolation. She didn’t look at anyone. She sank to her knees, her face level with his cock.
She stared at it, this thick, veined thing that had haunted her private thoughts for months. Her feminist theory, her righteous lectures, they crumbled to dust before its brutal, simple reality. A tear tracked through her makeup. With a shuddering breath, she opened her mouth and leaned forward.
It was clumsy at first. She had no technique. She gagged immediately, pulling back, spit stringing from her lips. A derisive snort came from Lucia. Conzi flinched but tried again, using her hand as she’d seen the others do, her movements jerky, ashamed.
“Use your tongue,” Chris instructed, his voice calm, pedagogical. “Don’t just swallow it, taste it.”
She obeyed, her tongue flicking tentatively at the head. A low, helpless whine escaped her. She tried to take him deeper, her body shaking with the effort, her glasses fogging. This wasn’t pleasure. This was a dismantling. With every slurp, every choked breath, the Conzi who debated patriarchy in seminar rooms died a little.
Chris watched her fall apart. He let her struggle for a long time, then gently pushed her back. She knelt there, crying openly now, saliva and tears and smeared lipstick on her face.
“A solid six,” he declared. “For effort. But you know what? I think you can do better. I think you need a… practical lesson.”
He stood up, his cock jutting out. He pulled Conzi to her feet, turned her around to face the room, and bent her over the wobbly coffee table, shoving the pizza box to the floor. He yanked her jeans and underwear down to her knees in one rough motion, exposing her round, pale ass. One of her small, tasteful tattoos—a line of script—peeked above the waistband.
“This,” Chris said, his voice dropping, “is where you belong. Not up in your head. Right here. Used.” He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and positioned the fat head at her entrance. She was dry, tight, clenched in fear. “Beg for it, Conzi. Beg for the cock you pretend to hate.”
She was sobbing, her forehead pressed against the cheap wood of the table. “Please,” she choked out. “Please, no.”
“Wrong.”
“Please… fuck me. Please, I need it. I’m a dumb slut, please just fuck me with your huge cock!” The words tore from her, a brutal confession that shattered her entirely.
He drove into her. The scream that ripped from Conzi’s throat was one of sheer, unbearable fullness. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a relentless, pounding rhythm, the table screeching across the floor with each thrust. His balls slapped against her, a wet, sharp sound that filled the silent room. He fucked her like he was punishing the very idea of her, his hands gripping her hips
like he was driving the hypocrisy straight out of her body. "You love this, you pretentious bitch," he growled, each word punctuated by a deep, jarring thrust. "Your big brain is just melting into your cunt where it belongs."
Conzi’s protests dissolved into guttural, animal sounds. Her fingers scrabbled against the laminate tabletop for purchase. The stretch was brutal, a burning invasion that began to morph, against her will, into a blinding, shameful friction. Her sobs hitched, then changed pitch. A broken, high-pitched moan leaked out.
"That’s it," Chris sneered, his rhythm becoming more precise, drilling into a spot that made her legs tremble. "Cum for us. Cum on the cock you think you’re too good for. Show everyone your feminist victory."
Her body betrayed her with violent efficiency. Her back arched as a shocked, ripped scream tore from her throat. Her inner muscles clenched around him in frantic, fluttering spasms, her hips bucking against his relentless drive. She came in a raw, shuddering wave, her vision whiting out at the edges, humiliation and electric release fused into one incomprehensible feeling.
Chris fucked her through it, extending the convulsions until she was a whimpering, boneless thing draped over the table. Only then did he pull out, his cock glistening with her wetness. He let her collapse to the floor, where she curled onto her side, jeans around her ankles, quietly weeping.
The room was utterly still. Bambi’s mouth hung open. Lucia watched with a dark, approving smile. Annika had her hand between her own thighs, rubbing slowly over her jeans. Nat observed it all, the scientist detached from the experiment, noting the data: Conzi was broken, just like Erna. Just like Micha. Just like her.
Chris turned to Micha, his expression one of pure, casual cruelty. “Your turn, buddy. Cleanup duty. Get over here and lick her clean. Taste what a real orgasm looks like.”
Micha didn’t move. He stared, paralyzed.
“Now,” Chris said, the single word cracking through the air like a whip.
Shaking, Micha pushed himself up from the floor. He moved like a man walking to the gallows. He knelt beside Conzi’s prone form, his face a mask of utter degradation. He closed his eyes, leaned in, and dragged his tongue through the slick mess Chris had left on her inner thighs.
A fresh sob racked Conzi’s body. Lucia let out a low laugh. Chris grabbed a half-empty beer from the table, took a long swig, and watched.
“Good,” Chris said, as Micha retched, then swallowed hard. “Now you know your role. Maintenance.” He looked around the room, at the shattered women and the broken man. “Anybody else want to challenge the rankings?”
No one spoke. The competition was over. The hierarchy was set in stone, written in saliva and shame.
Chris zipped his jeans. He walked to Nat, cupped her face. His thumb stroked her cheek. “You see what happens? Order. Everyone finds their place.” He kissed her forehead, a patronizing benediction. “You’re with me. The rest of you… you’re amenities.”
He left the living room, the bedroom door clicking shut behind him, leaving the wreckage he’d created.
Lucia was the first to move. She stood, stretched languidly, and walked to the kitchen for another drink, stepping over Conzi as if she were a misplaced rug. Annika and Bambi eventually untangled themselves from the couch, whispering, and slipped down the hall toward Annika’s room. Their muffled giggles leaked out a moment later.
Nat finally moved. She walked to Conzi, knelt, and gently pulled the woman’s underwear and jeans back up over her hips. Conzi flinched at the touch but didn’t resist. Nat then helped her sit up, guiding her to the futon. Conzi wouldn’t look at her, just stared at the far wall, her eyes vacant.
Micha still knelt on the floor, head bowed, a strand of Conzi’s wetness glistening on his chin.
“Go shower, Micha,” Nat said, her voice flat, empty of everything, even contempt.
He stumbled to his feet and shuffled away.
Nat sat beside Conzi in the silent, ruined living room. The bass from the speaker had long since stopped. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and Conzi’s ragged, slowing breath.
“He’s right, you know,” Conzi whispered hoarsely, still not looking at her. “I wanted it. The whole time. I dreamed about it. I’m pathetic.”
Nat didn’t argue. She just watched the blank television screen, seeing their blurred reflections in the dark glass. Two women, reshaped. One by choice, one by force, but the result felt the same.
Down the hall, Chris’s door opened again. He stood there, shirtless, silhouetted by the light from his room. “Nat,” he called, his voice casual, inviting. “Come to bed.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a summoning. The final confirmation of her place.
Nat stood up. She didn’t look back at Conzi. She walked toward the light, toward the man who had dismantled them all, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. The door closed behind her, sealing her in with the architect of their ruin. The party was over. The new world had begun.
The new world had begun. Behind Chris’s closed door, the air was still and charged. He wasn’t inside. The bed was a rumpled landscape of their earlier violence. Nat stood in the center, listening to the faint, choked sounds from the living room. Then the shower kicked on down the hall. Micha, scrubbing his skin raw. It meant nothing.
Chris came out of the ensuite bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, water beading on his chest. He looked at her standing there, the black dress still gaping. “You’re thinking too loud,” he said, crossing to his closet.
“What happens tomorrow?” Her voice surprised her, calm and flat.
“Whatever I want.” He pulled on fresh boxers, then sweatpants. “You’ll go to work. You’ll come home. You might fuck me. You might watch. So will he.” He said it like reciting a grocery list. “Conzi will avoid everyone for a week, then she’ll find an excuse to be in the kitchen when I’m there. She’ll stammer. She’ll be wet just looking at me.”
He stepped close, his thumb brushing her nipple through the open dress. It pebbled instantly, a traitorous reflex. “See? Your body knows the rules. Your brain will catch up.”
Down the hall, the shower stopped. A door opened, closed softly. Micha, retreating to the futon cage. Chris smiled at the sound. “Go to sleep, Nat. You’re in here now.”
She didn’t ask where to lie. She just crawled onto the side she’d used before, the sheets smelling of sex and his cologne. He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a gloom punctuated by the orange LED of a game console. He got in beside her, his back to her, and was asleep in minutes. Nat stared at the dark ceiling, feeling the imprint of his body on the mattress beside her, a gravitational pull she could not escape.
Dawn came as a gray smear. Nat woke to an empty bed. She dressed mechanically in her own clothes, walked to the kitchen. It was empty. The living room was empty, the futon neatly made. A note was stuck to the fridge by a magnet. Gone for early meetup. Be back tonight. -M. Micha’s handwriting, precise and frightened.
She made coffee. The apartment felt like a crime scene waiting to be hosed down. An hour later, Lucia emerged, yawning, in a silk robe. She poured cereal, humming.
“Wild night,” Lucia said, crunching.
Nat said nothing.
“Don’t give me that look. You won. You’re the queen of the ash heap. Enjoy it.” Lucia’s smile was wide and uncomplicated. “I know I did. He’s a god.”
The door to Conzi’s room stayed shut all day. Annika and Bambi left together, whispering, casting glances toward Chris’s door. He didn’t emerge until past three, wearing joggers and nothing else, padding to the kitchen for water. He moved through the space like a landlord assessing his property.
At six, Micha texted Nat. Working late. Don’t wait up. She read it, deleted it.
By nine, the apartment was quiet again. Chris ordered pizza. He ate three slices on the couch, watching a game, a king in his messy court. He pointed to the last slice. “Give this to Conzi.”
Nat looked at the closed door. “You do it.”
“She doesn’t want it from me. Not yet. She wants to pretend it’s an olive branch from you. So take it.”
Nat picked up the plate. She knocked. No answer. She turned the handle. The room was dark, the blinds drawn. Conzi was a lump under the duvet on her single bed.
“I have pizza,” Nat said, her voice hollow in the small space.
“Fuck off.” The voice was muffled, raw.
“Chris told me to bring it.”
The duvet shifted. Conzi’s face appeared, puffy, mascara smeared in shadows under her eyes. Her glasses were on the nightstand. She looked younger, and utterly ruined. “Why are you his errand girl?”
“Why did you beg for his cock?” Nat set the plate on the desk, littered with feminist theory textbooks and printed articles.
Conzi flinched as if slapped. She sat up, the duvet pooling at her waist. She wore a large t-shirt. “Get out.”
“He says you’ll be in the kitchen by the end of the week. That you’ll be wet just seeing him.”
A tear broke loose and traced a path through the dried salt on her cheek. “He’s not wrong.” The admission was a whisper. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The feeling. Of being… split open. Owned. My brain keeps replaying it, Nat. It’s like it broke something and now all the wiring is crossed. I’m disgusted with myself. And I’m so fucking empty.”
Nat understood that emptiness. It was a physical cavity, a silent scream in the pelvis. She didn’t offer comfort. There was none. “The pizza’s there if you want it.”
As Nat turned to leave, Conzi spoke again. “Does it get easier? Being his thing?”
Nat paused at the door. “You don’t get used to it. You just… recognize it’s the only truth left.” She closed the door behind her.
Chris was standing right outside, leaning against the wall. He’d heard everything. He followed Nat back to the living room, his hand settling on the nape of her neck, a possessive collar. “Good. She’s in the crucible. The melting’s almost done.”
He sat, pulling Nat down to straddle his lap on the couch. He was hard already. He kissed her, a deep, invasive kiss that tasted of pepperoni and dominance. His hands went under her shirt, palming her breasts, pinching her nipples until she gasped into his mouth.
“I want her,” he murmured against her lips. “I want to finish it. Go get her.”
Nat went still. “Now?”
“Now. Tell her I want to apologize. Tell her whatever you need to. Bring her here.”
The lie was another stone in Nat’s gut. She walked back, knocked again. “Conzi? Chris… Chris wants to talk. To apologize.”
A long silence. Then the sound of feet on the floor. The door opened. Conzi had put her glasses on, had tried to wipe her face. She looked desperately hopeful, a drowning woman seeing a rope. “Apologize?”
“He’s in the living room.”
Conzi followed her, steps tentative. Chris was on the couch, his posture open, non-threatening. He even smiled, a softer version of his usual grin. “Hey. Look, last night… it got out of hand. I was drunk, you were drunk. It was fucked up. I’m sorry.”
Conzi hovered near the armchair, clutching the hem of her t-shirt. “You humiliated me.”
“I did. And that was shitty. Come sit. Please.”
She glanced at Nat, who looked away. Conzi slowly sat on the far end of the couch, knees tightly together. Chris didn’t move closer.
“I get it,” he said, his voice a low, reasonable rumble. “You have this whole ideology. Principles. And I just… bulldozed them. That’s on me. But what you’re feeling now, that confusion? That’s because your body learned something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.”
“What did it learn?” Conzi whispered, already leaning toward his words.
“That surrender can feel like flying. That all that control you clutch so tight is just a cage. You came harder than you ever have in your life last night, and you hated yourself for it. But why? Because some books told you to?” He inched closer, just a fraction. “What if the most feminist thing you can do is own what you truly, secretly want? No judgment. Just primal fucking truth.”
He was good. Nat watched the words sink in, watched them re-frame the devastation as liberation. Conzi’s breath hitched. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Yes, you do.” Chris’s hand lifted, slowly, giving her time to pull away. He cupped her cheek. She didn’t move. A tear slid onto his fingers. “Your body knows. It’s screaming for it. Let me give it to you without the games this time. Let me show you what it’s like when you choose it.”
Conzi’s eyes closed. A full-body tremor went through her. When she opened them, she looked at Nat, a silent plea for… something. An anchor. A warning. Nat just stared back, giving her nothing.
“Okay,” Conzi breathed, the word so soft it was almost lost.
That was all Chris needed. His hand slipped from her cheek to the back of her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was consuming. Conzi melted into it with a desperate moan, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. The ideology was ash. The principles were dust.
He broke the kiss, looking at Nat. “Take her clothes off.”
Nat moved. She pulled Conzi’s t-shirt up and over her head. Conzi raised her arms, compliant, her eyes glazed. Nat unclasped her plain bra, let it fall. Then she hooked her thumbs in Conzi’s cotton shorts and panties, pushing them down her thighs. Conzi kicked them off, now naked on the couch, her skin pebbling in the cool air.
“See how beautiful she is?” Chris said to Nat, as if appraising art. He ran a hand over Conzi’s short blonde hair, down her neck, over a small, tasteful tattoo on her collarbone, then cupped one breast. His thumb rubbed her nipple. “So smart. So fierce. And now, so mine.”
He leaned Conzi back against the couch cushions. He stood, shedding his sweatpants and boxers. His cock sprang free, fully erect. Conzi’s eyes locked on it, her mouth falling open slightly. Not fear now. Hunger. Raw,承认的 hunger.
“Tell me what you want, Conzi.” His voice was a command.
“I want… I want you to fuck me,” she said, the words steady now. “Please. I need to feel it again. I choose it.”
“Open your legs. Show Nat how ready you are.”
Conzi obeyed, spreading her thighs, exposing herself. She was already wet, her folds glistening in the low light. Chris knelt on the couch between her legs. He gripped his cock, smearing the bead of precum over the head, and rubbed it through her slickness, coating himself. He notched the fat tip at her entrance, applying pressure.
“Look at her, Nat,” he grunted. “Look at her choosing her own destruction. It’s the most honest thing she’s ever done.”
He pushed in. It was smoother than the night before, but no less staggering. Conzi cried out, a sharp, beautiful sound of fulfillment. Her back arched off the cushions, her hands flying to grip his forearms. He sank deeper, relentlessly, until his pelvis was flush against hers, his balls tight against her ass. He was so deep she couldn’t breathe.
“Fuck,” she sobbed, but it was a sob of relief. “Oh god, it’s so much.”
Chris began to move, a slow, deep, piston rhythm that made the couch frame creak. Each withdrawal was an agony of loss, each thrust a homecoming. He fucked her with a focused intensity, his eyes locked on her shattered expression. The sound was filthy, a wet, rhythmic slap of skin, punctuated by Conzi’s choked, pleading gasps.
“You take it so good, you intelligent slut,” he growled, picking up speed. “Your big brain is finally fucking quiet, isn’t it?”
“Yes!” she screamed, her heels digging into his lower back. “It’s quiet, it’s just you, just your cock, fuck, please!”
He was hammering into her now, his abs slapping against her clit with every drive. The coffee table rattled. A textbook slid to the floor. Conzi’s glasses fogged completely. Her orgasm built visibly, a tectonic pressure breaking through her shame. Her cries became nonsensical, a litany of “please” and “yes” and “more”.
Chris’s rhythm became erratic, brutal. “You gonna cum for me? Cum on this cock you pretended to hate? Do it.”
It shattered her. Her body bowed, a wire pulled too tight, then snapped. A silent scream opened her mouth as internal flutters became violent convulsions, milking his length. She pulsed around him, her eyes rolling back, her fingernails scoring red lines down his arms.
He fucked her through it, prolonging the waves until she was a shuddering, mindless thing. Only then did he bury himself to the hilt with a final, grinding thrust. His own release was a guttural roar, his body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside her, hot and claiming. He stayed there, planted in her, as the aftershocks wracked them both.
Finally, he pulled out. The sight was obscene: Conzi, spent and leaking, a mixture of their fluids glistening on her inner thighs. Chris stood, breathing heavily, looking down at his work.
Conzi didn’t move. She lay sprawled, ruined, a faint smile touching her ruined lips. Her hand drifted down, fingers sliding through the mess on her stomach, bringing them to her mouth. She tasted them, slowly, her eyes closed. A final, complete submission.
Chris picked up his sweatpants. He looked at Nat. “Clean her up. Put her to bed.”
He walked to his room, leaving them in the aftermath. Nat fetched a damp cloth from the kitchen. She knelt by the couch and began to wipe Conzi’s stomach, her thighs. Conzi’s eyes opened. They were clear, peaceful, utterly vacant of the woman who had lived there before.
“He was right,” Conzi whispered, her voice serene. “It’s easier when you stop fighting the truth.”
Nat said nothing. She helped the naked woman to her feet, guided her to her bedroom, and tucked her into the narrow bed. Conzi was asleep before Nat closed the door.
Back in the living room, Nat turned off the lamps. The apartment was silent, a kingdom resting after a successful conquest. She walked to Chris’s door, opened it. He was in bed, on his back, waiting.
She undressed in the dark and slid in beside him. He didn’t touch her. He just said, voice already thick with sleep, “See? Everyone finds their level.”
Nat stared into the dark, feeling the new architecture of their world settle into place, a prison built from their own willing bones. It was solid. It was real. And it was just beginning.