Chapter 24: Day 7: Morning Meeting
The taste of Mark still coated the back of my throat, a thick, salty sludge no amount of water could wash away. Sleep had been a fractured thing, punctuated by phantom sensations: the scrape of stubble on my inner thighs, the suffocating heat of Chris’s garage, the insistent pressure of Mark’s cockhead nudging against my gag reflex. My jaw ached, a dull throb radiating towards my ears. Dawn light, weak and grey, filtered through the grimy kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing over the chaos of unwashed dishes and last night’s pizza box. The calendar on the fridge – the one Mark had stuck there, counting down ‘Taylor’s New Life’ in mocking red X’s – felt like an accusation.
I shuffled in, bare feet cold on the linoleum, wrapping my robe tighter around Ella Knox’s curves, trying to armor myself. The heavy weight of my E-cup breasts felt alien, unwanted. They were just… there. A constant reminder. All three of them were already at the small table, nursing coffees. Mark, looking annoyingly refreshed; David, staring into his mug like it held the secrets of the universe; Chris, silent as stone, methodically eating cereal.
"Morning, payment plan," Mark chirped, a smirk playing on his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the legs scraping harshly. "Sleep well? Dream of me?"
David flinched, his gaze flicking to me then quickly away, guilt warring with something else on his face. Chris didn't look up, just kept spooning cornflakes. The casual cruelty hung in the air, thick as the smell of stale grease.
"Shut up, Mark," I muttered, grabbing a mug. My voice sounded rough, scraped raw.
Mark chuckled. "Just checking in. Gotta make sure our star performer is in top shape for the daily grind. Speaking of which…" He stretched languidly. "We need to formalize the procedure. Streamline things."
David finally looked up. "Procedure? Mark, it's not…"
"Not what, Davey?" Mark interrupted, his voice hardening. "Not necessary? Not fun? Taylor lost the bet. He took the pill. He agreed to the terms. He lives here rent-free on our sufferance. Payment is due. Daily. One orgasm per resident. Clear?"
My knuckles whitened around the mug handle. He. At least Mark still acknowledged that.
"But…" David started, rubbing his temple. "The way it happened yesterday… with Chris… and then you…"
Chris finally spoke, his voice low and calm, cutting through the tension. "He chose." His dark eyes lifted to meet mine for a fraction of a second. Impassive. Unreadable. "He chose the mouth. He chose the garage."
"Exactly!" Mark slammed his palm lightly on the table, making the mugs rattle. "Choice! That's the key! Makes it more… participatory." His grin returned, predatory. "So here's the new rule, Tay-Tay. To keep things fair, to keep you engaged." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You still owe each of us one orgasm, every single day. No skipping. But you get to pick the hole. Every time. Mouth, pussy, ass. Your choice. Makes it feel less like a chore for you, right?" His tone dripped sarcasm.
My stomach clenched. Choice? This was a sick joke. Choosing where to be violated. Choosing the flavour of my degradation. Mouth meant Mark’s drawn-out torment. Ass meant Chris’s brutal efficiency. Pussy… the thought of a cock pushing into that place, claiming the deepest part of this alien body… My skin crawled. Yet, a treacherous, unwanted pulse of heat flickered low in my belly. Fucking hormones. Fucking female biology betraying me.
"Pick the hole?" David mumbled, looking horrified. "Mark, that's… barbaric."
"Is it?" Mark shot back, eyes fixed on me. "Or is it empowering? Gives him some agency. Right, Taylor? You get to decide how you service us."
The words 'service us' hung in the air, obscene. I felt their eyes on me – Mark’s amused, David’s conflicted, Chris’s watchful. Three predators, one prize. My body.
"Fine," I rasped. What else could I say? Refuse and be thrown out onto the street in this body, with nothing? "I choose."
"Excellent!" Mark clapped his hands once. "See? Cooperative. Now, who's first today? Chris? You barely got to enjoy the garage yesterday before he tapped out."
Chris finished his cereal, setting the bowl down precisely. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze finally settling fully on me. There was no anger there, no malice. Just a chilling, focused intensity. Like he was assessing a tool. "My room. After breakfast." His statement brooked no argument. He pushed back his chair and stood, his athletic frame seeming to fill the small kitchen doorway before he disappeared down the hall.
David looked stricken. "Taylor… I…" He trailed off, helplessly.
Mark just grinned. "He chose Chris first. Good luck picking the hole. My money's on ass again. Chris seemed to like stretching him out." He winked at me, then stood too, stretching again. "I’ll be ready for my turn later. Think I’ll take mine on the couch again. Gentle." He chuckled darkly at his own joke as he ambled towards the living room.
Silence descended, thick and suffocating. Only the hum of the fridge filled the kitchen. David hadn’t moved. He stared at the table, his fingers nervously tracing a scratch in the laminate.
"I didn’t want this," he whispered, finally looking at me. His eyes were wide, earnest. Painfully earnest. "The bet… it was stupid. The pill… Mark pushed it. He always pushes. I just… I didn’t think it would be like this." He gestured vaguely, encompassing my body, the kitchen, the horror of the situation. "Seeing you like… her…" He swallowed. "And Chris… and Mark… forcing you…"
"You’re forcing me too, David," I said flatly, the words bitter. "You’re still here. You’re still demanding your payment. Your guilt doesn’t make you clean."
He flinched as if struck. "I know," he breathed. "I know it doesn’t. But… I can’t…" He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. "The thought of you… like that… with them… it makes me sick. But also…" He stopped, his cheeks flushing. He couldn’t say it, but the flicker in his eyes, the slight shift in his posture, the way his gaze dropped briefly to my chest before snapping guiltily away – it screamed it. He wanted me too. The intellectual, sensitive David, drowning in guilt, was still a man who saw Ella Knox’s body and wanted it.
"Also what, David?" I pushed, a cruel edge entering my voice. Might as well make him say it. Make him choke on his hypocrisy. "Also it gets you hard? Also you lie awake thinking about which hole you want to use?"
He looked physically ill. "Stop. Please."
"Stop?" A harsh, humorless laugh escaped me. "You all get to use me like a fucking fleshlight, but I have to stop talking about it? Is that the rule? Silence makes it nicer for you? Helps you pretend you’re not a piece of shit like Mark?"
"Taylor!" His voice cracked. "It’s not… I’m not…" He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly. He couldn’t meet my eyes. "Just… Chris is waiting. You should… go." He fled the kitchen, leaving his half-finished coffee behind.
Alone again. The taste of Mark, the phantom ache from Chris, David’s pathetic guilt, and the cold dread of Chris’s waiting presence coiled inside me like serpents. Choice. I had to choose a hole. For Chris. For the quiet, terrifyingly focused man who saw my body as a tool for his release. Ass had hurt like hell. Mouth meant prolonged degradation. Pussy… the ultimate violation of this unwanted form.
My legs felt leaden as I walked down the hall towards Chris’s room. His door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.
He was sitting on the edge of his neatly made bed, shirtless. Ropes of muscle shifted under smooth, dark skin as he looked up. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t speak. He just watched me enter, his expression unreadable, waiting. The air felt charged, heavy with unspoken expectation. My throat tightened. The choice was mine. Which path of humiliation would it be this time? The decision felt less like agency and more like picking the weapon for my own execution.