Turn 3 of 226

Check the fridge — I'm suddenly starving. Eat and masturbate at the same time. Afterwards, push my body with exercises. Fall asleep on the floor without showering or cleaning up

The hunger hits her halfway back to the kitchen, a hollow demanding ache that has nothing to do with mealtimes. She pulls the fridge open and the cool air rolls over her bare skin. She grabs without choosing — leftover pad thai, a block of cheddar, half a carton of orange juice, a tub of hummus she eats with her fingers. She does not bother with a plate. She leans against the counter and eats standing up, tearing into the cheese with her teeth, and the food landing in her stomach sends a wave of satisfaction through her that is indistinguishable from the arousal still thrumming under her skin.

She does not stop to think about it. Her free hand slides down over the round curve of her belly and between her thighs, and she eats another mouthful of pad thai while her fingers find the heat that has been building since the bathroom. The two sensations layer together — the fullness in her stomach, the pressure between her legs — and they feed each other, literally and otherwise. She braces against the counter, thighs trembling, cheese in one hand and herself in the other, and the orgasm comes hard and fast, wrenching a sound out of her that echoes off the kitchen tiles. She stands there afterward, breathing ragged, a noodle dangling from her fingers, and the warmth in her belly purrs.

She eats the rest of the cheese. Then she drinks the orange juice straight from the carton, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and looks at the living room floor. Something in her body is asking to be used. Not rest — effort. She drops into push-ups and her arms shake on the first one, but the muscle beneath the new softness holds. She manages twelve before she collapses, and then rolls onto her back and starts crunches, her belly folding heavy and warm against her chest with each rep. The sweat comes fast, running down her sides, pooling in the new hollows and curves of her body. She does squats until her thighs burn, and each time she drops low she can feel the weight of herself — her ass, her gut, her thighs — shifting and bouncing, and the awareness of it keeps her going past the point where she would have quit before.

She loses count of the sets somewhere around the third round of lunges. The apartment is warm and smells like sweat and orange juice and her, and her body has reached that trembling edge between exhaustion and satisfaction where everything feels liquid and loose. She tries to make it to the couch and does not. Her knees fold on the living room carpet and she goes down, still naked, still sweating, still smelling of food and sex and effort, and the carpet is rough against her skin. She does not care. She rolls onto her side, her belly pooling in front of her, her thighs pressed together, and the last thing she feels before sleep takes her is the steady warm pulse in her core — the thing that is not quite her, or maybe is now entirely her — humming with approval.

The pile of clothes in the hallway watches from the dark. The fridge stands open, empty light spilling across the kitchen floor.