Chapter 3

Jennifer Meininger examined the words she had just written. They did not sound like her own. They sounded like strangers. The ink remained damp, bleeding slightly into the cheap paper, tracing out the horrors in jagged, shaky lines. The page was stained She stared at the line describing the third man. Her finger traced over the word “buckets.” It felt like a lie, or perhaps a tragedy. She looked at her trembling hands, the skin red and chapped, the knuckles white from the cramp of holding the pen. They felt heavy, foreign. She could not look away. She needed to see the damage, to understand exactly how much of her had been left on that cold, rough floor. The words were clear, brutal, and undeniable. She continued to write.

When the third man finally withdrew, coated in the mixture of his own sperm and my fluids, I had expected it to end. I had anticipated the relief of silence. Instead, another cock pierced the glory hole. There was no warm-up for the fourth, fifth, or sixth. It was a constant, unrelenting barrage of flesh and fury. The cycle of hell reset with every new man. They did not care about my tears, my swelling throat, or the vomit pooling on the floor. They just wanted to use the throat that had been broken. The hours bled together. It became a mechanical, horrific blur. Thrust. Gag. Squirt. Retch. Thrust. I lost track of time after the first four. My eyes were swollen shut, sealed with crusts of dried sperm and tears.

My jaw ached with a deep, unrelenting cramp. My stomach was a tight, painful balloon, constantly being stretched and emptied, then stretched again. Twenty-two men. The physical toll was catastrophic. My wrists were rubbed raw against the cuffs, my knees bruised until they throbbed. Every thrust felt like a sledgehammer hitting the back of my skull. I was drowning in the scent of sweat, semen, and my own vomit. I was a ragdoll, a piece of meat, bouncing back and forth inside the glory hole booth as men took turns destroying my throat and ravaging my mouth. When the twenty-fifth man finally finished, I did not feel relief. I felt hollowed out. I was a broken mess of an Yves Saint Laurent suit, a web of sperm connecting me to the floor, my eyes swollen shut, my throat raw and screaming. The five hours had been a lifetime. I was still gagging, still sputtering, still trying to clear the air from my lungs as the silence of the booth finally returned, heavy and suffocating as ever.

The only light in the room emanates from the desk lamp. It casts a harsh, yellow cone of illumination over the open book, leaving the rest of the desk in a gloomy, shadowy half-light. Jennifer sits hunched over the desk, her elbows digging into the wood, her chin resting heavily in her palms. She stares down at the page. The ink is smudged where her thumb has rubbed it repeatedly, turning the neat handwriting into a jagged, illegible scrawl. Her eyes concentrated on the diary. Her beautiful face focused on what she wrote. The lamp buzzes faintly, a constant, annoying hum that fills the silence of the room, much like the phantom sounds of the booth. Jennifer’s breath catches in her throat, a ragged, shallow noise as she reads the words she wrote. She traces the line with her finger, the nail scraping against the paper.

“Violently face-fucked.”

The words are simple, clinical, yet they send a fresh wave of memories through her body. She stared at the paragraph describing the vomit, the semen, the sheer volume of filth coating her body. The physical sensation of the smell hits her again. Sour, metallic, and overwhelmingly hot. Jennifer Meininger closed her eyes for a second, squeezing them tight in an attempt to block out the memory, but it was already there. The feeling of the cold floor, the taste of sperm, her saliva, and her snot.

The weight of the cocks pressing down on her jaw. She opened her eyes again, blinking rapidly, and looked at the page once more. It was the only evidence left, a permanent scar on paper that no one else would ever know about. She turned the page, her hand shaking so hard the paper rippled. The next entry was blank, waiting to be filled. But she did not write. She just sat there, under the buzzing lamp, staring at her diary. The air in the room felt thick and humid, heavy with the scent of old paper and the lingering, perfume. Jennifer read the words she had written

“drowning in semen,”

“vomiting on the cock,”

“broken mess.”