Chapter 16: Day 5. 10am Sober David
The stale popcorn smell hit me first as I shuffled into the living room, the low drone of some mid-morning sports commentary already buzzing from the TV. My body felt heavy, sluggish, echoes of yesterday’s… transactions lingering in aching muscles and a low throb between my legs. The coffee table was a disaster zone of crushed cans and greasy pizza boxes, exactly as we’d left it last night after Mark’s crude pronouncement about my new, horrifying rent structure. One day paid for one day. The thought curdled my stomach.
And there was David, perched on the edge of the worn sofa, looking like he hadn't slept. He glanced up as I entered, his eyes darting away almost instantly, fixing on the flickering screen where men in bright uniforms ran around meaninglessly. His usual book was nowhere in sight. Just him, the mess, and the unbearable weight of what came next.
"Morning," I mumbled, my voice rough. It still sounded wrong to my own ears, this softer, higher pitch that belonged to Ella Knox, not me.
"Hey," he replied, his voice tight. He rubbed a hand over his face, the stubble rasping softly. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the enthusiastic shouts of the commentators. The sunlight streaming in felt accusatory, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air and the tension coiling between us.
I couldn't stand it. The waiting. The pretending this was normal. "So," I said, crossing my arms over my chest, a futile attempt to shield myself. The weight of my new breasts felt alien, a constant, unwelcome reminder. "Ten o'clock. Living room. Here we are."
David flinched. "Yeah." He finally looked at me, his brown eyes clouded with that familiar guilt. "Taylor… about yesterday… Mark talking like that…"
"Save it, David," I cut him off, bitterness sharpening my tone. "We all heard. Rent's due daily. Apparently, yesterday's… payment… only covered yesterday." The word ‘payment’ tasted like ash. "So let's just… get this over with."
His jaw clenched. "Do you… do you want to? Like this? Now?" He gestured vaguely around the messy room, the sunlight feeling suddenly invasive.
"Does it matter?" I challenged, my voice trembling despite myself. The revulsion was a cold stone in my gut, warring with the strange, unwelcome heat pooling lower down. Hormones? Fear? I didn't know anymore. "You agreed to Mark's stupid bet. You went along with it. You took your turn yesterday." The memory of his hands on me, hesitant but ultimately demanding, flashed behind my eyes. "And now you want your pound of flesh for today. So take it."
He looked stricken. "It's not like that."
"Sure feels like it," I shot back. The defiance felt brittle. Inside, the old Taylor was screaming, trapped in this soft, yielding flesh. "Rules are rules, right? Mark made sure of that." I took a step closer, the scent of his soap mixing with the stale popcorn. My heart hammered against my ribs. "But I want something first."
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"Get on your knees," I said, the command sounding harsh in the quiet room.
David stared at me, confusion warring with the undeniable flicker of arousal I could see darkening his eyes. "What?" he repeated, dumbfounded.
"You heard me." My voice was low, tight with a mix of fear and a desperate need for some semblance of control, however fleeting. "Get on your fucking knees, David. And put your mouth on me."
He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the worn carpet. The guilt was written all over him, but so was the hunger. I saw the conflict play out on his face – the intellectual struggling against the primal pull. Finally, with a shaky exhale, he slid off the sofa cushion and lowered himself onto his knees in front of me. His movements were stiff, awkward. He looked up at me, his expression a mixture of confusion, apprehension, and undeniable want.
My hands trembled as I reached for the waistband of the loose sweats I wore. Every nerve ending felt hypersensitive. Pulling them down, along with my panties, felt like exposing a raw wound. The cool air of the room hit my skin, making me shiver. David’s breath hitched as he stared at my exposed pussy, the dark curls glistening slightly.
"Well?" I prompted, my voice cracking. "Go on."
He leaned forward tentatively, his hands hovering near my thighs, not quite touching. Then, slowly, inexorably, he lowered his head. The first touch of his lips against my outer lips was feather-light, hesitant. A jolt shot through me – revulsion tangled with a startling spike of sensation. He was clumsy at first, his tongue tracing uncertain paths. I gritted my teeth, fighting the confusing mix of sensations – the wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against my inner thigh, the sheer wrongness of David, my friend, performing this act on me now.
"Don't just lick like you're tasting fucking soup," I hissed, surprising myself with the venom. "Use your tongue. Get it in there."
He flinched but obeyed, his tongue delving deeper, finding my entrance, then flicking upwards towards my clit. The contact was electric, sending a shockwave through my core despite my resistance. A low groan escaped him, vibrating against my sensitive flesh. His hands finally settled on my hips, his grip tightening, pulling me closer. His tongue became more insistent, probing, circling, sucking lightly at my clit. I gasped, my hands instinctively flying to his head, fingers tangling in his hair. Not to push him away, but to hold him there. The betrayal of my own body was immediate and humiliating.
"Fuck," I breathed, my head falling back. Waves of heat surged through me, battling the icy disgust. David seemed to gain confidence, his movements becoming smoother, more practiced. His tongue worked relentlessly, swirling around my clit, dipping inside me, then back to that swollen, hypersensitive nub. Pleasure, thick and unwanted, coiled low in my belly, building despite my internal screaming. My thighs trembled. I hated this. Hated him. Hated the way my hips started to rock slightly against his face, seeking more of that traitorous sensation. Hated the wet, sucking sounds filling the room, mingling with the distant drone of the TV.
He slid a finger inside me, alongside his thrusting tongue. I cried out, a strangled sound. It was too much, too intimate, the intrusion sparking a sharp flare of pleasure-pain. "Yes," I moaned, the word ripped from me against my will, betraying the conflict raging inside. "Just like that… fuck… David…"
His finger curled, finding that spot inside, rubbing firmly as his mouth continued its relentless assault on my clit. The pressure built, a relentless tide threatening to overwhelm me. I was panting now, my fingers clenching in his hair, holding him hard against me. The revulsion was still there, a cold counterpoint to the fire he was stoking. My body felt like it belonged to someone else, reacting violently to his touch, betraying everything the old Taylor stood for. A tremor ran through me, building, unstoppable. I felt the orgasm cresting, a wave about to crash. "Oh god," I gasped, my voice high and desperate. "I'm gonna… I'm gonna come…"
And I did. It ripped through me with shocking violence, a convulsive shudder that made my knees buckle. My cry was loud, echoing in the room, drowning out the TV for a moment. Pleasure washed over me, hot and consuming, leaving me trembling and gasping for air, my legs shaking uncontrollably. David kept his mouth pressed firmly against me, swallowing the evidence of my involuntary climax, his tongue still flicking gently as the aftershocks subsided.
Slowly, he pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were slick, his chin wet. He looked up at me, his eyes wide, dark with desire and a dazed sort of awe. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, the remnants of the orgasm still tingling through my oversensitized nerves. The disgust came roaring back, colder and sharper than ever, mixed with a profound sense of shame.
"Now," I said, my voice ragged, my body still trembling from the unwanted climax. I pointed towards the sofa, my hand shaking. "On the couch. Get your pants off. It’s time for your fucking rent." The words felt dirty, stripping away any pretense. The brief, stolen moment of control was gone, replaced by the harsh reality of the deal. He wanted his turn. And I had to give it to him.