Chapter 15: Star Wars-Episode Nope

6:42 a.m. – The Screaming

You wake up to a sensation that can only be described as wrong.

Not just wrong like “my pillow smells funny.” Not just wrong like “this isn’t my bed.” But deeply, viscerally, soul‑rearranging-ly wrong, like someone swapped out your body in the night for one with too many regrets baked into the skin.

The source of this wrongness is obvious:

There’s a woman in your bed.

She’s dressed as Princess Leia in a gold bikini.

Your arm is wrapped around her from behind in a position that could only be called “court‑admissible.”

And your index and middle fingers are inside her mouth.

Not gently in her mouth, either. They’re wedged there, past the lips, pressed against the tongue, sliding over teeth in a way that makes you acutely aware of exactly how sharp human molars are.

Her mouth is hot. Wet. And somehow humid. Every panicked breath she takes washes over your knuckles in little bursts of heat that smell like whatever gum she was chewing last night and the metallic tang of fear.

“Oh no,” you whimper, because that’s what comes out of you when your entire nervous system has been hijacked by a stranger’s dental work.

She screams — a deep, muffled, vibrating wail — and the sound reverberates up through your arm until your teeth rattle.

“Oh NO.”

6:45 a.m. – The Shuffle

She writhes. She claws. She’s a human earthquake.

You shuffle after her in the world’s least consensual waltz, your fingers still lodged in her mouth, your forearm pressing against bare, sweat‑slicked midriff and the faintly sticky edge of plastic‑metal bikini trim.

The costume squeaks when she moves. You hate that you notice this.

“PLEASE STOP,” you yelp, which sounds ridiculous when you’re the one clinging to her with your fingers jammed in her mouth.

She responds with another bone‑shaking scream, vibrating your knuckles in ways you’re certain fingers aren’t designed to feel.

You think, fleetingly, I am going to die like this.

7:30 a.m. – The Bus Ride

It’s one thing to know humiliation. It’s another to sit with it — literally — on public transport.

Your fingers are still in her mouth.

Her lips are clenched tight around them like she’s trying to break them off at the joint. Every shuddering breath she takes fogs your knuckles. Her tongue keeps twitching against your skin, unintentional, awful, an animalistic reminder that you are, for all practical purposes, part of her mouth now.

You are spoon‑hugging her from behind, the synthetic gold of her bikini tacky against your forearm, her sweat smearing across your skin.

The bus passengers stare.

“Oh my God,” says an old woman.

“Is this… like… a fetish thing?” asks a college kid, zooming in with his phone.

Her muffled shriek does not sound like consent.

“Call the cops!” someone says.

“She needs a restraining order,” says a man in a suit.

No one helps.

They all record.

If hell has a lowest level, you are now its king.

8:57 a.m. – The Office

Walking into work like this feels like showing up to a funeral naked and late.

Janet from HR stares. Kyle from accounting stares. Everyone stares.

“She’s glued to me!” you blurt.

The cosplayer’s muffled scream translates universally to: “LIE!”

“Blink twice if you need help,” Kyle tells her.

She blinks seventeen times.

Kyle mutters “Legend” and disappears back into his cubicle, proving once again that Kyle is the worst.

3:00 p.m. – Internet Ruins You

#FingerFiend trends by lunch.

Someone loops her screaming over a house beat.

Someone else posts fan art titled “The Abduction of Leia, 2025.”

You scroll through the comments. You shouldn’t have.

5:15 p.m. – The Walk of Shame

You thought leaving work would help.

It does not.

“That’s him!” a teen yells. “That’s the guy with the fingers!”

Someone screams, “FREE LEIA!”

You consider leaping under a bus.

6:00 p.m. – Dinner, If You Can Call It That

There are few things in life more humbling than trying to microwave dinner one‑handed while your other arm is occupied with maintaining an unwilling human leash and your fingers are still lodged in that person’s mouth.

Every movement is its own private nightmare. The microwave buttons are slick because you’re sweating, the burrito wrapper slips out of your good hand, and through it all, she’s breathing around your knuckles, each hot exhale a wet, revolting reminder that your hand is occupying prime dental real estate.

She tastes of residual toothpaste and vending‑machine energy drink. Your fingers feel pruney, waterlogged, like they’ve been marinating in a stranger’s panic all day. Occasionally her tongue twitches against your skin, which is the sort of full‑body sensory violation that will have you writing apologies to every deity you’ve ever ignored.

You try to tell yourself it’s fine. It’s all fine. It’s just burritos and teeth and despair.

And then you notice the costume.

You’ve been doing an admirable job of not noticing it all day. But here, in the dingy microwave light, your forearm presses against the cold, tacky metallic edge of the gold bikini. Her skin is warm underneath it, slick with the faint sheen of sweat that comes from spending a day in panic and polyester. Every shuffle you make pulls the costume, makes it squeak against her body, and—

Oh no.

No.

Not again.

6:04 p.m. – The Second Betrayal

You feel it.

The stirring.

Your body, in its infinite stupidity, has decided that this exact moment — fingers in a stranger’s mouth, burritos in the microwave, doom trending on TikTok — is the time for an erection.

You try to think of taxes. Dead puppies. Literally anything else.

It doesn’t work.

Of course it doesn’t work. Because you are pressed against her from behind. And she feels it.

She goes perfectly still, which is somehow worse than thrashing.

Then, slowly, she turns her head just enough to make direct, unblinking eye contact with you.

There are no words. There is only the howling, annihilating silence of a woman considering if she can kill you with her bare hands.

6:05 p.m. – The Attempted ****

Then she tries.

She bucks backward, stomps on your foot with all the **** of a woman who has absolutely nothing to lose, and bites your fingers hard enough that you briefly see God.

“JESUS CHRIST!” you scream, but it comes out as a garbled yelp because she’s still got your fingers in her mouth and you’re trying not to cry.

She twists, she kicks, she uses elbows in ways you’re fairly certain violate the Geneva Conventions. The microwave dings, cheerily oblivious to your imminent ****.

“GET IT OFF ME!” she shrieks around your knuckles, somehow more articulate than any human should be with a fist in their mouth.

“I CAN’T!” you wheeze.

“YOU’RE DEAD!” she screams.

You believe her.

6:06 p.m. – Round Two

She discovers something new: you will yelp if she bites hard enough.

And now she knows.

“OhgodohgodOHGOD—STOP!” you yelp as she clamps down again, teeth digging so hard into your knuckles you wonder if you’re about to lose the fingerprints that make you legally you.

She doesn’t let up. In fact, she gnaws. Like she’s trying to tenderize you.

“IS THIS DOING ANYTHING FOR YOU, PERV?!” she screeches, because now she’s realized humiliation is also a weapon.

You try to sputter out a defense but it comes out as incoherent sobbing noises.

6:15 p.m. – The Escalation

Then she notices something else.

Every time you tense up, every time you flinch, the thing you don’t want to happen — the betrayal below the belt — starts again.

And she calls it out.

“Oh my GOD,” she says loudly, twisting just enough to make eye contact. “Are you HARD again right now?!”

You are trending on TikTok for “Finger Fiend” but now you will trend for this too: #HardcoreCreep.

“NO!” you squeak.

“You ARE!” she shouts. “YOU SICK FREAK.”

The neighbors hear. Someone bangs on the wall.

This is no longer a bad day. This is an archaeological dig into the deepest layer of hell.

6:17 p.m. – The Fatal Combo

She now alternates between:

-Gnawing your fingers like she’s trying to chew through steel cable.

-Mocking you at a volume that could summon law enforcement.

“Oh no, is THIS turning you on too?!” she yells as you try to sidestep into the kitchen without collapsing.

“It’s a BODY REACTION,” you squeal, which sounds exactly like the thing a guilty man would say.

She thrashes, making the gold bikini squeak against your arm. That’s it. You’re ready to astral project out of your body and live on a farm in Nebraska as a new man.

8:30 p.m. – Domestic Carnage

She starts experimenting.

“What happens if I BITE HERE?” she says, and chomps down on your knuckle.

You scream. She smirks (or you feel her smirk — which is somehow worse).

“Oh, that works.”

She tests again. Harder.

You start praying.

10:15 p.m. – The New Game

There are many unspoken rules of surviving a hostage situation.

Rule #1: Don’t provoke your captor.

Rule #2: Don’t let them know what hurts.

Rule #3: Definitely don’t give them ideas.

You’ve broken all of them by existing.

“Hey,” she says, words garbled but still terrifyingly clear around your fingers. “What happens if I do this?”

CHOMP.

Your vision whites out. You make a noise that’s somewhere between a scream and a dying kettle.

“Ohhhh,” she says with fake enlightenment, “so THAT’S a soft spot.”

She tests it again.

“PLEASE STOP,” you yelp.

She ignores you. CHOMP.

11:30 p.m. – The Weaponization of Humiliation

She starts talking. Loudly. Constantly.

“Do you like that, huh? Do you like being glued to a stranger? Bet this is the most action you’ve gotten in years.”

“PLEASE STOP TALKING,” you plead.

“Oh, I bet you’re loving this. Bet you’ll miss it when it’s gone.”

She wiggles in place, and the costume squeaks like a balloon in the hands of a sociopath.

Your traitorous body reacts.

She feels it. Of course she feels it.

“Ohhh my God,” she says, loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. “You’re getting HARDER.”

You consider leaping out the window.

12:30 a.m. – Sleep Is Cancelled

You are lying in bed, but sleep isn’t even on the menu.

She’s turned this into a game — or maybe an experiment. Every time your body starts to drift toward the edge of unconsciousness, she bites down on your fingers or jerks her body in a way that makes the bikini squeak like a balloon animal in distress.

You jolt awake each time, heart pounding, the sensation of her teeth pressing into your skin now permanently branded into your nervous system.

“Are you drifting off?” she says sweetly (or as sweetly as one can while housing two of your fingers like she’s flavor‑testing them). “Don’t. We’re not done.”

You don’t know what “done” means. You don’t want to know.

1:00 a.m. – The Mind Starts to Fracture

Your hand has gone fully numb. At first, it was just pins and needles, but now it’s crossed into that uncanny zone where you can feel the pressure of her tongue on your fingers but also nothing at all.

You can’t stop noticing things:

The constant hot‑and‑wet suction of her mouth, pulling at your skin whenever she shifts her jaw.

The tiny ridges on the roof of her mouth, rough like sandpaper, dragging against your knuckles when she adjusts her bite.

The hitch in her breathing when she exhales through her nose — fast, shallow, angry.

And beneath it all, the squeak of her costume every time she moves, a maddening counterpoint to your humiliation.

2:00 a.m. – Her New Hobby

She’s found a new way to torment you: running her tongue slowly over your fingers just to watch you flinch.

“Relax,” she says, mocking. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

“Please don’t do that,” you whisper, praying your body won’t react.

It reacts.

“Oh my God,” she says, delighted. “You liked that? You’re disgusting.”

“I DID NOT—”

She bites you, hard enough to make your vision flash white. “Liar.”

4:00 a.m. – The Hallucination Hour

You’re so sleep‑deprived that everything feels unreal.

Her mouth is no longer just a mouth. It’s a vortex, a warm, damp, biting prison for your hand. Her teeth are obsidian gates. Her tongue, a malicious eel that writhes whenever you try to stay still.

Your arm is aching from holding her all day. Your back is locked in a permanent hunch. Every inch of you is raw with shame and sweat.

And still she talks.

“Can’t wait to tell everyone about this,” she says. “Hope you like being famous, Finger Boy.”

6:45 a.m. – The Countdown

You’ve been tracking time on the microwave clock like it’s the Doomsday Clock.

Every minute feels like an hour. Every hour feels like a decade. You’re convinced you’ve been living in this position — pressed against her back, fingers lodged in her mouth — for most of human history. Cave paintings probably depict this.

“Hey,” she says suddenly, jolting you out of your fugue. “You awake?”

“Yes,” you croak.

“Good,” she says. Then she bites down. Hard.

You make a sound that could charitably be described as “a sob.”

6:59 a.m. – The Last Threat

“You know,” she says casually, “I could still bite these clean off before this ends.”

And you believe her. You believe she has been holding back the whole night, that this has all been the prelude to one final act of ****.

You open your mouth to beg—

7:00 a.m. – Release

—and then it happens.

Like a switch being flipped, like a rope finally cut, your hand is free.

Your fingers slide out of her mouth, wet and shaking, and you stumble backward, staring at them like they’re someone else’s. They are red, pruney, and covered in spit. You’re not sure you’ll ever use them again.

She turns immediately, spits on the floor, and glares at you with the righteous fury of a woman who has survived war crimes.

“Never,” she says, “talk to me again.”

She pops out of existence.

You collapse onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

7:05 a.m. – Aftermath

You sit there for a long time, staring at your fingers like they’re a crime scene.

They’re wrinkled, swollen, and still faintly buzzing with the ghostly memory of her teeth. Your arm aches. Your back is locked in a permanent hunch. You smell like sweat, fear, and vaguely of the metallic tang of her stupid gold bikini.

You should feel relief. You don’t. You feel like a man who just survived being mauled by a bear only to discover the bear posted it on TikTok.

Your phone buzzes on the counter.

You drag yourself over, pick it up with your good hand.

#FingerFiend is trending.

You’re viral. There’s a looping video of you on the bus — fingers in her mouth, pressed against her, looking like you’re auditioning for the world’s most public trial.

The top comment reads: “No kink shame but what the hell, dude.”

You put the phone down.

Lie back on the couch.

And decide you may never stand up again

"Okay you win. Just kill me."

You can practically hear the genie cackling gleefully somewhere.