Congratulations on Flossing!

The blood will flood your mouth, tangy copper mixing with the taste of your own fingers as you probe and pry, checking the consistency and integrity of each tooth. You’ll see him behind you in the mirror, the man making you do this. His frown will stretch, a poor man’s moustache dragging his whole body down. He’ll lick his lips as he watches you, getting ready to make his move. But he won’t do it while you’re checking. That would be rude.

You’ll spit the blood into the sink, a diluted red mixture that won’t stain the basin under the flow of water. It’ll be disappointing. You want to think of your blood as crimson and bright, vibrant. An embodiment of your energy as a person. The shit in your sink will look rusty, and it will be gone before you can even get a good look at it.

You’ll duck your head down and rinse your mouth, swishing the water around to make sure the blood has all been cleaned away. He’ll smile at you with each step of the process, each cleansing measure removing a little more of his handiwork, proving his dominance over you with each showing of fluid.

When you’re finally finished his wrap his arm around your belly and kiss the back of your neck.

“Was that really so bad?” he’ll mumble into your ear.

You’ll run your tongue along your teeth inside your mouth, profoundly aware of each individual piece of bone now. You’ll want to say “yes, actually, it was” or “there’s a reason I don’t do that often, you know?” But his hand will go to your crotch with gentle insistence and you’ll simply mumble at him, “No,” as he leads you to bed.

Congratulations on Flossing!