Chapter 8 Lila
Lila
Trigger Warning:Non Consent
Istare at the grain of the wooden floor, tracing the lines and little gouges with my eyes.
The house is too quiet. I can hear Eli in his office, the chair creaking under his weight, the faint thump of his desk against the wall when he slams his fist or pounds his keyboard.
The walls between our rooms aren’t thick enough. I can always hear when he’s angry.
My hands tremble when I try to fold the laundry, so I give up and just stuff the shirts into the basket.
I want to go back to the library, my safe room, but I have to pass his office to get there.
The thought makes my stomach clench. I hover at the end of the hallway, basket pressed to my ribs, and listen.
He’s yelling, but not at me. Not yet. I recognize the words, the kind of language he uses when he’s online—“fuckin’ lag,” “bullshit RNG,” “goddamn stream snipers.” It’s comforting, in a way, to know he’s distracted.
The moment I think that, the words stop, and the silence falls so hard it hurts my ears.
“Lila!” His voice slices through the house. “Get in here.”
Oh, god. He must have lost his match.
I don’t move. Maybe if I wait, he’ll just forget and do something else. But then I hear the slam of his hand on the desk, the scrape of his chair. “Now!” he shouts.
I count to five, like I always do, and then shuffle forward. The hallway carpet muffles my steps, but I know he can hear me. He’s always listening.
His door is half open, the blackout curtain drawn over the window so the room feels like a cave.
It stinks in here. Sweat, old cheese, that sharp sourness that comes from leaving a wet towel to rot in the laundry.
The monitors cast a blue glow over everything, turning Eli’s face into something waxy and corpse-like.
He doesn’t look at me at first, just keeps clicking his mouse.
Porn, it looks like. He’s got the headphones on, so I can’t hear what he’s watching, but I see the flicker of pale bodies on the screen.
I don’t like it, so my eyes don’t linger.
He glances at me, then yanks the headphones off his head and lets them hang around his neck. “Get over here,” he says, voice flat, like he’s bored already.
I hug the basket tighter. “I was just doing laundry.”
“Drop it. Get on your knees.”
My mouth is full of dry cotton. “Eli—”
“Did I stutter?” His eyes are so pale they look white in the light from the monitor. “I said get on your fucking knees.”
I set the basket on the floor and kneel, like I’m at church. My legs are stiff and my knees hurt, but I kneel anyway. I stare at the threadbare carpet.
He spins his chair so he’s facing me. He’s already hard, the bulge straining through the mesh shorts he never bothers to change out of. “You know what to do,” he says.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. “I don’t want to.”
He leans back, folds his arms, and smirks. “You don’t want to?” He repeats it, mocking. “That’s not my fucking problem, is it?”
I shake my head no, but my body moves on its own. It’s easier to let it happen, to stop fighting. My hands find his thighs, the thin hair slick with sweat. I close my eyes.
He grabs the back of my head and forces me closer, the smell of him so strong I almost gag. He pulls his cock out and slaps it against my cheek, then my lips, smearing pre-cum on my mouth. “C’mon. Don’t be fucking useless. Do your marital duties, you fucking fat whore.”
I keep my mouth shut.
He wraps his fingers tighter in my hair. It hurts, but I don’t make a sound. He jerks my head back and forth, rubbing himself against my lips and nose. I try to pull away, but he yanks hard, and a few strands of hair tear free.
He pushes the head of his cock against my mouth. “Open the fuck up. You want me to get mad?”
I shake my head again. My jaw aches already from clenching it shut, but I won’t open it. I can’t.
He lets out a sigh, like I’m an inconvenience. Then he slams the side of my head into the edge of the desk. The world goes white and then red. I taste blood, iron and salt.
I gasp, and he takes the opportunity to shove his dirty dick inside my mouth.
It’s too big, too dry, and he hits the back of my throat in an instant.
I choke, sputter, and tears stream down my cheeks.
He uses both hands now, one tangled in my hair, the other gripping my jaw so hard I feel the bones grind.
He pumps my head back and forth, fucking my mouth like I’m just an object, not a person.
He’s breathing heavy now, short little grunts. His eyes are fixed on the monitor, watching the porn even as he uses me. I try to push against his thighs to get away. My knees are numb, everything is numb except the pain in my scalp and the ache in my neck.
He keeps going for what feels like forever. I try not to think, try not to be present. I picture myself floating above, like a balloon, looking down at the mess on the floor. I hear myself making little whimpering sounds, like a puppy, but I don’t remember doing it.
He groans, slams my face all the way down to the base, and holds me there.
My nose is mashed against his skin, the hair on his dirty balls tickling my chin.
I can’t breathe. Hot, thick come floods my throat.
I gag, but he won’t let me pull away. He holds me there until I swallow, until it’s all gone, and only then does he let go.
Collapsing backward, gasping. Snot and spit drip down my chin. My face is burning and my mouth tastes like old pennies and something rotten.
He wipes his cock on my hair and tucks himself back in his shorts. “See? It wasn’t that fucking hard,” he says, already turning back to the screen.
I scramble to my feet, legs shaking, and stumble out of the office. The hallway tilts and I almost fall. I make it to the ensuite bathroom in our bedroom and slam the door.
Dropping to my knees, I get sick in the toilet. My throat is raw, my eyes sting. I heave painfully until there’s nothing left.
When I’m done, I sit on the cold tile and hug my knees to my chest. The house is quiet again, except for the distant sounds of Eli’s game, and the quiet, rhythmic thumps of his foot bouncing against the floor.
I just sit and count the minutes and try to remember how to breathe.