Silence is what’s left after the breaking.
Part 7: The Table as Altar
He heard the steps before he felt them. Lighter, faster, but with a sharpness behind them. Then the voice—taunting, unmistakable.
“Well, well. Look what they dragged in.”
It was her. His sister-in-law.
She had always looked at him like he was in the way—too soft, too polite, too small for her sister. Even before his downfall, she'd sneered at his attempts to please, his thoughtful gestures, his inability to command a room. Now, she simply had proof. And she wore it like jewelry.
Her husband stepped beside her, chuckling under his breath. “He looks comfortable.”
“Like a doormat should,” she replied.
And then her feet found him.
The first was brutal in its indifference. She stepped onto his chest as if testing the sturdiness of old tile. Her heel dug near the collarbone, and she shifted her weight until he stifled a grunt beneath the mask. The second foot followed. A firm placement just above his belly, near the plug that mocked him from within.
She leaned into it. Not sadistically. Just… without care. As if he were something she’d been told to use.
“Breathe shallow, honey,” she said. “Or not at all. Up to you.”
They began to sway.
Unlike the first couple, there was no grace in their rhythm. This wasn’t a dance. It was an assertion. Her toes curled slightly with each shift, digging into his shirt, into skin. Her husband’s steps were less precise—more careless—as if stepping on the gimp was no different than kicking at a rolled-up towel.
From above, she spoke again.
“You know, I told her he wasn’t a real man. Years ago. I said, ‘Don’t marry a pet. You’ll regret it.’”
Her partner laughed.
“And now look. Her ex is literally lying under our feet while she drinks wine and gets worshipped.”
The gimp’s lungs began to labor. The pressure wasn’t excruciating—but it was total. Her weight pinned him in all the places that made him feel hollow.
And then it changed.
She stepped back. Once. Twice.
Her heels slid up his sternum.
And then… both feet pressed onto his masked face.
She balanced perfectly. He froze. The rubber muffled her weight but pressed into his jaw, cheeks, nose. He could no longer breathe properly—just faint huffs through strained nostrils. Panic pricked his limbs.
But above, she purred.
“Ohhh,” she said. “Perfect height.”
Her husband stepped forward. Their bodies met above his head. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Kissed him. Deep.
The gimp’s chest bucked once. She shifted a little to maintain her balance. Didn’t break the kiss.
From her perspective, the moment was decadent. The mask beneath her feet groaned softly, reverberating with life, but utterly beneath her. She dug in her toes slightly, riding the shifting meat below to better position herself for the kiss. Her husband’s hands moved to her waist, and she moaned softly against his lips.
Her sister’s ex was trembling beneath her. Good.
She lingered.
From his perspective, it was endless. The air thinned. The mask grew hotter. Her soles molded to his face like a vice. He couldn’t move—his wrists strapped, his body pinned, his breath rationed. The sound of kissing above him stretched time into agony.
He was her stepstool. Her pedestal. Her floor.
And she was in no hurry to step down.
Finally, she pulled away from her husband’s lips, eyes heavy-lidded.
“Best view in the house,” she whispered.
She stepped off with a flick of her heel against his chin.
Her husband followed, not even glancing down.
They returned to the couch, and he lay there.
Flattened. Humiliated. Changed.
Some things leave no mark—but you’ll never forget how they felt.