The Washing Room

POV Red

The communal bathing facility runs on a schedule dictated by supervision gaps rather than cleanliness. Three times a week, ten minutes each, under the sting of cold water and the same caustic lye soap used to scrub the stone floors.

I enter on a Thursday morning with five other women. Two of them I recognize instantly, not by name, but by the way they occupy the space. They've been on this island long enough that it's become their entire universe, and in that universe, they're the architects of order. A new, visible arrival is a variable they intend to reduce.

The taller one, blunt-faced with quick, predatory eyes, drifts closer than the space requires. She murmurs something to her companion, and the word "américaine" (American) floats free of the French, followed by "cheveux" (hair), and they laugh in the low, intimate way of people who have already decided something. I keep my face neutral, working the lye into my hair with methodical focus.

"Que bonito," (How pretty) the shorter one says, moving to my other side. "Your hair. We don't see this color here." She reaches out and lifts a wet strand from my shoulder, letting it run through her fingers. "So pretty. Like fire, no?"

I keep working the soap. "Thank you."

"You need help?" the taller one says, her French accent thick. "Washing. It is hard to reach, sometimes, the back." She steps behind me. "We help the new ones. It is what we do."

"I'm fine," I say.

"No, no." The shorter one moves closer, her voice dropping to something that could be mistaken for warmth if you had never heard the real thing. "We offer something, you and me. Protection, yes? We know everyone here. We make sure the guards, they leave you alone. You give us something small in return." Her eyes travel down the length of me with a slow, appraising patience that has nothing gentle in it. "We take care of you."

"I don't need taking care of," I say.

"Everyone needs something here," the shorter one says. "Even the ones who think they don't."

The taller one's hand comes to my shoulder from behind, fingers pressing into the muscle. Then it begins to slide, slow and deliberate, curving downward toward my chest.

My stomach drops.

"Hé." Masson's voice cracks across the room like a split board. "Sortez. Maintenant. Les deux." (Hey. Get out. Now. Both of you.)

The hand stops. The shorter one holds my gaze for one more beat, her expression rearranging itself into something flat and promising, before she turns and walks out. The taller one follows without looking back.

Masson lets his eyes settle on me. That familiar proprietary inventory.

I take a step toward him. He goes still.

I don't use French. This is not a conversation that requires language. I let him read the parameters: I am making a choice, the terms are mine, and what I am offering is narrow and specific. He nods, barely, and leads me to the laundry room.

The laundry room smells of wet cloth and lye. He closes the door and I am already moving. I cannot let him set the pace.

I go to my knees on the cold stone floor. I feel every degree of that cold through the thin tan uniform. The roughness of the stone. The damp seeping through the fabric at my knees.

I send myself somewhere else.

This is different from the ship or the intake room. Those times my mind retreated as an act of mercy, a self-preserving flinch. This time I choose it. I step back behind my eyes and let my body do what I have decided it will do, and the distinction between those two things is the only dignity I have left to hold.

His breath changes when I reach for his cock. A sharp pull of air, then a low sound from somewhere behind his teeth. His hand fists in my wet hair and closes, the grip tightening as a silent command. The message is clear: don't stop. He likes this.

My thumb brushes over the head, smearing the bead of pre-come that's gathered there. His hips jerk, a small, involuntary thrust. I close my fist around the base of him, feeling the heat and the solid weight of him in my palm. He's thick, the skin velvet over steel. I lean in, my tongue tracing the vein that runs along the underside, a slow, deliberate exploration. The taste of him is clean, salty, uniquely male. The hand in my hair tightens, a silent command that vibrates through my scalp.

I take the head into my mouth, letting my lips close around it. My tongue swirls, pressing into the sensitive ridge. The sound he makes is deeper this time, a groan that comes from his chest. I sink down slowly, taking him deeper, relaxing my throat until my nose is pressed against the dark hair at his base. I hold him there for a moment, feeling the throb of his pulse against my tongue, before pulling back just as slowly. I set a rhythm, a steady slide of my lips and tongue, my hand working in time with my mouth, twisting on the upstroke.

His control is fraying. His other hand comes to rest on the back of my neck, a warm, heavy pressure. His breathing is ragged now, punctuated by sharp hisses of pleasure. I can feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his muscles are straining. I hollow my cheeks, sucking harder as I pull back, and he bucks up, meeting me. The hand in my hair guides me now, setting a faster, more demanding pace. I let him, my jaw relaxed, my throat open. I'm taking all of him, the slick sounds of my mouth on him filling the small space.

He's close. The frantic pulse of his cock, the way his balls have drawn up tight, the broken curses falling from his lips. I cup them with my free hand, rolling them gently, and that's all it takes. His whole body goes rigid. His grip on my hair is almost painful as he thrusts once, twice, deep into my throat. He comes with a guttural cry, hot and thick, flooding my mouth. I swallow, taking everything he gives, my tongue still working him gently as he shudders through his release.

Slowly, his body relaxes. The tension bleeds out of him. His hand loosens in my hair, moving to cup the back of my head, fingers stroking through the damp strands. I pull back, letting him fall from my lips. He's panting, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and hate myself for every minute of it.

I stay still for a moment. On my knees on the cold stone of a laundry room on an island I did not choose.

Twenty-two years of my life existed before this floor. Before this room. Before I became a woman convicted of murder who does what she must on her knees for a guard whose last name I don't know.

The full weight of it lands exactly once and I let it, because refusing to feel it would mean it owns me. Then I fold it into the sediment with everything else and stand up.

I don't look at his face until I have to. When I finally glance up I see something unexpected in his expression: gratitude. I read him correctly. He wanted to be chosen, and the fact that I chose him matters to his vanity in a way that money or force never could.

"Attendez," (Wait) he says. Wait. He tells me, in careful French, that the two women from the bath won't be a problem. He'll see to it.

"D'accord," (Agreed) I say.

I let him believe he is my protector. Then I walk back to the cell block.

At the water basin I use too much of my ration. I scrub my hands until they are red. My throat is tight, not from crying, just tight. The air in here is close and damp and smells like stone.

I drag the rough bar of soap across my lips until they sting and I look at my reflection in the disturbed surface, just long enough to find my eyes.

"Yo hago lo que tengo que hacer." (I do what I have to do.)

The woman in the bath let go because of what I just did in that laundry room. I have created an asset. Not an ally, never an ally. An asset.

I have spent something today that I cannot get back, and I have bought something with a calculable value. This is the cost of staying alive. I will pay it as many times as I have to.

I dry my hands on my tan uniform, straighten my spine, and walk back to my bunk without looking at the basin again.