Chapter 5: The Weekend Wait
The weekend was a cavern of silence.
Evelyn moved through her apartment like a ghost haunting a museum of her former life. The sleek lines of her furniture, the curated art books, the expensive diffuser emitting a calm notes of sandalwood—it all felt like a set dressing. A lie. The real thing, the raw nerve of her, had been left on that vinyl bench, dripping and used.
A persistent, low-grade ache lingered between her legs, a tender reminder of the stretch. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was a memory etched into muscle, a hollow echo. Every time she shifted in her chair, or crossed her legs at the kitchen island, she felt it. A spark would jump from that ache directly to her core, a hot, insistent throb that dissolved concentration.
She opened her laptop. Columns of data blurred. The quarterly report was due. She typed a sentence, deleted it. Her fingertips, resting on the keys, felt dirty. She saw them slick with lube, gripping the edge of the bench.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room.
The rain started, a soft patter that blurred the city into a watercolor gloom. She paced. The living room, with its neat leather sofa and cold fireplace, felt like a cage. The phantom feeling morphed from memory into demand. It was a raw, physical craving, a need to be filled that made her skin feel too tight.
Work was impossible. The silence was too loud. She went to her bedroom, to the nightstand. In the back, behind the hand cream and sleep masks, was a simple silicone dildo, a modest purchase from a long-ago, curious phase. It was smaller than what he had used. The sight of it now was pathetic, but her cunt clenched, empty and hungry.
She took it and a bottle of lube to the living room. The grey light bled through the rain-streaked window. She didn’t undress. She just pushed her soft cotton lounge pants and underwear down to her knees, bent over the cool, smooth arm of the leather sofa, and pressed the blunt tip against herself.
She was already wet. Slick shame gathered at her entrance. She squeezed lube onto the toy, the cold glob falling onto her skin, and smeared it.
“Like this,” she muttered, imagining his voice, his grip. She pushed.
It slid in too easily. The fullness was a relief, but a cheap one. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t his ruthless control, his degrading praise. She fucked herself with it, throwing her hips back against her own hand, the wet slap of silicone against flesh a lonely rhythm in the quiet apartment. She pictured his grey eyes, flat and assessing. She imagined his other hand snaking around, his fingers finding her clit now, pinching—
Her own fingers fumbled, clumsy and rushed. She couldn’t replicate the sharp, cruel precision. The orgasm that came was shallow, a quick electrical spasm that left her panting over the sofa arm, the toy still lodged inside her. A small gush of fluid seeped out, darkening the pale leather cushion. She stared at the stain, at the cheap toy in her hand. A wave of crushing emptiness drowned the brief pleasure.
It was nothing. It was a snack for a starvation.
The hunger didn’t abate. It grew. It became a central fact of her existence, a hollow center around which her weekend revolved. Sunday morning found her scrolling on her phone, her eyes gritty from lack of sleep, searching with a focused, frantic intent. She found it on a discreet, expensive site: a pistoned dildo, thick, with a mechanical base that promised slow, relentless penetration. The description used words like “hands-free” and “continuous sensation.” Her thumb hovered over the order button. Two-day delivery. It wouldn’t come until Tuesday.
A low, frustrated sound escaped her. Tuesday was an eternity.
Then she saw the option. “Same-day delivery within the city. Discreet packaging.”
She ordered it. She paid a ridiculous premium. She spent the next four hours in a state of frantic suspension, cleaning things that were already clean, rearranging bookshelves, jumping at every sound from the hall. When the plain brown box arrived, she brought it inside as if it were a bomb.
In her bedroom, she opened it. The toy was heavy, serious medical-grade silicone. The piston mechanism was controlled by a small remote. She charged it, the little red light blinking like a malevolent eye. When the light turned green, she coated it in lube, laid back on her bed, and pressed it to her sore, well-used entrance.
The initial push was still a stretch. She turned it on to the lowest setting.
A low whir filled the room. The toy began to move, not thrusting, but a smooth, in-and-out piston motion, deep and measured. It was a perfect, mechanical fuck. It didn’t tire. It didn’t change rhythm. It just filled her, withdrew to the brink, and filled her again. The sensation was utterly different from her own frantic hand. It was inexorable. It was something being done to her.
She left it there, set on its slow, deep rhythm, and went about her day. She made tea, the delicate china cup trembling in her hand as the toy plunged inside her. She attempted to read, the words swimming on the page with every deep, artificial stroke. She stood at the window watching the rain, her legs subtly trembling, a constant low-grade orgasm simmering in her belly, never quite boiling over, never quite receding.
It kept her full. It kept her occupied. It kept the crushing silence of his absence at bay. By evening, she was a wired, sensitive mess. Her cunt was swollen, glistening, used raw by the machine. She was no closer to satiation. The device was a placeholder, a plug for a void it could never truly fill.
As dusk fell, turning the room a deep blue, a new, darker thought crept in. The memory of his final act, the double penetration, the overwhelming split of it. The machine couldn’t do that. She could.
She turned the piston off, pulled the heavy toy out with a wet sigh. She went back to the box, to the smaller, thicker anal plug she had bought on impulse. She coated it in lube, knelt on the bed, and pressed it against her other hole. The resistance was fierce, a tight, burning ring of muscle. She breathed out, pushed. A sharp, bright pain flared, then dulled into a profound, spreading fullness as the bulb passed the rim and settled inside. She gasped, feeling impossibly stuffed, corrupted.
She took the piston toy again, now slick with her juices and fresh lube, and pressed it back into her cunt. Two shapes inside her now, crowding each other, crowding her. She turned the machine back on.
The sensation was outrageous. The deep thrusts of the toy in her cunt shifted the plug inside her ass with every stroke, a relentless, internal rubbing. She fell forward onto her hands, moaning into the duvet, her body bowing under the dual invasion. It was closer. It was a frantic, sweating approximation. She came in ragged, sobbing waves, her body clamping down on both intrusions, the pleasure edged with a sharp, metallic pain.
After, she lay ruined amidst the tangle of sheets. The machine whirred on, tirelessly fucking her slack, overstimulated flesh. She didn’t have the strength to turn it off. The rain had stopped. The apartment was silent except for the mechanical hum and the wet, rhythmic sound of her own relentless use.
Her phone, silent all weekend, buzzed on the nightstand.
A tremor that had nothing to do with the toy racked her body. She lunged for it, fumbling, the toys shifting heavily inside her.
The screen glowed. A single, unknown number. One line of text.
“The laboratory opens at 8. Be empty. Be hungry.”
The machine inside her suddenly felt ridiculous, a child’s toy. She turned it off, the silence it left behind absolute and roaring. She pulled both toys out, a sudden, awful emptiness gaping in their wake. True hunger, sharp as a blade, sliced through her.
She would be empty. She would be hungry.
She lay in the dark, feeling the cool air touch places that had been occupied for hours, and waited for Monday.