Chapter 23: Home Remedies and Cold Compresses

The pain woke me before the smell of breakfast did.

I swallowed, and it felt like my throat was lined with broken glass. A raw, scraping burn that shot up into my jaw, made my eyes water before I’d even opened them. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe through my nose and ignore the throb radiating from my temples down to my collarbone.

Saturday morning. Pancakes. Bacon. I could smell them through the floorboards.

And I could barely swallow my own spit.

I pushed myself upright and the motion made my jaw ache, a deep, bruised soreness in the hinges, like I’d been chewing leather for hours. My tongue felt thick. The roof of my mouth was tender. I pressed my fingers to my throat and winced.

Three strangers. Three loads. All swallowed.

The memory came back in fragments. The first cock, thick, familiar, the one I’d recognized. The way I’d begged him to be rough. Fuck my mouth hard. As aggressive as you want. The second, cut, veined, that deep pink head. The third, long and thin, angled left, taking me slower but holding me against the wall while I gagged around him.

I’d asked them to facefuck me. I’d begged for it.

And now I could barely move my jaw.

The bathroom mirror confirmed what my body already knew. My eyes were clear but my face looked different, lips swollen, cheeks still flushed, the faintest shadow of something under my skin that hadn’t been there before. I opened my mouth and the stretch made me hiss.

You have to act normal.

I pulled on jeans and a hoodie. Brushed my hair into a ponytail, the motion made my jaw scream. Took a deep breath. Then another.

The stairs were agony. Each step jarred my throat, sent little shockwaves of pain through my neck. I held the railing and forced myself to move at a normal pace. Not too slow. Not too fast. Just ... normal.

My mother was at the stove. Yellow sundress, bare feet, spatula in hand. My father sat at the table, newspaper spread before him, coffee steaming at his elbow. The same scene. The same Saturday. Like nothing had changed.

“Morning, sweetie.” My mother glanced over her shoulder with that warm smile.

“Morning.” The word came out raspy. Rough. I cleared my throat and it hurt so bad I nearly gasped.

“You okay?” My father looked up from his paper.

“Just woke up. Throat’s dry.” I pulled out my chair and sat down before they could ask more questions.

The pancakes hit my plate. Golden brown, butter melting into the stack, syrup pooling in the grooves. I stared at them. My stomach clenched with hunger but the thought of swallowing anything solid made me want to cry.

I cut a small piece, the knife sliding through the pancake like it was cutting butter, but the moment I lifted the fork to my lips, my body tensed. I opened my mouth, and the simple act of stretching my jaw sent a sharp, white-hot bolt of pain lancing up into my temples. I shoved the bite in anyway, determined.

Chewing was worse.

Every single grind of my molars was a fresh punishment. The muscles in my jaw screamed with each compression, a deep, bone-deep ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. I could feel the strain in my hinges, the tendons pulled taut, threatening to snap. I forced myself to chew, to break the food down, but each movement felt like I was grinding glass between my teeth.