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“I guess your dad wouldn’t have ever taught you how to do this, huh?” asks Gaia, kneeling down next to where Ryne sits on the floor. She’s on one knee, and the black curtain of her hair swings forward, passing over Ryne like a shadow.
Gaia is…pretty. Ryne feels stupid thinking that to herself, but it’s the truth. She’s pretty – she always is – but right now, with her makeup off and a smattering of acne on her right cheek, she’s softer. Without thinking, Ryne reaches out to touch her hair where it shines under the lights, and then quickly pulls it back when she realizes what she’s doing. Her stomach flops over as she sits back on her hands, the cold tile shocking her back to the conversation.
“Wha – you mean Ran’jit?” she asks, because she doesn’t know what else to say.
Gaia shrugs a nonchalant shoulder. “Or Thancred, I guess.”
“Thancred’s not my dad,” says Ryne, and it comes out sharper than she intended. Wincing, she palms at her stomach for lack of anything else to blame. “Sorry. Cramp.”
“It’s okay,” says Gaia, folding her legs under herself gracefully. She’s still taller than Ryne even sitting like this, and it makes her feel young even though they’re only three years apart. “It’s not like he’d know how to do this either, right?”
“Sure,” Ryne says with a wan smile. It’s not true, but Gaia doesn’t need to know that, and Ryne doesn’t need to think about why she’s had her period for four years and doesn’t know how to use a tampon. “It’s not hard, right?”
“No,” says Gaia, reaching under the sink and grabbing a box. Ryne’s been to Gaia’s before – plenty of times – but the entire bathroom feels like it’s encased in a new light when it’s not under the haze of alcohol or moonlight. It’s trite, Ryne thinks; not poetic at all, but that’s how it feels. There are little touches of Gaia all over: a hairbrush with long, thin black strands tangled up in the bristles, a chipped cup on the edge of the sink with a dark smear around the rim; red like aged wine. A shampoo bottle that smells like Gaia’s neck. If she squints, Ryne can still see the fine powder coating the marble on the lid of the toilet tank from last night’s party, settled there like dust instead of irritating the inside of somebody’s nose. Ryne doesn’t know if she’s ever been in this bathroom sober before now.
“They’re not all the same size, right?” she asks when the silence has stretched so long she thinks it might snap and explode. Dimly, she remembers a science project from when she was younger. Ran’jit hadn’t let her attend the local school, but when she was nine they had done an experiment with glue and baking soda. And it had stretched and stretched in her hands — she remembers laughing, and sitting on Ran’jit’s lap while he guided her arms apart, to see how far it could go. How far do you think, Minfilia? Whatever your guess is: that’s called a hypothesis.
That’s how she feels. Like putty pulled too tight. It’s stupid.
“Nah,” answers Gaia. “How much are you bleeding? A fuckton? Not so much? How often are you changing your pad?”
Ryne squirms on the ugly tile floor. It was probably white at one point, but years of use and lazy landlords have turned it a dull greyish-tan, all manner of dirt and hair caked into the grout.
“I don’t know. Every four hours, I guess. It was heavier yesterday.”
Gaia hums to herself thoughtfully.
“That shit sucks, right? All bunched up in your underwear like that? We’ll try a regular to start, and if it gets too full, let me know. I have supers here.”
Ryne nods again, minutely. “Gaia –“
“Yeah?” she asks, turning around from the cabinet. She’s kneeling again, ass on her calves, and when her dark brown eyes catch in the light they look so warm. Even with the cool fluorescents of the bathroom buzzing softly above them. More than half of the bulbs are out, and it isn’t bright in the small room at all.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “How do I – I don’t even know where to start.“ Ryne can’t look in the mirror from her place on the floor, but it doesn’t matter. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, burning like the end of a sloppily stubbed out cigarette.
“Ryne,” Gaia interrupts, a smile curling onto her face. It’s a real one, with teeth. Ryne’s seen it in old photos, the ones with Mitron that Gaia thinks are well hidden under the books on her nightstand. Mitron is grinning at the camera but Gaia is looking at her, and she looks, well –
“Yeah?”
“I’ll help you. It’s gonna be fine, okay?”
“Okay.” Ryne nods. “Do I – should I get on the toilet?”
Gaia pauses, biting her lip. She studies Ryne like she’s a mildly interesting book, tilting her head thoughtfully.
“No,” she finally says. “Let’s just do it on the floor. Here, lean back against the door –” She reaches out a hand, pressing Ryne’s shoulder back until she hits the wall. There’s no real force behind it, but Ryne’s nerves make it feel like she’s slammed against the thing, her skinny shoulderblades digging into the wood. “And spread your legs.”
“I have to take off my underwear,” says Ryne. Her voice comes out softer than she means it to. And she can’t figure out why, but instead of standing up she just pushes her panties off from under her skirt, shimmying her bare ass against the tile until they reach her ankles. A dirty pad is still stuck to the crotch, too big for the thin lace of the thing, and her face burns. She knows Gaia isn’t going to say anything, but it feels juvenile. Her cunt is naked, just sitting there between her legs with nothing to cover it. It feels weird, but it shouldn’t feel weird – it’s just her cunt. It isn’t like nobody else has ever seen it.
“Here,” says Gaia, hooking a finger around one of the leg holes and delicately moving Ryne’s feet until she’s free of them. Her nails are long and painted black. Ryne looks at her own bitten fingernails, pink polish still chipping. No doubt Thancred would have something to say about that once he noticed.
“Thanks. So…” Ryne starts, hitching up the hem of her skirt. Her fingers are cold against her cunt when she presses her fingers into the folds, pushing them apart with a hitch in her breath. Blood isn’t leaking out, isn’t chafing against her thighs, but it does coat her vulva; it’s sticky and dark and matting the thatch of coarse blonde hair there. “I guess I’m bleeding,” she says dumbly.
“I guess so,” says Gaia, but it isn’t sarcastic. It’s just distracted: her fingers are making quick work of the plastic around the applicator, and it’s so quiet in the bathroom that the crinkle of it slices through the air like a snapped stick in a walk through the woods. Ran’jit hadn’t ever let her go far, but he had at least allowed her to run around in the backyard, shrouded by trees. She knows the sound well.
“Thanks,” says Ryne again. Gaia leans down, looking up at Ryne through her lashes. Her eyes are so big, pupils swallowing the iris in these dim, half-lit fluorescents. They’re curious, waiting for an answer to a question she hasn’t asked. “Are you going to…?”
“Just watch me,” says Gaia, and when she holds the tampon in her hand, she looks elegant, like an old movie star with a cigarette. Ryne feels her lips part, her tongue dry against them, transfixed. But then, all of a sudden, Gaia rolls the tampon between her thumb and forefinger, and the image breaks like shattered glass: now it just looks like she’s working at a cock, and it makes Ryne’s mouth move, pushing against her cheeks into an involuntary grimace.
When Gaia presses the tip of the tampon between Ryne’s slit, it feels strange. The plastic is like nothing she’s ever felt. It’s not pliant, like fingers or a dick. It’s smooth, with no texture at it all. It’s not even like a dildo: there’s no weight or mass to it; just a tiny, thin bit of plastic. When Gaia moves her hand, the hole at the tip of the applicator pinches her. She yelps, the skin sensitive.
“Sorry,” Gaia says, whispering suddenly. “It can – do that.”
“It’s okay.”
After a nod from Ryne, Gaia presses the applicator back into the skin, kneading softly before dragging the tip from the opening of Ryne’s entrance up toward her clit. It’s not very big, hidden under its hood, but Ryne swears she can feel it recoil like a scared animal as the tampon passes over it.
As if she’s noticed, Gaia’s thumb comes down to coax at it softly. Her nail pinches at Ryne’s labia like the applicator had, but Ryne does nothing but bite her lip and let out a small noise from her throat as Gaia’s thumb moves in circles. A jolt runs through her, like electricity is being pushed out of her cunt and settling itself at her body’s most sensitive part.
“Okay?” Gaia asks. Ryne nods again, her heartbeat sounding very loud between her ears. The whole bathroom smells like blood, with the scent of pussy lurking beneath the iron. She flushes.
“Sorry about the smell.”
Gaia shakes her head. “You don’t smell any different than anybody else, Ryne,” she says with a funny look on her face. Repositioning the applicator at the lip of Ryne’s cunt, she begins to push in slowly, further than before. It feels – well, it doesn’t feel, not much. It’s so smooth, she thinks again; so much thinner than a penis, thinner than a dildo and barely larger than her finger. It doesn’t even go that far; just the tip of it is inside, not even an inch. It doesn’t press against the walls and make them shake like a beaten drum, doesn’t slam against her cervix like an eager teenager balls deep in pussy for the first time. It just sits there dumbly like a scared child.
The applicator doesn’t make a noise when Gaia slides it forward, pressing with her thumb like she’s drawing medicine into a syringe. But Ryne swears that, with the silence of the room bloating the walls, she can hear nothing but the shhhk of the pieces against each other and the two of them breathing. She feels like she’s panting like a dog, but her mouth isn’t even open.
When Gaia pulls the applicator out, it’s quick and unceremonious, but to Ryne, the air feels still like it’s waiting for rain after a drought. She can’t feel anything inside of her, but the string hangs limply between her thighs as proof. Like a mark. Ryne wishes there was one left by Gaia’s lipstick instead.