The third floorboard from the eastern wall is loose. It creaks under my weight each evening as I pace, waiting. The sound echoes through this empty house that is not a house. The men here no longer make sounds. Their cocks hang limp and drained, their bodies hollowed shells against the tatami mats. I remember the taste of each one - the salt of their fear, the bitter note of exhaustion, the final surrender as their balls emptied into me. I do not enjoy it. I do not hate it. My womb simply opens and accepts what must be taken. Their essence sustains the walls that hold them. Soon, I will need to find another.