The Package Handler

THE PACKAGE HANDLER

The door clicked shut with a soft thud, but the sound echoed in her chest.

She stood still for a beat too long, hand resting on the knob, the warmth of his voice still lingering in the hallway like a trail of smoke. "Have a good day, Miss Covington." Smooth. Deep. Casual -- but just enough edge to make her wonder if he meant something by it.

Her bare heel shifted slightly on the hallway tile as a small, slow burn curled low in her belly. That... hadn't happened in a long time.

She walked back into the soft-lit calm of her home, the scent of vanilla candles hanging in the air, the hem of her emerald wrap dress whispering against her thigh with every step. Her fingers grazed the high slit -- the same one that had caught his eyes when she opened the door. Not that he said anything. But she saw it. The pause. The flicker. The look that lingered half a second longer than it should have.

She knew that look.

She used to live for that look.

Dropping into the chair at the edge of her bed, she crossed one leg over the other, letting her fingers trail absently across the smooth dip of her exposed thigh. God, when was the last time she even noticed her own skin?

Lacey exhaled slowly, leaning back against the vanity, her mind already slipping into memory. A dangerous place. But that little moment -- the subtle glance, the polite voice laced with quiet dominance -- had cracked something.

Six years.

Six years since she wrote a single line.

Six years since she let her mind wander freely to the kind of thoughts that once made her fingertips tremble over a keyboard.

Six years since she tucked that part of herself away... for him. For her husband.

He was a good man. Smart. Loyal. Faithful.

Average.

Average in size. Average in skill.

Safe.

He didn't like Lacey writing those stories. Not anymore. Not once they married. At first, he said he understood. That it was fiction. Fantasy. But when the books started selling, when people commented, when the covers grew bolder and the sex more explicit... he asked her to stop.

What he never fully realized -- or maybe refused to -- was that while her stories were written like fantasies, they were built on truth.

Not every word, of course. But the lust? The domination? The raw, aching hunger for thick, powerful men who took their pleasure unapologetically -- that wasn't made up.

That was her past.

The one he claimed to accept... but quietly wished she'd bury.

And because she loved him, she did.

But love doesn't fill every space.

Especially not the ones that ache.

Lacey stood, peeling off the thin satin wrap she'd thrown over the green dress. Her reflection caught in the mirror -- toned curves, golden skin, thick dark hair tumbling past her shoulders.

She looked... dangerous.

No, she looked like herself.

She picked up the small stack of padded envelopes from the dresser. The same packages he'd come to collect. Her old books. Still selling quietly. Still making their way into the hands of strangers -- strangers who didn't even know she'd vanished from the world she once ruled.

Except now, one of those strangers wasn't so anonymous.

And he wasn't a stranger anymore.

Not after the way he looked at her.

And not after the way she felt when she looked back.

--------

It had been three days.

Not that she was counting.

But she knew.

Lacey glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall -- ten past noon -- then back toward the window. Nothing yet. She turned, walked to the mirror, and checked herself one more time. The deep burgundy dress hugged her hips just tight enough. She wore it casually -- or at least that's what she told herself -- but the neckline dipped a little lower than usual. The hem just barely kissed mid-thigh.

Her fingers touched her lip gloss. One final swipe. Then came the knock.

Three short raps. Confident. Controlled.

She took her time walking to the door. Let him wait a moment. She opened it slowly, and there he was -- dark skin glowing under the sunlight, muscles flexing under the soft grey of his polo. Sunglasses pushed up on his head, curls just beginning to sweat. And that grin.

"Afternoon, Miss Covington," Trey said, eyes scanning her, pausing -- not too long, just long enough. "Hope I'm not interrupting."

"You're right on time," she said, soft smile playing on her lips. "I've got two packages for you today. Might be a little heavy."

He stepped in slightly, peering past her shoulder. "That right?" His voice dropped, amused. "What are we moving today... bricks?"

"Close." She turned and walked ahead, making sure to sway just enough. "Books."

He followed, eyes trailing down her back. "You must really love reading."

"I used to love writing them more."

He stopped. "Wait -- you wrote these?"

She glanced over her shoulder, playful. "Surprised?"

He smirked. "Depends on the genre."

Lacey leaned down to lift one of the boxes, the hem of her dress rising just enough for his eyes to flicker and linger. She straightened and handed him the box. His arms flexed as he took it from her -- and damn if she didn't notice.

She watched his brow arch as he read the shipping label aloud. "'L. Covington... Covington Press... 'Silken Obedience.'"

A beat passed.

Another.

"Is that the title?"

"It is."

He glanced at her. "Sounds... intense."

"It's not that bad." She smiled. "Unless you're new to the genre."

"And what genre would that be?"

"Erotica."

His lips curved slowly. "Didn't expect that."

"Why not?" she asked, folding her arms under her chest.

He looked at her -- slow, deliberate. "I don't know. Maybe because you look like you belong on the cover of one, not behind the keyboard."

Lacey's breath hitched. Just barely. But she smiled through it. "Careful, Trey. You keep talking like that and I might start writing again."

He bent slightly to pick up the second box, his voice low. "Then maybe I should read what you already wrote. Get a little... inspired."

Their eyes locked.

Heat. Slow. Heavy. Familiar.

The box in his arms was thick with her past. Bound in paper and ink and memory.

He straightened up, towering slightly over her now. "You want me to drop these off and swing back with a review?"

Her voice barely came out. "Only if it's honest."

"Oh, I don't think I could fake a reaction to something like this," he said, voice velvet-smooth. "Especially if it's... vivid."

He stepped back toward the door, the weight of the books nothing compared to the weight in the air between them.

"I'll be seeing you, Miss Covington," he added, already halfway out.

She stood in the doorway, lips parted, skin humming.

She didn't write again that day.

But her fingers itched.

And for the first time in six years, she wondered what it might feel like to have someone read her words -- not just as fantasy... but as invitation.

--------

It was late -- not too late, but past the hour when texts usually feel professional. That soft zone between "just a question" and something else.

Lacey sat curled on the end of her bed, legs tucked under her, glass of red wine in hand. Her phone rested in her palm. The cursor blinked in the message box for too long.

She scrolled up through her delivery confirmation -- the automated notification from earlier that day. There it was: the number attached to Trey's pickup account. Officially, it was the business line.

Unofficially... she was about to blur that line.

She took one last sip, tapped the screen, and typed:

Hi Trey -- this is Lacey Covington. I hope it's okay I'm messaging here. Just wanted to see if I could shift Thursday's pickup to Friday instead. Let me know if that's possible. Appreciate it!

Simple. Harmless. Nothing wrong with that.

But it was also a message sent just after 9 p. m.

While she sat in nothing but a soft pink robe and fresh lotion.

While her thighs were pressed just a little too tightly together.

While she still remembered the way he had said "Silken Obedience."

She hit send.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. She was just about to set her phone down when it buzzed in her hand.

Trey:

Of course. Friday works fine. Want me to come by the same time?

Lacey:

Yes, same time would be perfect. Thank you ????

The smiley face. She debated it. Sent it anyway.

Three dots appeared... then vanished.

Then appeared again.

Trey:

By the way... I started reading one of those books.

Her stomach flipped. She blinked at the screen. And typed -- carefully:

Oh? Which one?

Trey:

Silken Obedience.

That title stuck with me. Figured I'd see what kind of stories you were moving in those heavy-ass boxes.

Her lips parted. She smiled -- slow, quiet, dangerous.

Lacey:

That one's... intense.

Trey:

Yeah. That's one word for it.

I've only made it to Chapter 3 and already had to put it down twice.

She swallowed.

Trey:

Not because I wasn't enjoying it.

Because I was.

Three dots appeared again. Then:

Trey:

I'm guessing some of that is fantasy.

But the way you write it?

Feels real.

Her heart pounded as she stared at the screen. And for the first time in six years... her fingers didn't hesitate.

Lacey:

Some of it is fantasy.

Some of it isn't.

Trey:

Thought so.

Trey:

The way she gasps when he doesn't stop. When she begs but doesn't want him to stop. That part hit different.

He paused. Then sent one more line.

Trey:

Got me thinking about you.

Her thumb hovered over her phone screen, but her breath caught in her throat.

"Got me thinking about you."

Just seven words. Nothing explicit. Nothing overt. But it hit her lower than anything had in years.

She felt it -- that low, unmistakable ache between her thighs. The kind that bloomed slowly and spread like warm syrup across her skin. She pressed her knees together instinctively, but it only made the tension worse.

Her body was awake now. And her robe? Suddenly felt too soft, too open. She looked down at her chest -- nipples tightening beneath the silk fabric, begging for attention. Her skin flushed, lips parted slightly.

It wasn't just what he said...

It was how he said it.

Confident. Unapologetic. Like he knew exactly what effect he had on her -- and wasn't afraid to name it.

Lacey leaned back against the headboard, the phone resting on her stomach now, rising and falling with each breath. She didn't respond right away. Didn't know if she could.

It wasn't fear.

It was memory.

Her past self -- the one who'd once knelt for men who made her feel this way. The one who wrote about being used, stretched, praised, punished. That woman had gone quiet.

Until now.

Her fingers slipped slowly down to her thigh. She grazed her skin with the tips -- teasing, not quite committing. Just feeling. Because that message? It wasn't just flirtation. It was permission. A man like Trey wouldn't judge her for her past... he'd want it. All of it.

She looked at her phone again. The message still glowing on screen.

And then, for the first time in years, Lacey whispered aloud -- to no one but herself:

"God... I miss being fucked like that."

She didn't send another message.

Not yet.

--------

She heard his van before she saw it.

That familiar hum as it crept down the street -- slow, steady, controlled. Lacey stood at the mirror, adjusting the soft mocha dress she'd chosen with care. It wasn't overtly sexy -- not tight, not low-cut. But it hugged her hips in a way that whispered invitation. The sleeves slipped just off the shoulder. And beneath it? No bra. No panties. Just her.

Her perfume was soft and deep -- vanilla, sandalwood, something warm that clung to the skin. A scent made for closeness.

She took one last glance at her reflection.

She didn't look nervous.

She looked... ready.

Then came the knock.

Three taps. Familiar now. Confident.

She opened the door slower this time. Deliberate.

Trey stood there, same grey polo -- but this time, the sleeves were slightly rolled. His arms looked thicker. His eyes swept over her -- openly now -- and when they met hers again, his lips parted just slightly. He didn't speak right away.

Neither did she.

"Afternoon," he finally said, voice a shade lower than usual. "You look... relaxed today."

She smiled. "I rescheduled everything for this morning. Just been waiting on you."

His brow lifted, just a little. That smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That so?"

She stepped back, letting the door fall open wider. "Boxes are in the hallway. Same as last time."

He stepped inside. Close. Heat trailed behind him like a shadow.

Trey moved to the boxes -- two again, but this time labeled with her most explicit title.

"Crave."

He squatted down -- and god, the way his pants stretched across those thighs -- lifting the first box with ease. As he stood, he looked over at her.

"I read a little more," he said casually.

"Oh?" She folded her arms, pressing her breasts up ever so slightly.

He didn't miss it.

"Yeah," he said. "The scene where she's pinned face down across the table... mouth open, ass up... begging him to slow down even though she doesn't want him to."

Lacey exhaled -- slow and quiet, her legs pressing together beneath the dress.

"That part felt... familiar," Trey added.

She arched a brow. "To you?"

"No," he said, stepping closer with the box. "To you."

He brushed past her, the heat of his chest grazing her shoulder. She didn't move. Just turned her head -- slowly -- to follow his scent.

He came back for the second box. This time, their fingers brushed.

Electric.

"I can't lie," he said, voice a soft rumble. "I've been thinking about that scene all day."

Lacey swallowed. "You're very... engaged as a reader."

"I like realism," he said, lifting the last box. "And that? That felt real. The sounds. The stretch. The way she needed it even when it hurt."

Lacey leaned against the doorframe now, one hand tracing the wood, the other brushing her hip. Her voice was softer.

"It was real."

He paused.

"I figured," he said. "You write like someone who knows how it feels to take a real man."

The silence stretched. Tightened. Wrapped around them like heat.

"I'll get these loaded up," he said finally, his voice now thick. "But next time..."

He turned toward her, eyes dark and direct.

"... you leave me a copy. One you sign."

He didn't wait for her answer.

He walked out, slow and heavy, letting her watch the sway of his steps.

And when she finally closed the door, her whole body buzzed.

She didn't go back to the mirror.

She pressed her back against the door, dress clinging to her breasts, her thighs wet, her breath uneven.

She wanted him.

And he knew it.

--------

The knock came just after noon.

Lacey opened the door slowly, wearing a deep navy ribbed knit dress -- long sleeves, high neckline, deceptively modest. But the fabric clung to her curves like it had memorized her body. No bra. No panties. Just her.

Soft, warm, undeniable.

"Afternoon," she said, stepping back.

Trey's eyes swept over her, catching the way the dress curved at her hips, how it hugged her thighs. His lips parted slightly, just a breath, before he glanced toward the hallway.

"Boxes in the usual spot?"

"Mmhmm." She turned, leading him toward the packages.

As he bent down to lift the first one -- arms flexing, veins pronounced -- her eyes dropped without thinking. The stretch of his cargo pants pulled across thick thighs... and there it was.

The bulge.

Not a hint. Not a suggestion.

It was there.

Heavy. Full. Curved off to one side with the weight of something that didn't just fill a woman -- it left her trembling after.

Her breath caught -- just barely -- and she blinked quickly, lifting her eyes again before he stood. He didn't notice. Or maybe he did.

He lifted the box with ease and smirked. "You forgot something," he said, tapping the label. "Crave. You said I'd get a signed copy."

Lacey smiled, feigning a little embarrassment. "You're right. I pulled one out last night and everything. Just forgot to sign it."

He tilted his head. "I can grab it next time. Don't want to slow you down."

She paused, fingers trailing along the kitchen doorframe.

"It's upstairs," she said softly. "Won't take a second. You can wait in the kitchen, if you want... I've got coffee."

Trey's brows lifted slightly. "You sure?"

She turned, meeting his eyes. "If I wasn't, you wouldn't be inside already."

That made him grin. "I'll take it black, if you've got it."

She glanced back at him with a sly smile.

"Mmhmm," she murmured. "Best way to take it."

The kitchen smelled of vanilla and amber. Warm, thick, comforting. Trey leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her move.

Lacey returned with the book and a pen, her hair loosely pinned, a few strands kissing her collarbone. The dress shifted over her hips as she moved -- too smooth to miss.

She placed the book gently between them and sat down across the table, tucking one leg under her. Barefoot. Relaxed. But alert.

"No spoilers," she said as she uncapped the pen.

"Just a signature?"

She looked up at him, expression soft but steady. "Not exactly."

Her handwriting flowed across the inside cover. She didn't rush. She didn't speak. She just wrote -- then slid the book across to him like it meant something.

And it did.

He looked down at it, fingertips grazing the cover.

"You said this one's more personal," he said.

"It is."

"How much of it's real?"

She met his gaze. A pause. A small breath. And then:

"Some scenes in Silken Obedience were based on memories," she said quietly. "But Crave... there's a chapter in there that isn't fiction. Not even a little."

He tilted his head. "Which one?"

"You'll know when you feel it."

Trey exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing just a little. "You make it hard not to read everything at once."

She leaned in, lips curving. "That's the idea."

They lingered there longer than they should've -- sipping coffee, speaking in half-smiles and slow breaths. And every time her eyes flicked to the bulge that hadn't gone away... she wondered just how real he could make those stories feel again.

Later That Night - 11:07 PM

Her phone buzzed.

Trey:

Just got to Chapter 5.

I felt that one.

Deep.

Like it was happening to you.

Still can't believe it's real.

Inside Cover -- What She Wrote in Crave :

To the one holding this book -- This scene wasn't written. It was remembered. I took every inch that night. Couldn't walk the next day. And I still dream about how he told me: "You'll take it again. You were made for this." -- L.

Trey:

I read it twice.

My hand's been down my pants the whole time.

Trey:

You ever want to feel like that again...

Just say the word.

I'll ruin you in the best possible way.

--------

It was nearly midnight.

Lacey sat cross-legged in bed, the soft glow of her lamp casting a golden hue across her thighs. The book lay open beside her -- Crave, Chapter 5 -- the scene that was no longer just fiction to him.

Her phone buzzed again.

Trey:

I keep rereading the scene.

The lingerie part...

The black lace with the sheer back? That real too?

Her lips curled.

She got up, slow and deliberate, padding barefoot across the bedroom, reached to the back of her closet, parting a row of forgotten dresses, and there it was--still hanging, still waiting.

The black lace bodysuit. The one that made her feel like trouble. Like herself.

She hadn't worn it in years. But it was still there. Waiting. Like it knew it wasn't done being worshipped.

She slipped it on -- the sheer black lace bodysuit hugging her curves like it had missed her. The cups lifted her breasts into soft, perfect mounds, the delicate straps tracing her shoulders. The lace clung to her hips, dipping between her thighs, where a subtle wetness already formed. The back? Nearly nonexistent -- just soft mesh and a single strap running just above her ass.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Not like she used to.

Like she'd never stopped.

She picked up her phone. Took three photos.

One standing -- her hand tugging the strap down her shoulder.

One kneeling on the bed -- legs slightly open, fingers curled at her thigh.

One from behind -- angled in the mirror, showing the full curve of her ass, the lace barely covering anything.

She sent them all.

No caption.

A minute later, her screen lit up.

Trey:

Holy fuck, Lacey.

You expect me to read after seeing that?

My dick's so hard it's touching my abs right now.

She felt her whole body respond -- a sharp, electric pulse between her legs, tightening her nipples against the lace. She pressed her thighs together, but it didn't help. Nothing would, except--

Another message.

Trey:

You look dangerous in that.

I bet you already soaked through the bottom.

She bit her lip. Tapped out a reply.

Lacey:

Just dreaming about the delivery man and his big package.

Seconds later -- a photo appeared.

Her breath hitched.

Trey, shirtless. Thick chest, abs tight, ink curling across his left pec. And then --

The towel barely holding on. His cock pressing through it. Massive. Long, thick, heavy -- the outline unmistakable. It curved slightly left, the ridge pronounced even beneath the cotton. He didn't even need to show skin. It was all there.

Her hand slid down without her permission.

Trey:

You like what I'm working with?

She didn't answer right away.

Her fingers found the soaked fabric beneath her. Rubbed slow circles.

Then:

Lacey:

I'm going to need two hands for that one.

Trey:

Good.

Next time we see each other... you'll be the package handler.

She gasped -- audibly -- and dropped the phone onto the mattress, breath coming faster, fingers already working harder.

Not fantasy.

Not a scene.

Not a memory.

This was now.

--------

The house was still.

Dim light from a corner lamp washed her bedroom in amber shadows. The only sound was the soft clink of ice melting in her untouched glass of wine.

Lacey sat at the edge of the bed, robe wrapped loosely around her, thighs bare, skin still warm from her own touch -- not quite satisfied. Not anymore.

She stared at her phone.

The last text from Trey still glowed on the screen.

You'll be the package handler.

Her pulse fluttered. Not with fear -- with need.

Her body ached in that deep, empty way that only one thing could fix. She had taken care of herself after his last message... twice. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't him.

Her mind spun.

She shouldn't.

He's younger.

He's her delivery driver.

She's married. But lately, Trey's the only man who's touched her without even touching her

And she's so tired of being polite. Tired of waiting. Tired of pretending she doesn't want to be the person she once was, the person she has been hiding from the world.

She unlocked her phone, thumb hovering over his name.

What would she say?

She typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Paused.

Then she smirked -- just a little.

Bold. Direct.

Like the Lacey she used to be.

She wrote:

Can you come by later?

Not for a pickup.

I need a large package delivered.

And I'll make sure that it's handled... properly.

She read it twice.

Her pulse pounded between her legs.

Send.

The second she hit it, she felt it -- that hot wave of anticipation. Of no return.

She set the phone down and stood, walking to the mirror, slipping the robe off her shoulders slowly.

She looked at herself. At her body.

And smiled.

She was done remembering.

Done fantasizing.

Tonight, she'd feel it.

--------

She heard the bang of the van door.

It wasn't just a sound--it was a trigger. Her body reacted like she'd been touched. Her nipples beaded instantly under the sheer black robe, tingling with anticipation. Her cunt clenched, slick already dripping down her inner thighs. The air felt heavy, warm, charged.

She didn't just feel horny. She felt starved.

Barefoot on the hardwood, robe barely tied, a glass of water in her hand she had no intention of drinking--Lacey stood glowing in the soft light, her entire body humming with need.

Then: three slow raps on the door.

The knock landed like a pulse between her legs. Her breath caught in her throat. But she didn't move.

Let him wait.

Let him feel it. Smell it.

She opened the door slowly, already knowing what she'd find.

Trey stood there. Towering. Broad. Silent. His black tee clung to his chest like sin itself, cargo pants slung low across his hips. His arms hung loose at his sides, thick and veined like tree trunks, fists clenched. But it was his eyes--dark and ravenous--that made her stomach flip.

They dropped to her robe. Paused. Then rose to her face, already burning.

Neither of them said a word.

She turned.

Walked away.

The robe shifted with each slow step, flashing glimpses of bare thigh, the curve of her ass.

He followed. Silent. Focused. Predator-like.

In the kitchen, she turned to face him.

"I hope you brought the package," she murmured, voice dipped in honey and heat.

Trey didn't speak.

He just unbuckled his belt. One slow click. The metal clinked against itself.

Zipper lowered.

His pants dropped.

No underwear. No teasing.

His cock swung out heavy and half-hard--already a monster. It rose as she stared. Long. Thick. Veins like roads down the shaft. The kind of cock you didn't just take--you surrendered to.

Lacey's mouth parted, a tiny gasp escaping her.

"Fuck me..." she whispered. "That's not a cock--it's a problem."

His voice came low, rough. "You gonna be my little slut and take it?"

Her thighs clenched again.

She let the robe drop.

"Take it?" she whispered, breathless. "I want it in me--everywhere. My mouth, my pussy, my ass. I want to feel it tomorrow."

His growl vibrated through the room.

He grabbed her by the jaw and kissed her--hard. Deep. Wet. Claiming.

Tongues tangled. Lips smashed. His hands found her tits, squeezing, thumbs flicking nipples until she gasped into his mouth.

Then he lifted her--arms under her thighs--and threw her down onto the kitchen island like she was nothing.

Her legs spread instinctively.

Her pussy was soaked, glistening in the soft light. Her lips were swollen, begging.

Trey dropped to his knees. Spread her wide.

His tongue hit her clit like lightning.

She screamed.

"Fuck!" she gasped, one hand slapping the counter, the other clawing at his hair.

He licked, sucked, devoured her like a man starved. His spit mixed with her slick, dripping off her cunt. She was shaking. Begging. Coming before he even slid a finger inside.

He pulled back, face soaked.

"Goddamn," he muttered. "This pussy's fuckin' ready."

Then--he lined up his cock and drove in.

One long, stretching thrust.

Lacey screamed--sharp, raw, guttural. Her back arched, nails raked the counter.

"Jesus--fuck--it's so much--"

He paused halfway in.

"That's the tip, baby."

Then he thrust deep, to the hilt.

Her world exploded.

Her orgasm tore through her like a bomb, her cunt clenching so hard it forced a wet squirt down his shaft and onto the floor.

He held her there, cock buried deep, one hand gripping her throat as he fucked her hard on the island--each thrust sending shockwaves through her body.

"You like that, slut?" he growled. "You love this big black cock stuffing that tight little hole?"

"Yes--yes--yes!" she cried. "I love it--I need it--please don't stop--"

He flipped her onto her stomach, slammed back in.

Her scream hit the cabinets, echoed.

"Keep moaning," he hissed. "Let the neighbors hear what a fucking whore you are."

"I am a whore," she sobbed. "I'm your slut. Use me. Use all of me."

He pulled out.

Grabbed her hair.

Dragged her off the counter, down to the kitchen tile floor.

She landed on her knees with a thud, tits bouncing, hair wild, sweat glistening on her skin.

She looked up at him.

Mascara smudged, eyeliner streaked from the tears of earlier.

"Open."

She opened her mouth wide, stuck out her tongue.

He slid in deep.

She choked instantly, eyes going wide. Saliva spilled over her lips, coating his cock. Her mascara and eyeliner smudged, mixed with her tears as it started to stream slowly down her cheeks in dark, messy trails as he began to fuck her throat--raw, guttural, uncontrolled.

Oh my god--he 's going to break me. I'm going to die with his cock in my throat and I'll smile doing it.

Her vision blurred. Her lungs burned. Her jaw ached from the stretch of him. And yet, she never tried to pull away. She wanted to feel used. Needed to feel it. To be nothing more than a tight, wet fuckhole for this man and his enormous cock.

"Fuck," he groaned, both hands gripping her head now. "Look at this little cumslut. Fucking made to suck cock, huh?"

She couldn't even nod. His hips snapped forward, and her nose smashed into his pelvis, throat bulging obscenely with his length. Her makeup was ruined. Her lips were raw. Drool and spit coated her chin, dripping to her tits.

And still--she moaned.

It vibrated around him and he snarled, pulling back just enough to see her face. Mascara ruined, tears staining her cheeks, but her eyes--those wild, glassy eyes stared up at him like she was addicted.

Because she was.

She wanted his cum. Down her throat. On her face. Inside her. Everywhere.

When he pulled out with a slick pop, she coughed, spit stretching in a long string from her lips to his tip.

Her voice was ruined. "More."

He yanked her up by her hair and pulled her through to the living room. She stumbled, dazed, used, glowing.

"Get on the couch," he growled.

She collapsed onto it, trembling, sopping wet, lips still parted like she was begging for more.

He didn't give her time to recover. He was on her, in her, filling her again with long, deep strokes.

This time, she clung to him. Her hands on his back, nails dragging down his sweaty skin, thighs spread wide around his hips.

Her thoughts were gone. There was no past. No marriage. No name.

Only his cock.

Only the stretch. The pressure. The depth.

Only the endless, echoing slap of skin on skin.

Only Trey.

He flipped her over, bent her across the couch back, and pounded her like she was nothing but something to fuck--something to mark.

"Tell me who you belong to," he growled, slapping her ass hard.

"You!" she screamed, nearly sobbing. "I'm your slut--fuck me harder--break me open--"

She came again, violently. Her body seized and shook, and she collapsed forward, gasping like she'd been pulled out of deep water.

Then he grabbed her again.

Dragged her to the rug like an animal with a prize between his teeth.

He threw her down, mounted her.

"Your pussy's dripping," he said, his voice almost feral. "You ready for me to take your ass?"

She turned her face toward him, tears still on her cheeks, sweat and spit glistening on her skin.

"Please," she whispered. "Please take it. I want you to have all of me. Every fucking inch. I want you to own my ass."

He didn't even need lube, she had made such a slimy sticky mess of his cock already.

He pressed the head to her tightest hole.

She gasped, the pressure already making her eyes roll back.

Then he pushed.

"Fffuck--" she moaned, body going rigid.

Her ass burned as it stretched around him, her breath punched from her lungs.

But then--she relaxed. Breathed. Took it.

He slid in deeper. His hands gripped her hips so tight they'd bruise.

"You're mine now," he growled. "This ass, this pussy, this throat--all of it."

"Yours," she sobbed. "I'm yours--your little married whore--do anything you want--just keep fucking me--"

He slammed into her. Again. Again.

Her face smashed into the rug. Her fingers gripped it in tight fists as her ass was filled, stretched, claimed.

When he reached under and rubbed her clit, she came again--so hard she screamed into the carpet and squirted across his thighs.

He didn't stop.

She was a mess now. Leaking from both holes. Sweat, spit, and tears covering her.

And still she begged.

Still she wanted more.

Still she whispered through moans:

"Fuck me... fuck me... never stop..."

Trey leaned over her, cock still buried in her ass, and grunted against her ear as he slammed in one final time.

Then--he came.

Hot, thick, endless.

Filling her with every twitch.

Her lips parted, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a cry, no sound escaping--just raw, overwhelming sensation.

Her body collapsed beneath him.

They lay there together, tangled in heat and filth, sticky and soaked.

The smell of sex was heavy in the air--musk, sweat, lube, and everything her body had given him.

His cock stayed inside her for a moment longer.

Finally, he pulled out, and she whimpered at the loss. His cum slid from her slowly, trailing down the curve of her ass, pooling on the rug between her thighs.

He leaned in close.

His voice low.

"Lacey... how long we got?"

She blinked, barely able to speak.

"My husband's away," she whispered. "He won't be back till tomorrow night..."

Trey grinned against her shoulder, kissed her cheek, then stood up.

His cock, still glistening, twitched.

"Then let's go make a mess of his bed."

--------

She barely remembered the walk upstairs.

Just hands.

His on her ass, her waist, her breasts. Fingers gripping, guiding, claiming. Just heat. Her thighs slick, inner walls still fluttering with aftershocks. Her skin sang where he touched her.

He shoved the bedroom door open and eyed the soft, pristine king-sized bed -- all neutrals and clean lines. He smirked.

"Bet he's never fucked you properly in this bed."

She didn't answer.

She didn't need to.

Trey glanced down at the bed, then looked at her. "Which side's yours?"

She pointed, breathless.

Without a word, he grabbed her wrist, dragged her to the other side--his side--and shoved her down.

"Not tonight," he growled. "Tonight, you cum where your husband sleeps."

Trey grabbed her, spun her around on the mattress. Crawled over her like a beast hunting something already broken in. He kissed her neck, her chest, sucked her nipples into his mouth one by one -- hard enough to make her cry out -- and growled as she writhed beneath him.

"You're so fucking wet," he muttered, dragging his tip through her folds. Her whole body jumped. "This pussy's starving."

"Then feed it," she gasped, wrapping her legs tight around his waist.

He plunged in -- hard. Deep. No warm-up. No teasing.

Her whole body snapped. Her back arched. Her mouth opened in a scream that never fully came out. Just raw breath.

"Yes--fuck--yes!"

He gripped the headboard and slammed into her. Over and over. Fast. Devastating.

The bed creaked.

The headboard pounded against the wall.

The mattress groaned beneath them.

"You feel that?" he hissed. "That stretch? That pressure?"

"Yes--Trey--don't stop--!"

"You won't even feel him after this."

"Make me yours, Trey--please--make me yours!"

She clawed at his back. Bit his shoulder. Moaned like she was being broken into all over again.

He flipped her.

Face down.

Ass up.

One hand in her hair.

The other locked around her hip tight enough to bruise for days.

He fucked her like a machine -- pure force. Her cries muffled by the pillow -- her husband's pillow -- while her nails dug into his side of the bed.

She came again. Hard. Then again. And again.

He didn't stop.

He stayed hard, fucked her through every spasm, every scream. He chased her pleasure like a man obsessed -- like her body was his new religion.

When he came, it was deep. Thick. Endless.

Hot cum filled her again, spilling out around his cock as her thighs twitched and trembled beneath him.

She collapsed, soaked, wrecked, face pressed into his side of the sheets.

But they weren't finished.

She recalls little 20 minutes of naps here and there.

A brief moment of rest. Her mind melted. Her body raw. Aching. Satisfied.

But then he was ready again. Always ready.

Later -- they fucked in the shower. Water running down her back as he pinned her against the tile, lifted her, and took her again while she screamed through echoes and steam.

Then he got on his knees. Ate her out slow -- methodical -- fingers deep in her, his tongue working lazy circles over her clit while she whimpered and came into his mouth, legs shaking.

She rode him after that.

Wild.

Breasts bouncing. Sweat pouring. Her head thrown back, screaming his name as she bounced on his cock like she wanted it lodged in her womb.

And still -- they weren't done.

In the final hour before sunrise, he laid her on her side. Slipped in from behind. Fucked her slow. Deep.

Long strokes that made her cry.

He whispered filth in her ear the entire time -- how she felt, how she looked, how good her body took him, how much she loved this cock. How she was never going back.

The house was quiet.

Lacey lay in bed. Sore in the best way.

Her thighs ached.

Her nipples throbbed.

Her entire body was a pulsing memory of Trey's cock -- stretched open, swollen, dripping. Marked.

She winced as she stretched, the ache between her legs a sweet, cruel reminder. She was still wet. Still leaking.

Her mouth curled into a smile.

She hadn't felt this way in years.

Used.

Satisfied.

Addicted.

Awake.

Her best friend used to say, once a size queen, always a size queen.

She'd laughed then. Said that life was in the past.

Now?

Now she knew.

She rose slowly. Her body tender. Wrecked. Glowing.

She wrapped herself in a robe, padded barefoot down the hall into her office. The chair was cool against her thighs.

She opened her laptop.

The screen blinked to life.

Blank.

Waiting.

She exhaled.

Then typed:

The Package Handler

by Lacey Covington

And she smiled -- not the smile of a housewife.

Not a woman pretending.

But the smile of a writer.

Of a woman who finally remembered who the fuck she really was.