“Strawberry or vanilla?” Mister asks from the doorway, holding a small carton of ice cream in each hand. “Never vanilla,” coos Anya.
The three of us squeeze together on a small plaid sofa, a DVD I’ve missed the title of plays on the television. I try to look interested, but I can’t follow the plot. The tension of the moment is giving me a headache, I wish one of them would make a move. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t invited over just to be fed. Finally, as if he read my mind, Mister leans over me, plants a hand firmly against my crotch, and kisses Anya. When Anya leans over to kiss him back, Mister places her hand on my thigh. They kiss inches from my face, neither acknowledging my presence save for their hands.
Anya radiates longing, but she isn’t sure what to do with me in the middle. Mister grabs a handful of her hair, she moans, I try not to whimper. I know his firm grip, how Mister pulls my hair just so, how that hard tug means I’m nothing but a possession to him. I moan again from the memory. He finally looks at me, but it’s a dismissive flicker before he turns his attention back to Anya.
“Bedroom,” Mister suddenly decides. “Both of you.” We silently untangle ourselves from the couch and go into the bedroom. Neither of us wants to be the first one to sit on the bed, the hierarchy is unclear. Continue reading