Testing The Waters

I locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed with the middle dildo in my hand.

It was still too big. The black silicone gleamed in the morning light, thicker than Ben, longer than anything I had ever taken willingly. My jeans were open, the zipper teeth cool against my lower belly. I shoved them down to mid-thigh along with my underwear and spread my knees.

The house felt closer the moment the air touched my bare skin.

I spit into my palm, stroked the shaft once, twice, coating it as best I could, then pressed the blunt head against myself. The stretch was immediate and unforgiving. I had to work it - small, rocking pushes, jaw clenched, breath hissing through my teeth - before the head finally popped inside. The sudden fullness dragged a broken sound out of my throat. My free hand fisted in the duvet.

I did not go slow after that.

Anger made me reckless. I pushed deeper, inch by thick inch, until the toy was seated so far I could feel it in my stomach. The burn was perfect. It matched the bruise on my breast and the residual memory of latex and Constance’s fingers and Ben’s stunned face when I had swallowed him and then told him he made me sick. I braced one hand behind me on the mattress and began to move, lifting and dropping in short, punishing strokes that forced the air from my lungs every time the wide base met my body.

The wet sounds were filthy in the quiet bedroom. The vacuum still hummed downstairs. Ben’s voice murmured something polite to Moira. Ordinary life continued while I fucked myself on a black cock the house had decided was mine.

I closed my eyes and the Rubber Man was there again - silent, gleaming, gloved hands pinning my wrists. I chased the image, hips working harder, the silicone dragging against every sensitive place until pleasure and fury tangled so tightly I could no longer separate them. My thighs started to shake. The mark Constance had left pulsed in time with every thrust.

When I came it was with a choked, almost angry cry I barely managed to muffle against my own shoulder. My body clamped down hard around the thick shaft, pulsing, trying to pull it deeper. I kept rocking through it, oversensitive and stubborn, until a second, smaller wave ripped through me and left my arms trembling.

I stayed like that for a long moment - jeans tangled around my thighs, the black dildo still buried inside me, chest heaving - while the house settled into a satisfied silence.

Only then did I ease it out. The sudden emptiness made me wince. Silicone gleamed wet in the sunlight. I set it back on the nightstand beside the others, wiped my hand on the duvet, and pulled my clothes up with fingers that still shook.

My reflection in the mirror above the dresser looked flushed, lips parted, eyes too dark. The sweater had shifted enough to show the edge of Constance’s bite.

I straightened the fabric, unlocked the door, and stood listening.

The vacuum had stopped. Soft footsteps moved through the hallway below - Moira, finishing her circuit. Ben’s voice asked if she needed anything else. She answered with that same smooth, proprietary calm.

I looked at the three black shapes on the nightstand and left them exactly where they were.

Then I walked downstairs as if nothing had happened, the residual stretch still throbbing between my legs, and the house walking with me like a second pulse.