He texted me that he had a treat. Silly of me to think that it was anything that would give me pleasure.
I’m too old to be on the floor—joints still popping when I return to my house hours later. And was it so hard just to do it in the bed? I’d disappear under the covers, lay my face in his lap. But then, he likes to tower over me, watch me be submissive.
I slam my keys on the kitchen counter, open the refrigerator, and stand there half expecting something to have changed since I last looked this morning. I stretch my neck. My jaw is still tight, my lips raw. When I burp, I taste him.
I shut the door and take two fiery red cinnamon-flavored gum sticks out of my purse and suck on them between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.
Suck. Poor choice of words. Too soon.
It’s hard to swallow—my throat still sore. He grabbed the back of my head and forced me down the length of him. The least he could’ve done was warn me before—
I dive for the sink, dry heave over the drain for a solid five minutes until my sides hurt. If only I can regurgitate the rest of him out of me before the seed takes root, leaves me planted here to rot forever.
© Nortina Simmons
Originally published September 29, 2017