Bianca in front of the bowl

I don't turn around. I don't close my eyes. I lean forward, and the tip of my tongue touches the liquid, and the flavor fills my mouth before I'm even ready.

The taste fills my mouth and is nothing like what I imagined. It's warm. It's salty, but not like sweat or the sea—it's a dirty, animalistic saltiness that sticks to the tongue and won't go away. Underneath is the other flavor, the sweet, rancid one I'd smelled with my nose, and now I taste it in my throat, and it makes my stomach tighten like a fist.

I don't spit. I can't spit. Mr. Jones looks at me from his chair, his glass hovering halfway to his mouth, and he waits. I feel that gaze on me, even if I can't see it, because my eyes are on the bowl, my face is inside the metal, and my tongue is dipping into that yellow liquid.

I hold my sip. A moment. Two. The liquid expands in my mouth, passes under my tongue, touches my teeth, and I feel the white lumps melt against the roof of my mouth and spread out. Then I swallow, and my throat opens and I swallow it all down, and I feel it go down, pass behind my sternum, reach my stomach like something alive.

The taste lingers. It stays on my tongue, in the back of my throat, in my nose when I breathe. It doesn't go away. It won't go away for a long time.

"Good girl," says Mr. Jones. Softly. As if he were talking to a dog who's done the right thing.

I swallow again, empty, trying to get down what's left in my mouth. And as I swallow, I squeeze my ass, hard, like he told me, and I feel the plug pressing and the men's seed moving inside me and not coming out. Not coming out. I'm good. I keep it inside.

The thin man leans forward on the couch. His hands are still in his pockets, but now he's leaning toward me, and the light from the lamp catches his face and makes his eyes shine.

"Look how he swallows it, he likes it," she says. "As if it were wine."

"It's wine," says the stocky man from the back. "Our wine." He laughs, and the rings on his hand clink as he raises the glass to his mouth.

The first man doesn't laugh. He's sitting on the arm of the sofa, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, and he looks at me as if he were looking at something he hasn't yet understood. He doesn't say anything. He hasn't said anything since I knelt down.

I lean in again. The tip of my tongue touches the liquid, and this time I don't stop there. I dig in. My tongue enters the bowl halfway, and the liquid reaches my lip, wets my nose, drips down my chin, and down my neck. The flavor fills me again, stronger now, because I'm not just tasting—I'm drinking, I'm taking it in, and my throat opens and I swallow and swallow.

The bells hang from my chest and touch the rim of the bowl. They tinkle once, when I lean too far, and the sound is small and clear amid the silence of the room.

"Easy," says Mr. Jones. "There's no rush. It's your dinner."

I raise my head a little. Not enough to look him in the face. Enough to catch my breath, and to feel the liquid dripping from my lip and onto my chest, between my bells, and down to my navel. My chin is dripping. My tongue tastes of everything in the bowl, and now I can distinguish the flavors—the bitterness of old piss, the thick, salty taste of semen, and underneath, underneath it all, the sweet, spoiled flavor that holds everything else together.

"She likes it, she really likes it," says the thin man. It's not a question.

"Of course she likes it," says the stocky guy. "Look at her. Look at how she holds her ass in the air."

You're right. My ass is in the air. My back is hunched, my knees are planted in the wood, my heels are vertical behind me, and I didn't notice. I haven't noticed anything since I put my face in the bowl. My body did it on its own. My body knows what to do now. My body has learned.

I bend down again. Third time. My tongue goes straight down, and this time I don't pull it up right away—I leave it there, in the liquid, and I feel the cold metal against my lip and the heat of the piss around my tongue, and the lumps that stick to the roof of my mouth and won't dissolve.

“Drink,” says Mr. Jones. “All of it.”

And I drink. I don't know how many times. I can't count. My tongue goes down and back up, and my throat opens and closes, and every time I swallow I feel the men's seed moving inside me, pressed by the plug, and I clench my ass to hold it, and every time I clench my ass the plug presses inside me and it hurts and feels good at the same time.

The bells tinkle with every sip. They tinkle when I bend over, they tinkle when I stand up, they tinkle when I breathe. They are the sound in the room now. They are the only sound, because the men have stopped talking and simply look at me.

The liquid is draining. I see it when I raise my head to catch my breath—the water level in the bowl is lower, and traces of what I drank remain on the metal around the rim, and the traces are shaped like my mouth.

“Again,” says Mr. Jones.

I lean down. My face sinks until it touches the metal. My nose touches the bottom of the bowl, and the smell hits me straight in the head, and for a moment everything makes me dizzy: the room, the wood, the armchair, the six pairs of eyes. Then it passes. Then I drink again, and this time the liquid is so small that my tongue grates.

mine isn't even engraved on the bottom of the bowl. I feel the cold metal and the name engraved under the tip—Bianca, letter by letter, and my tongue follows it as if I were reading it with my mouth.

"There," says the thin man. "He's found his name."

The stocky guy laughs again, but it's a lower, shorter laugh. "She licks it like it's a dick," he says.

“It is,” says Mr. Jones. “For her, it is.”

He sets the glass on the coffee table. The ice makes a dry sound. He rises slowly from the chair, his footsteps heavy on the wood, and they stop behind me. I feel it. I feel the heat of his body on my curved back, I smell the whiskey and tobacco, and I don't turn around, I don't raise my head, I just stay with my face in the bowl and my tongue on my name.

His foot lands on the back of my neck. Not hard—just enough for me to know I can go deeper.

And I go. My face sinks until my chin, my lip, the tip of my nose touch the liquid, and my mouth opens and takes in everything that's left, and my throat opens and swallows, and the last sip falls into me with a noise that only I hear, a moist, small noise that none of the men can hear but that I hear in my head like thunder.

Mr. Jones's foot holds me down for a moment longer. Then he lets go.

"Now you're ours," he says. "Now you've eaten with us."

I raise my head. My chin is dripping. The liquid runs down my neck and soaks my bells and chest, reaching the locket with my name on it. The locket is now dirty, and the engraved name is covered, and for a moment there's nothing left to tell me who I am.

The bells tinkle as I straighten. Once. Twice. Softly, as if they, too, have finished.

I look at the bowl. It's empty. At the bottom, where the metal curves, there's only a yellow mark and a white clump that hasn't settled, stuck to the engraved name as if it had grown there.

"You're done," says the first man. It's the first time he's spoken since I knelt. His voice is low, calm, and there's nothing in it—neither mockery nor approval. Just the fact.

"Yes," I say. My voice comes out hoarse. My throat burns. "I'm done."

Mr. Jones returns to the armchair. He sits down. He picks up his glass, holds it up to the lamp, and then takes a long drink himself, as if we were toasting the same thing.

The skinny man gets up from the couch. He approaches, his hands still in his pockets, and stops in front of me. He looks at my chin, my neck, my wet chest, my dirty bells. Then he takes a hand out of his pocket and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, and turns my face from side to side, as if he were buying something.

"The lipstick," she says. "You've lost it all."

I think of the label on the lipstick tube “very strong no transfer”

Maybe it wasn't meant for this. It's almost funny.

“I’ll put it back,” I say.

“No,” he says. “Leave it like that.” He lets go of my chin.

He turns to Mr. Jones, and the two of them look at each other, and in that look there is something that I don't understand and that I mustn't understand, because I'm a hole with a mouth and an ass and holes don't understand anything.

The stocky man also stands up. He stretches, his arms above his head, and his rings sparkle. "And now?" he asks. "Dinner's over. Dessert?"

Mr. Jones puts down his glass. He looks at the clock on the wall. Then he looks at me, kneeling on the floor with my chin wet and the bells still on, the men's seed still inside me, held in place by the plug.

“Now,” he says, “the hostess is clearing the table.”

He nods his chin at the cart. A few half-finished sandwiches are still there, along with dirty glasses and empty bottles.

"And after you've cleared the table," he says, "come back here. Because dinner was just the beginning."

I stand up. My knees creak, my heels dig into the wood, and the plug shifts inside me as I straighten, and for a moment I fear I'll lose it, I fear I'll feel the men's seed sliding down my thighs. I squeeze my ass. I hold on. Nothing comes out.

I take the handle of the cart. The wheels creak softly on the wood, and the bells jingle with every step, and as I push the cart toward the kitchen, I feel the six pairs of eyes on my back, and I taste the flavor that never goes away, my name engraved in the empty bowl that remains there, on the floor, in front of Mr. Jones's chair.

The kitchen opens before me like a white mouth. The ceiling lights are all on, and the marble countertop reflects the white, hurting my eyes after the darkness of the living room. The wheels of the cart stop against the baseboard. The bells give their final tinkle and then fall silent.

There is no one.

I place my hands on the marble. It's cold. Really cold, not like the wood in the living room. I lean on it with all my weight and close my eyes for a moment, and I feel the plug pressing against the inside wall of my ass, and I feel the men's seed shifting slightly, and I squeeze again, out of habit, out of fear, because if a drop comes out, I'll have to drink it from all six of them.

It's not coming out. I'm keeping it.

The skinny guy was right. You can see where she went through this.

I pick up the tray. My fingers are shaking a little, and I set it on the counter, and then I really start clearing the table, like he said. I pile the plates on top of each other. I gather the glasses in one hand, three at a time, and carry them to the sink. As I carry them, I feel the liquid still dripping down my chin and onto my chest, between the bells, and down to the locket. The locket is stained with piss and semen, and the engraved name is covered, and I don't clean it. No one told me to clean it.

The faucet is running. The hot water. I dip my hands in and hold them under the stream, and the water burns my fingers and loosens the liquid from my nails, and for a moment the taste in my throat mingles with the steam rising from the sink, and I feel like vomiting. I lean over the sink. My throat tightens. The retching rises and stays there, in the middle of my chest, and won't come out.

It doesn't come out because I can't. It doesn't come out because if I vomit I'll lose everything, and if I lose everything then I'll have to drink from the mouths of all six, and I don't want to, and I want to, and I don't know anymore.

I turn off the faucet. I slowly straighten up. The bells tinkle once, as if they were counting me down.

A voice comes from the living room. I don't understand the words, but it's the stocky man's voice, and he laughs. Then another, lower voice, that of the first man, who says something short. Then silence. Then the sound of ice hitting the glass.

They're waiting. Mr. Jones said dinner was just the beginning, and they're waiting for the beginning.

I look at my hands. They're red from the hot spray. I dry them with a rag I find hanging on the edge of the sink, and as I dry them I see an old, yellow, dried stain on the rag that isn't mine. It's not from tonight. It's been there since before. Since before I arrived. Since before my name was Bianca.

I hang up the rag. I don't look at it anymore.

The cart is empty now. The dishes in the sink, the glasses upside down to dry, the shiny silver tray under the lamp. The kitchen is back to how I found it—white, clean, empty. As if nothing had happened. As if I hadn't drunk anything.

But the taste is still in my throat. And the seed of men is still inside me. And the bells hang from my chest, and when I turn toward the door they tinkle, and the tinkle is the only thing that tells me I'm still here.

I stop in front of the door. The light from the living room filters through the crack, low and yellow. Under the door, I see the shadows of men's feet moving slowly on the wood. Six shadows. They wait.

I run my tongue over my lip. My piercing touches my tooth. The taste is still there, and it won't go away. I know it. It won't go away for a long time.

I place my hand on the handle. The metal is cold under my fingers. I don't turn yet. I take a breath, and the plug presses into me, and the men's seed moves ever so slightly inside me, and I clench my ass and hold, hold, hold.

Then I turn the handle and the door opens, and the bells ring loudly, and the light from the living room hits me in the face.

"There she is," says the stocky man. "The hostess has finished clearing the table."

Mr. Jones is still in the armchair. Glass in hand. He looks at me from the doorway, saying nothing, waiting for me to come in. The thin man is standing in front of the dead fireplace, his hands in his pockets. The first man is sitting on the armrest, his chin in his hand, and he's looking at me as before—like something he still hasn't understood.

I step into the living room. The bells tinkle. The plug shifts. The men's seed remains inside me, held, tight, mine.

"Come here," says Mr. Jones. "Dinner was just the beginning, I told you. Now the rest begins."

And I go. One step after another, heels on the wood, the bells ringing with every step, my face still wet and the name engraved on the locket covered in piss and sperm, the six pairs of eyes on me, and the taste that doesn't go away.