My Neighbor Barry

And then I just cried. I cried all the tears I could cry, all at once. I just sat there, head on folded arms on the kitchen table just sobbing and sobbing. Sobbing for my future, for all of my lost dreams that I still wanted. Sobbing for my mother, who would almost certainly be losing a child if I continued like this. Sobbing in remembrance of the person I was last week, who had people depending on her.

At last, when I began to run out of tears, I realized that Barry was standing over me, his hand on my bare upper back above my bandeau. I hadn't even noticed him. I quickly tried to wipe the tear streaks off my face and cover up how badly my nose was running. And then I looked up at him, tears still welling in my eyes. He had a glass of red wine in his hand, poured up to the brim, and in front of me was a meager helping of soup, just like he had served me the day all of this began.

"I'm sorry darling," he said. "I know you don't want to eat. But you need to have all of this soup, and this glass of wine. You'll feel better afterwards. Trust me. Ok?"

I nodded glumly, but made no move to take either one. "Please. Seriously. You need to eat this. Force yourself if you have to. If you don't do it, I will force you myself."

I nodded again, wiped off another tear, and took the spoon. The soup had no flavor as far as I could tell. It was white and cream-based, clearly, but it tasted like nothing. But I ate it, spoonful by spoonful, as Barry stood behind me gently massaging my upper back.

When I finished it, he said, "Now the wine, ok?"

"I don't want the wine," I replied.

"You didn't want the soup either."

"It's a huge glass, and I've only had this soup and a couple helpings of cum in the last two days. It'll go straight to my brain. I'll throw up everything I just ate."

"Yes, it will go straight to your brain. You won't throw up though, I promise. Drink up though, or I'll have to get the funnel."

I took the glass in my hand and weighed it there for a second before I started drinking. And when I started, I realized how thirsty I was and I couldn't stop. It was cold, too, and thirst-quenching. I would have drank another glass if Barry had had one.

On the other hand, if Barry had had another one, I wouldn't have been able to see it long enough to drink it. The effects were immediate. I recall hunching over forwards and putting my hands up to my face. "Whoa," I believe I said.

"Shit. We should have done this at your place," Barry remarked under his breath. "Alright, I'm going to help you up, and we're going to walk back to your apartment and get you some sleep, ok?"

"Yesh..." I muttered.

And just like he had done four nights before, Barry basically dragged me to my door, with his hand tight around my waist and my arm around his neck. Once inside he lay me down on my pillow, set a cooking pot next to my bed ("Just in case I'm wrong," he said), and then, tenderly, kissed me on the forehead and removed my choker necklace.

"Goodnight darling."

I was asleep before he closed the door.

I woke up around 2 PM...a day and a half later. I hopped out of bed, and, seeing my utterly starved frame in the mirror, gasped aloud while my stomach growled loudly. You better believe I ate. And then I spent a few hours lying down to deal with the raging stomachache that I had given myself by eating so fast after nearly a week of starvation diet. And then I ate some more. I was ravenous. Once it started to turn into evening, I logged into my remote workspace and began trying to read my code to remember what it had done. By the time it hit 10 PM I realized that I had not had the urge to masturbate or to see Barry even once.

The rest of that week--the last before classes started again--was the same. I got up, ate, did some yoga, did some coding, ran, showered, ate some more, coded some more, and ate again before devoting the rest of my night to reading. Yes, I fingered myself in the shower once or twice, but there was no deep-seated and irresistible urge to do so; it just felt nice. Nicer than I remembered, actually, but not nice enough for me to see stars.

The last day before classes, I put on some decent clothes (a pair of jean shorts and a tight tank top) and went to go see Barry. As soon as I stepped out of the door though, I knew, somehow, that it would be fruitless. I knew I'd never see him again. And it was true. A young couple was standing in his open doorway as a real estate agent talked to them about what a nice place it is and how the previous occupant would have stayed but for a family emergency. I headed back home.

A few days later I got an email that went directly to spam. The sender's account was clearly a burner, by the email address, but the subject line got me: "From Barry".

I opened it up and read the following lines: "Hello darling. I hope you are doing well again. I assume by now you've probably tried to find me...please don't. Just forgive me, for the things I did to you--especially for the things I put in that first soup and wine. I didn't mean to do you harm and I didn't know how potent the effects would be. I just saw you and knew that I wanted you for myself, but it wasn't worth you abandoning yourself. I'm truly sorry. Love, Barry".

I didn't know what to think or feel--to this day I still don't. I'm mad that someone would take advantage of me like that, but I'm also glad that he never hurt me beyond what I asked for and above all, that he gave me the antidote to his poison when I desperately needed it. What he did was appalling, but he clearly had a heart.

That was many years ago. I've graduated and settled down now. I kept my body as petite and thin as it was after that week for a while, but by the time I met my husband two years later I was back up to the weight I needed to be. He loves me, and he loves my body, and he does love when, sometimes, I ask him to gently squeeze my still-slender throat in bed.