Page 25 of The Toy Collector

Her breath is slow and steady, an unbroken rhythm that occasionally falters with a twitch of her fingers. I remain perfectly still, transfixed by the scene. There’s a purity to her slumber, almost indecent in its vulnerability. Here, she’s soft, silent, untouched by the relentless fears and stress that cling to her like shadows in the harsh light of day.

With one final, lingering glance that feels like a stab to my chest, I spin around and stride into her bathroom. The air is saturated with her essence—an intoxicating blend of citrus and vanilla that clings to my senses.

My hand reaches out with urgency for the familiar bottle she religiously uses every morning, nestled precisely on the shower shelf, a silent witness to countless intimate moments. As I unscrew the lid, my cock throbs with an intensity that feels like it’s carved from stone.

Damn it, I’ve been hard ever since she ignited my gifts in a blaze of defiance.

I place the bottle on the edge of her bathtub, and lower the zipper on my suit pants, each movement deliberate and measured. With a sense of anticipation, I draw out my cock, feeling the cool air against my skin.

Then I begin to stroke myself; the pad of my thumb presses into the base, as I try to hold back weeks of restraint. But there’s no stopping this.

The vivid image of her lathering herself in this—gently caressing it over her neck, down the slope of her tits, and into the apex of her thighs—sends a shiver through me, causing my jaw to clench with the intensity of the thought.

“Fuck,” I whisper-groan.

Every part of her is mine, even the parts she doesn’t know she’s offering. She gave me everything the second she met my eyes and didn’t look away. The rest are just details.

My hand tightens, rhythm deepening, jaw locked tight. The friction, the heat, the raw need building in my groin—it’s all consuming. My eyes squeeze shut, and she’s there; my toy, my obsession.

She’s on her knees before me, lips parted in a begging plea, eager for my release. I can almost feel the hot, sticky ropes of my essence painting her chest, see the thick, white trails dripping down the valley between her breasts.

No, not just there. I want to claim her completely—fill her waiting mouth, or better yet, bury myself deep within her wet cunt, and unleash my load into her welcoming heat.

Opening my eyes, I pick up the bottle just in time to position it beneath my tip before I come while grunting her name. I spill every drop of my cum into the bottle, knowing she’ll rub it across her skin every morning.

I screw the lid back on, shaking the bottle once, and return it to the shelf like nothing ever happened. If she won’t let me show her how beautiful her face looks on puzzle pieces, she’ll wear me instead.

Chapter 10

Piper

Isit at my desk, fingers curled around a mug of coffee I’m not drinking. The glow from my laptop casts pale shadows across my face, highlighting the bags under my eyes and the defeat slumping my shoulders. The screen is filled with applications I’ve already submitted, and some I’ve yet to.

With a huff, I get up and stride into the kitchen, making myself another cup of coffee. This one needs to be strong enough to raise the dead so I don’t fall asleep. I only have ten days left, and I can’t waste a single moment.

As my gaze lands on the sink, I shiver as I recall two weeks ago when Lena stood with me, staring into the flames as we burned the puzzle pieces one by one, feeding each scrap to the hungry blaze until only molten flakes remained.

God, that feels like a lifetime ago. Now, with my education slipping through my fingers, I almost miss the fucking puzzle pieces. At least what Lena and I dubbed #PuzzleGate kept me distracted.

When my coffee’s ready, I switch the machine back off and add enough milk that I can drink it right away. Instead of staying in the kitchen, I walk back into the living room, sitting down at my desk.

Yesterday, Mrs. Ellis called me into her office to remind me of the October first deadline as if I could ever forget that I only have ten days left. Instead of telling her about my most recent interview failures, I pretended to have two promising prospects waiting for me.

It feels like lying is all I do. To myself, to Lena, and to Mrs. Ellis. Truth be told, the interviews had already happened, and they rejected me almost quicker than I could leave their offices.

I wince as I take a sip of my coffee, but force myself to drink half the cup while I scroll through postings that blur together. Positions I wouldn’t have looked at twice just a month ago.

PRassistants. Campaign interns for candidates I wouldn’t vote for if my life depended on it. A social media internship that pays in coffee and exposure. I apply to all of them. Cut and paste my resume. Swap out keywords. Lie through my teeth about why I’m passionate about their work.

I don’t feel passion. I feel like I’m applying to vanish somewhere quiet and unremarkable, just to say I did something. Like I’m writing my own obituary, one bland application at a time.

Mindlessly applying for unpaid internships isn’t me. I’m not interested in roles with no upward mobility, while watching other people making the important decisions in rooms out of my reach. But I still do it.

Ten days bleed by, each one sharper than the last.

If my life was a cartoon, the calendar pages would float across the screen to signal the days passing. But in reality, I avoid any reminder of what date it is. And I definitely don’t want any reminder of the interview I had earlier today.

It was at a mid-size think tank, a policy group working on issues I struggled to feign enthusiasm for. When we were done, he shook my hand and said they’d be in touch. But I knew the answer the second he stood. The handshake was too polite, and the smile too empty.

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