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I know that I’m going to die soon. I don’t know when, and I know that they’ll make sure I suffer for as long as they can. I keep wavering between wanting to spring into action and follow my imaginary plan to find Katniss, save Katniss, protect Katniss… and that other thing that makes guilt well up in me and exhausts me: giving up, slumping against the wall of my cell, and crying.
I don’t know where she is. I don’t know if she’s safe, or even alive. The thought of this alone may be slowly killing me.
There’s a harsh neon light streaming in through the door of my cell room cracked ajar, but other than that it’s dark and warm, if a bit stuffy. And even though I can’t sleep, I’m dying to drift off into sweet relief, a nice dream. Maybe the kind of dream that I imagine good people have after they die.
So I shift slightly, my knees drawn against my chest, and use my imagination. I conjure up a scene that I’ve thought of several times during my time living in 12’s Victor’s Village. It’s a disgusting fantasy, but I let myself get lost in it.
We’re on the train, the soft rumbling of the train lulls us into a gentle slowness. I’m in her bed, and the light is dim. I’m holding her. We’re both in our underwear; she’s in a loose undershirt and cotton sleeping shorts, and I’m in something of the same. No—just my briefs. Less clothes. More vulnerable. More accessible to her.
Her head is on my chest. Her breathing is slow, relaxed… no nightmares. Maybe in this world the Games don’t even exist. This is a fantasy, after all.
I imagine her burying her face further into my chest and planting a small kiss on the middle of it. Then I feel a real-life jolt as she moves my hand over her breast. She lets out a small moan as she gently squeezes.
“Touch my tits, Peeta.” Unlike her touch, the way she says it isn’t gentle. In this fantasy, I know whatever I do is for her pleasure, not mine. It drives me wild.
I do as she says, cupping both hands on her breasts, which fit nicely in my hands. I massage them a bit, and she makes more of those sounds that make me blush. I get another jolt—in my cell, my cold hand has made contact with the growing bulge in my underwear. I don’t touch though. Katniss wouldn’t want me to touch yet.
My brain skips around a bit. There’s some muddled dialogue and she’s got me flat on my back, and her undershirt is pushed down, exposing her lovely breasts. I’ve never seen Katniss’ breasts in real life before—and at this point, I expect I never will—but I can guess about them. Outwardly, I know their shape; oval, about the size of a grapefruit each. I imagine she has pretty brown nipples. In the fantasy she wants me to suck on them. Obediently, I run my tongue around the firm tip of her nipple, pausing intermittently to suck on her whole areola.
“Good boy,” Katniss moans gruffly, and I get another jolt. I’m using the ball of my palm to rub my dick bluntly, mirroring the way Katniss rubs her crotch on mine in my fantasy.
More muddled dialogue. This usually happens, but I guess it’s happening a lot more because I’m all but dead from the torture now. I can’t tell what Katniss is saying, but she’s whispering in my ear, which makes me whimper, which makes her laugh. I look up into her grey eyes. I love being able to look up at her; that is, I love being beneath her. At the moment, I can’t come up with anything other than how stunning she is. Where is she now? I get a pang again, a different one, an awful one, but I suppress it and go on.
“I want to please you, Katniss. I want to make you cum,” I moan quietly. This is one of my favorite things to imagine saying to her, but I don’t know if I could ever say it out loud. I can feel my face going completely red, both in the fantasy and in real life. I think I can’t hold on any longer and I squeeze my dick. But I refrain from doing anything more. I just bunch my body in tighter as shockwaves run through me.
I imagine her on her back, holding my face down into her vagina. I’ve never seen a vagina before either, besides in anatomy books, but I’ve imagined Katniss’ gooey vagina plenty of times. Dutifully, I lick her up as she shivers and moans underneath me, my saliva co-mingling with her wetness. I have no idea how vaginas taste; she tastes sweet, like vanilla icing. She pulls my hair and bucks her hips and forcefully moans: once, twice, three times, and I keep going until she tells me to stop.
“Peeta,” she sighs. It’s the best feeling in the world, thinking of laying my head on her inner thigh.
“Was that all right, Katniss?” I ask dreamily.
“Yeah. I wanna see how hard you are.”
I’m very hard. I sit on my calves in front of her and pull down my underwear to expose my penis, sticking straight up. I blush.
“Gross!” She laughs quietly. I laugh too until I feel a single finger circling the head of my dick. I mirror this in real life, against my better judgment.
“Look at me,” she says firmly.
I can’t help but blush more, and cough out something between a laugh and a moan. I obey and look at her with a look of desperation. “I’ll cum in about five seconds.”
Here on the concrete floor, I’m touching myself now. I can’t help it. My hand is so cold, but it’s moving automatically, up and down along my dick. The shackles around my hands are jingling far too loudly.
She smiles. “Well, you’ll cum in five seconds… if I let you.”
And she doesn’t let me cum. She never lets me cum.
Here in my cell, I’m shaking all over and I let out a moan, and the guard bursts in to find me huddled on the ground with cum spattered across my fingertips and the bottom of my ragged shirt.