On the way home I glanced over at Amanda’s chest. Seeing her play her little games in the facility started to anger me. Amanda froze. “So it’s not the drug itself that causes the withdrawal, it’s actually your depleted serotonin stores that make you feel terrible. I kneeled down behind her and pushed my hips into her backside, thrusting her further into the toilet bowl. Harsh as it may sound, it would probably have been better if the poor man just ended his misery with a fistful of painkillers. Huge, soft, and silky with big, hard nipples. Feeling a little sick, Amanda?”
She nodded again. I used the spare room to store old things I never used: musty blankets, my late aunt’s cheap piano, and a collection of hideous second hand ornaments my family had given me over the years. I was just another pawn in her game, another object of manipulation. She plopped herself down into a plastic chair at the back of the room. His shirt was always covered in Cheetos crumbs, and he had a thin film of slime around his mouth that never seemed to go away.
