Chapter 8: The Practice Session
The apartment held its silence for a full hour after Brian left. The echoes of his cheerful, “See you tonight, babe,” clung to the warm air, a ghost you had to chase away with action.
Your body still hummed with a strange, residual electricity from the night before, a buzzing in your veins that felt like triumph and shame alloyed together. Brian had fallen asleep tangled in you, sated, whispering nonsense into your hair. You had lain awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every movement, every sound he’d made, cross-referencing them with your research. The data was promising. But data needed refinement.
The office desk drawer slid open with a familiar whisper. You pushed aside Brian’s New England Journal of Medicine issues, your fingers closing around the cool, firm silicone hidden beneath. You pulled the larger toy free, its shape unmistakable and clinical in the morning light. This was the next phase.Mouth work. It wasn’t about your pleasure; it was about erasing any possible awkwardness, any hint of inexperience. He deserved fluency.
In the bedroom, you propped his phone against a stack of books on the nightstand, tapping the record button. The red dot blinked, an indifferent eye. You sat on the edge of the bed, the toy heavy in your lap. The sun through the sheer curtains painted everything in soft, forgiving gold. You felt exposed, absurd. Marco recoiled, a silent shout in the back of your skull.You ignored him.
You brought the silicone tip to your lips.Cold. Tasteless. You kissed it, a dry, closed-mouth peck.That was useless. You opened your mouth, letting the tip rest on your tongue. The sensation was bizarre—a foreign object, a medical implement. Your reflection in the vanity mirror looked pale, eyes too wide.
“Okay,” you whispered to the silent room, to the blinking red light. “Slow. Like the videos. Controlled.”
You relaxed your jaw, a technique you’d read about, and took more of the shaft into your mouth. The stretch was immediate, triggering a gag reflex you had to suppress with a slow, deliberate breath through your nose. Your eyes watered. You pulled back, saliva slicking the silicone. You looked at the camera.
“He likes it when I look up at him,” you said, your voice low and surprisingly steady. “Eye contact. Makes it feel… intimate. Not transactional.”
You plunged again, deeper this time, pushing past the initial resistance. The pressure at the back of your throat was insistent, demanding surrender. A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down your cheek. You held the position, counting to five in your head, imagining Brian’s hand on the back of your head, not forcing, just guiding. You imagined the sounds he would make—a low groan, a sharp intake of breath. You pulled off with a soft, practiced pop.
“Again,” you murmured. “Deeper. Swallow around it. They always say that. It’s about the feeling, not just the visual.”
The third attempt was rougher. You took it all, until your nose pressed against the fake base, until your vision blurred and your throat convulsed. You choked, pulling back, coughing into your hand, tears streaming freely now. The humiliation was a live wire, sparking under your skin. You were Marco, performing a degrading act. You were Marcella, mastering a skill.
“This is for him,” you whispered to the camera, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your voice thick. “I’ll be perfect for him. He won’t have to think. He won’t have to wonder. It’ll just be… good.”
You did it again.And again. Your jaw began to ache with a deep, throbbing pain. Your lips felt swollen, sensitive. The toy became slick with spit, a grotesque, shiny thing. You varied the rhythm, fast then agonizingly slow, adding your hand, twisting your wrist the way you’d seen. You narrated each adjustment to the unblinking red eye. “Hand here provides… depth control. This twist, with the tongue… yeah. That’s the one.”
Finally, you stopped. Your entire face felt numb, used. You reached out a trembling finger and stopped the recording.
The playback was a surreal dissection. You watched yourself with a critic’s cold eye. The first attempts were timid, amateurish. The later ones… there was a terrible competence there. A hollow professionalism. You saw the moment your eyes glazed over, when you weren’t Marcella or Marco, but just a body executing a program. It was the most effective part.You deleted the file. A necessary exercise, now discarded.
You cleaned the toy meticulously in the en-suite bathroom, the hot water scalding your hands. You caught your reflection—flushed cheeks, bruised-looking lips, eyes hollow. You brushed your teeth until your gums bled, trying to erase the phantom feel of silicone.
You were hiding the toy back in the drawer when your own phone vibrated. Not Brian this time. A number you’d come to dread.You answered. “Yeah?”
Mitch’s voice was like gravel in a tin can. “Marco. Or whatever you’re calling yourself. We need to talk about your creative accounting. My patience is a luxury item, and you’re spending it fast.”
Your heart seized. “I’m working on it, Mitch. Brian’s… things are good here. Stable. I just need more time.”
“Time is a currency you’re bankrupt in,” he said, the words casual, cruel. “I’m not a charity. You provide a service, remember? A unique, personal service. You think wearing pretty clothes and cooking dinners is service? That’s the free sample. The main event is overdue.”
A cold, clear understanding settled over you. The research, the practice, the performance—it wasn’t just for Brian’s satisfaction. It was armor. It was your only currency. You had to be so invaluable to Brian that his world would fracture without you. It was the only shield you had against Mitch.
“I understand,” you said, your voice flat.
“Good girl,” Mitch crooned, and the line went dead.
You stood in the silent office, the scent of vanilla candles and old books suddenly cloying. The debt wasn’t just money. It was a leash. And every new thing you learned, every moan you perfected, every way you made Brian lose himself in you, was another twist in the braid of that leash, tightening your control even as it bound you.
You walked to the kitchen and began pulling ingredients from the fridge. You’d make Brian his favorite carbonara tonight, from scratch. You’d wear the black lace underwear he’d bought you but never asked you to wear. You’d smile at his jokes, touch his arm, listen to his stories about irate parents and sneaky toddlers.
And later, when he kissed you, when his hands slid under your clothes, you would put your training into practice. You would become the main event. Not for pleasure.For survival.
The hiss of pancetta hitting the pan was a small, defiant sound in the quiet apartment. You stirred, your movements precise, your mind already miles away, building the evening detail by detail, constructing your fortress one perfect brick at a time.