Going for Gold Ch. 03

She checked the viewer count again. The numbers had climbed--not skyrocketed, but steadily, like droplets gathering into a stream. Three videos in two days, and she'd already gained over a thousand followers. Not bad for an Olympian who had been out of the public eye for god knows how long.

Her channel was live across Instagram, YouTube, and Facebook, but it was YouTube that felt the most limiting. She had to censor everything, follow rules that didn't fit the tone of what her audience clearly wanted. It was frustrating. She watched video after video about monetisation, algorithm manipulation, audience retention strategies. The advice was everywhere--but the freedom? That felt almost nonexistent. Honestly, it felt like she needed a digital marketing degree just to exist online. Everything was wrapped in 'community guidelines' and veiled threats.

The thumbnail had slipped past her a dozen times before--white text on a pastel background, cheerful and innocent. But something in the title landed differently tonight: Try OnlyFans. It's way less restrictive. You can actually be you.

Her finger hesitated on the trackpad, then clicked. The video began. A bubbly narrator walked her through the "freedom" of monetising authenticity. A space where content wasn't policed, where viewers paid directly, where success wasn't chained to algorithm whims or advertiser approval.

She paused it halfway, a lump rising in her throat as the tone shifted to "income alternatives" and "women like you." Her jaw tightened. Women like what, exactly? Desperate? Disposable?

She stared at the frozen frame. Her own distorted reflection hovered on the black edge of the screen--exhausted, uncertain, defiant.

She shut the laptop slowly. Let the silence wrap around her like a warning.

This wasn't the plan. This wasn't how she rebuilt. She didn't want this--not like that. Not by leaning into the easy path, the predictable trap. She was done letting strangers define her value by how much skin she showed. Wasn't she?

"You're not doing that," she said aloud, the words barely above a whisper but sharp enough to cut. "You don't need to go there. You can do this legit. You're more than your body. More than views. You don't need to fuck to get an audience."

The words hung in the air like fogged glass, fragile and already beginning to dissolve. She stood and paced the room slowly, arms crossed, heart racing--not from fear, but from anger. Anger that it was so easy for everyone to default to sex, to expectation. Anger that success for women always came tethered to something stripped, something sold.

She moved to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and waited as it began to hum. The silence beneath the appliance's slow build filled with her thoughts. With doubt. With the tightening coil of financial stress, unspoken ambition, and that strange, bitter envy she sometimes felt when she saw other women rising fast--because they played the game she didn't want to play.

"You don't need to do this the way they do," she muttered again, harsher now. "You're Mia fucking Torres. Olympian. Gold medallist. Discipline built you. You don't need to strip to get ahead."

But even as she said it, the image of her own body--powerful, cut, moving with control and heat--flashed behind her eyes. Her audience wanted it. Craved it. Every stretch, every curve, every pause. Her inbox was full of it--compliments, yes, but suggestions too. Enticements. Offers.

God knows, if she was the type to take them up on those offers--private trips, all-expenses-paid "collaborations," vague promises of "elevated content"--she could be living like Hollywood royalty within a month. She knew it. No more algorithm games. No more budgeting groceries. Just velvet sheets, luxury suites, and strangers who wanted to worship her in person. And no husband. Because god knows, he had too much character, pride and worth to stay around while she did that to him, her and their family.

And yet, the very thought made her stomach twist--tight, sharp, undeniable. Her hands moved to her abdomen without thinking, pressing lightly, as if she could ease it out, quiet it. But the feeling stayed. It wasn't shame exactly--it was dread. A different kind of fear. The kind that whispers you already know better.

"It would be easy," she muttered aloud, her voice quiet, bitter. "Too easy."

The offers in her inbox weren't vague. They weren't harmless. They were curated fantasy, typed by men who wanted to believe she might just say yes. A private island. A 'fitness collab' in Dubai. A silent NDA and a six-figure number attached. Her brain knew what it meant. Her body, shamefully, knew what it might feel like. That alone had her momentarily wonder.

She pressed her palms to her eyes. "You're not that woman," she told herself. "You don't want to be in a man's pocket. You're not for hire."

But still, the image unfurled inside her like silk slipping off a hanger--luxury, adoration, indulgence. Rooms where everything smelled like vanilla and danger. Her name spoken like a currency.

And that was the horror of it--how seductive the fantasy was. Because my fucking god, was it a temptation of no small kind.

But that wasn't the freedom she sought. It was just a different kind of cage. Gilded. Velvet-lined. High-thread-count. But still locked--from the outside by men with ill intent and no care for her wellbeing.

The teapot shrieked into the stillness like a warning she'd been trying to ignore. She moved on instinct, lifting it from the heat, pouring the boiling water with hands that trembled just enough to reveal more than fatigue.

How long could she keep resisting the pull, pretending her feet were planted when her soul was already tipping forward? How long before she started calling collapse another kind of liberation?

She carried the cup to the counter, sat, and wrapped both palms around it, seeking warmth she wasn't sure would reach her. Steam spiralled upward, fragile and fleeting. She watched it curl and vanish as if it could carry the weight of her indecision away with it.

But the thought lingered, stubborn and unshaken. It didn't drift. It rooted itself--deep and tangled. And no amount of silence could suffocate it.

OnlyFans wasn't just porn anymore. That was the line she kept repeating to herself, over and over, like a mantra she could almost believe. Fitness creators were using it. Nutritionists. Dancers. Real ones. Professionals. There were women who kept it tasteful. Empowering. There were entire corners of the platform that celebrated strength, control, sensuality--without sliding into degradation. Weren't there?

Her stomach twisted. But something had shifted. A crack in her resistance. A pull in her gut.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, stood up too fast, grabbed her phone off the counter. Her fingers moved before her doubt could catch up.

"Just look," she muttered. "Doesn't mean anything yet. Just look."

But she wasn't just looking. Within thirty seconds, she was scrolling. Within two minutes, she was downloading. Within five, she was creating a username.

By the time the kettle stopped its soft hiss, she'd already chosen a banner photo, written a short bio, and linked her payment details.

There was no dramatic decision. No cinematic swell of music. Just a tired woman in a hoodie, barefoot on cold tiles, clicking through a form.

And in that quiet, she gave in--not with resignation, but with resolve. This wasn't about surrender. It wasn't about showing skin or being consumed for someone else's pleasure. It was about defiance. About showing what strength looked like when it wasn't shaped by someone else's appetite.

She would make it work. On her terms. No legs spread for likes, no clickbait thumbnails begging for attention. Her power came from precision--discipline, endurance, muscle memory honed over years of relentless repetition. The art of gymnastics, the beauty of motion, the pulse of sweat and breath and absolute control--that was what she'd sell. Not her sexuality, but her mastery.

By hell or high water, she would prove them all wrong. She didn't need to moan on camera, or bounce on anything but a beam, to be worth watching. She would show the world that visibility did not have to mean vulnerability--that a woman could command a spotlight without disrobing under it.

She wasn't building a platform to be devoured.

She was building it to dominate.

She didn't want to become a sexual commodity again. That was what gymnastics had done to her at eighteen--turned her into an object, dissected and repackaged in slow motion. It wasn't just the tight leotards or the cameras following her every stretch; it was the way they spoke about her, around her, as if she were already a body for consumption. Less-than-subtle jokes from commentators about her 'pretzel gag' routines, remarks about her legs behind her head like it was a party trick. Studio panellists making note of her breasts, louder and fuller than most gymnasts', spoken with a tone that was half condemnation, half obsession.

The media hadn't praised her skill. They'd fixated on her shape, her movement, her barely-legal appeal. Every headline, every clip slowed down and zoomed in, turning her into a visual spectacle long before she had any real understanding of who she was. And god, for years after, she paid for it.

They decided she looked like Lucy Fox--not because she really did, but because it suited their narrative. A few loose similarities in angle or expression, maybe the shape of her mouth or the sharpness of her cheekbones, and suddenly she wasn't Mia Torres, accomplished Olympian anymore--she was 'Lucy Fox in a leotard.' The resemblance wasn't genuine. It was convenient. A manufactured excuse to sexualise her in public, to inject adult fantasy into the body of a teenage athlete.

That label followed her from forums to interviews, always framed like a harmless joke, but weighted with intention. It wasn't admiration--it was calculated reduction. Every time someone said it, what they were really doing was dismantling everything she'd earned, replacing years of discipline, sacrifice, and mastery with something vulgar and disposable. A fantasy. A punchline men could jerk off to, all while pretending it was just banter.

Ironically, the only comfort had come from Lucy Fox herself, the woman whose name had been lazily thrown around every time someone wanted to reduce Mia to a pornographic punchline. Late one night, after a particularly vicious wave of headlines, a private message arrived in Mia's inbox.

It wasn't long. It didn't need to be. Lucy had written: "You don't owe anyone an explanation for being both strong and beautiful. You're allowed to be who you want to be. You're allowed to be more than what they project onto you. You're allowed to be openly angry with them. Keep going. Don't shrink, don't let them take that from you. Reach out if you ever need anything. Much love. And btw, I saw your performance, you're amazing!"

That one message held more grace and emotional intelligence than anything Mia had ever received from the sporting bodies that claimed to protect her. It wasn't performative. It wasn't defensive. It was human. Empathic. Quietly powerful.

While others mocked her online--Does she bang like Lucy? Is she the gymnast version of Fox?--the woman herself had extended nothing but kindness. She didn't offer advice. She didn't try to explain anything away. She simply reminded Mia that she had the right to exist in her fullness, without apology.

And in that moment, Mia had felt something rare: seen without being sold.

Only a few years earlier, she'd had stable footing--good mental health, a confident sense of self, pride in her accomplishments. But after the Olympics, the fallout was silent and corrosive. She battled with self-image, her sense of worth melting beneath the pressure of knowing what people really saw when they looked at her. She questioned her desirability, her power, her orientation, even her voice. Was she into women? Was she pretending to be straight? Was she just performing what they expected? The confusion wrapped around her like a second skin.

She was reclaiming it now. Every stretch she filmed. Every clip she posted. This wasn't just content--it was a protest. This was about agency. About autonomy. About integrity clawed back from years of being everyone's fantasy but her own.

"You can do this the right way," she murmured, the words curling in her mouth like steam--hopeful, stubborn, desperate. "You don't need to sell sex. You're talented. You have substance. People want more than skin. They want your story."

She opened her camera roll. The thumbnails greeted her like old friends. Stretch routines. Controlled poses. Slow, deliberate lines of movement carved by breath and tension. Her body--sweating, straining, strong. Every clip was art, but it wasn't hard to see how someone might frame it as something else.

They do want this, she thought. The shapes. The sway. The compression of muscle and curve. But do they want me? The woman behind the body, the will behind the form?

Her thumb hovered above the app store icon, breath held. Then, as if afraid her resolve might shatter under too much thought, she tapped.

Not to second-guess the download--she'd already hit install, already stepped over the line. Now it was real. But now, finally, she was opening it. Stepping fully into it. She tapped through the interface with the kind of deliberate confidence that only came after wrestling with yourself for days.

She checked her banner again, scrutinising every word, every font choice, making sure it struck the right tone--strong, clean, inviting. Not sensational. Not vague. She clicked into her bio and tweaked the wording, trimming the fluff, sharpening the focus. Did it sound like someone you'd trust for serious movement training? Would it hook someone looking for strength, not spectacle?

Then she opened her saved drafts, each one a carefully edited clip--her stretching, training, breathing through the kind of poses that took years to earn. She watched them critically, making sure the lighting didn't invite misinterpretation, that her movements looked deliberate, not suggestive. Nothing was accidental. Nothing cheap. Every second was designed to say: this is power, not porn.

She hadn't told anyone. Not even Dale. But the moment had come.

She hit publish on her first post.

It wasn't porn. It wasn't even suggestive. It was her, coiled into a backbend so deep her forearms pressed flat to the mat, her face serene, her spine fluid. And anyone who wanted to see it as sexual, well, they wouldn't be welcome here on her page.

No filter. No edits. No apology.

The caption read: Control is a language. I speak it fluently.

She was doing everything by the book--hashtags, thumbnails, short teaser clips. She responded to comments when she could, liked replies, even reposted one fan's yoga attempt with a caption that read, "Start where you are. Just start." She responded to comments when she could, liked replies, even reposted one fan's yoga attempt with a caption that read, "Start where you are. Just start."

But still, she wished it moved faster.

She wanted traction, momentum--something big. She wanted this to work. Every part of her craved acceleration, she just couldn't handle the idea of anything slowing down, stagnating. It was like her body wasn't the only thing wound tight lately. Like something inside her was aching for release--not just orgasmic, but existential. A need to be recognised for who she truly was, not as a mother, not as a wife. But as Mia. Raw. Real. Still burning.

An hour later, she was hot and sweating after her very first livestreamed workout. The mat was damp beneath her, her hair sticking slightly to the back of her neck. She'd fumbled a bit at the start--one mistimed breath, a few laggy seconds--but by the end, it felt natural. Real. She laid back on her forearms, chest rising and falling, and looked into the camera lens.

"Alright... I'm thinking of doing a live Q&A soon," she said, her voice breathy from exertion. "If you've got questions, drop them in the comments--if there's enough interest, I'll schedule it."

She smiled, wiping a line of sweat from her temple with the back of her hand. "Anything goes--well... within reason. Let's see what you've got," she said, her smile lingering, but her eyes betraying the slow burn of unmet need.

She hadn't been properly filled in three days. Dale's mouth and fingers had done their best, and the toy helped--but it wasn't the same. She missed the real thing. Missed the heat, the stretch, the depth. That delicious moment of surrender when she was fully taken. She swallowed, her thighs clenching unconsciously. It wasn't just arousal anymore. It was something deeper. A gnawing ache. A wanting that lived in her bones.

That evening, she heard the front door swing open. Dale's voice called out from the hallway, warm and full of satisfaction: "I'm home, baby... for the next three days!"

She walked out from the kitchen with purpose, grabbed him by the crotch through his jeans, and murmured, "Now... shower."

Steam coiled around them like breath made visible, curling off slick tile and taut skin. The hot spray hissed against their bodies, fogging the glass until the world outside the shower vanished completely. It was just them now--heat, skin, tension--and the aching kind of want that didn't wait for permission.

Kneeling beneath the hot stream, she wrapped her lips around him, tongue swirling with practiced urgency, her mouth a tight, wet seal that milked him with hungry precision. The humid air made every obscene slurp louder, wetter, more feral. Her cheeks hollowed with each suck, a low moan vibrating around the thick length of him as he slid deeper.

His hand slammed to the tile above her head, knuckles whitening, muscles locked. He looked down, met her eyes--and didn't look away. His cock disappeared between her lips, deeper than comfort, stretching her throat as she stared up, wild and willing.

"God," he groaned, his voice rough with awe and disbelief. "You could make money on film looking like that..."

Her eyes sparkled at the comment, her mouth still full of him. She moaned deliberately around his shaft, imagining it--cameras, lights, strangers watching her devour him without shame. A shiver rippled down her spine, not from cold but from pure, unfiltered heat.

Without breaking rhythm, she reached for the shower ledge, her fingers curling around the thick, dark silicone toy. She suctioned it to the wall with a firm, wet press, her eyes still locked on his as if daring him to ask what came next. Something primal in her clicked--her body surging into overdrive, like a switch had flipped or a turbo button slammed down. Just the thought of being watched like this, of his cock buried in her throat while eyes devoured her from screens or shadows--it detonated something in her.

A shudder tore through her. Her pussy clenched hard around the toy, and a sharp, involuntary cry vibrated around his shaft. She came--fast, brutal, overwhelming--as if her body had been waiting for this permission to unravel. Not from touch, not from friction, but from the sheer filth of the thought: him watching her suck, strangers watching her suck. The shame of it. The thrill of it. The freedom of it. Her orgasm ripped through her thighs and stomach like electricity. She didn't stop moving. She couldn't. Her hips rocked harder, deeper, greedier as the aftershocks pulsed through her, mouth still stuffed full, eyes still burning into his.

And he knew. He saw it. He felt it. Her whole body spasming, swallowing him deeper, owning the moment.

""What're you doing?" he asked, his voice half-laughing, half-gasping.

She looked up at him, a wicked grin spreading across her lips. "Trying something new."

She turned, hands splayed against the slick tiles, the heat of the shower curling around her like silk. Her heart pounded--not from exertion, but from that reckless, buried hunger she'd tried to suppress all week. With a low breath, she angled her hips and backed onto the toy, the blunt head finding her slick entrance and pressing firmly. It nudged, then intruded, and the sensation hit sharp: not gentle, not slow--full. Her breath hitched, her back arched.

She moaned under her breath and tilted her head, looking back over her shoulder at him. "Do you ever wonder..." she gasped, her voice thick with heat, "what it would be like to actually do it? For real? Both of you--one in my mouth, one in my ass. On camera."

Her breath caught, her eyes fluttering as her body clenched involuntarily around the toy inside her. "Just once," she whispered, trembling. "Just once... spitroasted, like I was made for it."

Her words hung in the steam between them, electric and wild, as her body clenched around the toy, already imagining the lights, the lens, the voyeurism turned into power.

His gaze didn't flinch. There was no recoil, no awkward pause. Just a slow, curling smile that said he was picturing it too.

"You want that?" he asked, voice thick. "You want me there, watching you get filled like that?"

Her lips parted around a breathless laugh as she pulled off him, stroking his length with her soaked, shaking hand. "I don't know," she said, though the flicker in her eyes said otherwise. "But when you look at me like that... it makes me want to say yes."

He groaned, hips pushing into her grip. "God, Mia. Fuck, that's hot."

"I just... sometimes I think about it," she whispered, running her palm up and down his shaft, smearing his precum with the same care she gave to chalking her hands before a vault. "About being used like that, but with you there. Keeping me steady. Letting me let go."

He was breathless now, his eyes blown wide with lust. "Would you want me in your mouth or watching while someone else--?"

"I want both," she said, her voice low, unwavering. "You in my mouth. Someone else behind. But you're still in control. You always are."

His jaw flexed, hand drifting toward her cheek. "You've never said that before."

"I've never felt safe enough to."

The toy still throbbed inside her, her body clenching, trembling. But now the heat wasn't just physical--it was connection, possibility, a spark they hadn't lit before. Her fist worked around him as he stared down at her, every muscle tense, his breath stuttering.

She grinned, playful, raw, and whispered, "Would you help me make it happen? One day?"

He nodded rapidly, breath shaky. "If it's this good just talking about it... one day, yeah. I think we could explore new things. Just... give me time."

He stepped closer and kissed her--slow, deep, as if sealing something sacred. But she wasn't finished.

Her hand moved back to his cock, still hard, still twitching from impending release. She stroked him with slow, teasing pulls, watching his breath catch again. Her thumb dragged over the sensitive head, and his hips flinched.

"Imagine it," she whispered, her voice low, coaxing, threading through the steam. "Me... between both of you. On my knees. One in my throat, one in my ass. Being used. Worshipped. Being the fucking slut I know I can be..."

He groaned, his eyes dazed. "Jesus, Mia... fuck that's got me hard..."

"I'd look up at you like this," she murmured, dropping to her knees again, pumping him with slick, confident strokes. "Mouth wide, spit running down my chin. Eyes begging. You'd hold my head. You'd guide me. You'd be the one to tell him when to stop or keep going. Slam your cock down my throat like you hate me, make me cum like you love me..."

His cock thickened again in her grip, the heat pulsing back fast. "You'd let that happen?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"I'd let you make it happen..." she said. "I'd need it. But only if you're the one in charge. If you make me..."

She kissed the tip of his cock, then licked him slowly, her tongue flicking under the head. "You'd be in my mouth. Deep. Like before. But I'd be shaking because there's something else--stretching me open behind. And you'd see it. Feel it. Know exactly how full I am."

He swayed slightly, overcome. "Fuck, baby... that's insane."

She smiled, slow and filthy. "We can do what we want. No one else decides. Just you and me."

He nodded, barely able to speak. "If it's this good... just imagining it... one day, yeah. I think we could explore that. Just... give me time, it's... intense."

And beneath it all, the toy inside her still throbbed, waiting for her next move. Hot water cascaded down her back and over her trembling thighs, steam rising off her skin in shimmering waves as she braced herself, riding it harder, faster, her moans rising with each bounce. Her slick folds quivered with every thrust, tender pink lips parting and pulsing with each motion. Her palm worked Dale's cock in time with her rhythm--slick, sure, her grip stroking him with greedy reverence.

"Tell me what you want," she breathed, breath hitching as the toy filled her again and again. "Tell me what you really want, baby."

His head tipped back against the tile, eyes fluttering closed. But his voice came low, rough, real: "I want you happy," he said. "I think... I want all of that... it'd be hot... I just need to be sure."

Her breath caught, body clenching again. Not from the toy. Not from his cock. But from the truth in his voice. From how deeply she believed him.

She wanted it, needed it, to be filled. To be taken. Even violated--in the most sensual, willing way. That trembling cusp of pain and ecstasy she hadn't touched in years, now crashing back like a wave breaking in her core.

A gasp caught in her throat as her lips found his cock again, desperate to stay connected. His taste mingled with steam and her own shallow, trembling breaths. She moaned around him, hips beginning to rock, the toy driving up into her as she matched the rhythm with her mouth. Her thoughts spiraled--dirty, primal, unstoppable. She wanted more. All of it. Her mouth, her pussy, her ass--every inch of her body filled, used, stretched until she forgot her name.

She let go of the rhythm briefly, pulled back to pant against his shaft, voice shaking with hunger. "God, Dale... I want it all. I want to be fucked until I can't think--filled everywhere. Used all night. You in my throat. Something in my ass. Another in my pussy. All of it. At once."

He groaned, every muscle in his body tightening as he looked down at her. Her mouth was open, lips slick, eyes wild. The filth of her confession only made her more radiant.

She grinned up at him, eyes locked, and took him deep again--her moan wrapping around his cock like a siren call as she rode the toy with growing desperation, her body already clenching in readiness for the next wave.

Memories flared like sudden lightning--wet skin under moonlight, being filled from behind while another groaned into her mouth, the ache of stretching, the shock of pleasure. All she was missing now was the third--the brutal, relentless fullness in her ass that had once made her scream into the water. Her body knew it. Wanted it. Clenched for it.

He kissed her deeply then, stealing her moan, her air, before pulling back just enough to murmur against her lips, "God, this is so fucking hot... watching you like this... you look incredible." His voice was thick, reverent, almost awed.

She grunted softly, never breaking rhythm, her cheek brushing his thigh as she pulled back on him with her mouth. "You like that?" she managed between gasps, her lips slick with spit and need. "You like seeing me stretched like this? Filled..." Her words melted into a moan as her hips ground harder against the toy, the pressure deepening, her body frantic.

He groaned, fingers brushing down her spine. "Fuck yes. Keep going, baby... just like that."

She sucked him again, wet and hungry, her lips working up and down his throbbing, veiny manhood, moaning onto him as she rocked, fighting to get it deeper, deeper, she wanted the hurt depth brought with it in her current state. Her body trembled, not just from the pressure deep inside, but from a sudden flood of old memories she didn't dare speak aloud. She didn't think he could handle the stories. Not the real ones. Not yet.

"God, I... I'm close..." she gasped, pulling her mouth off him just long enough to speak, voice low and hoarse. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, the corner of her mouth curling. "Do I look good like this?" she whispered. "Do I look good being spitroasted?"

His eyes darkened. He nodded slowly, his voice gravelly. "Is that really what you want or is this just talk?"

She didn't answer with words--just took him back into her mouth, tongue swirling around the tip, salty precum tickling her tastebuds, she bobbed up and down with renewed hunger, her eyes never leaving his. That was answer enough.

He groaned low in his throat, hips twitching, his hand tightening against the tile as he throbbed in her mouth. With a deep, guttural moan, he came--hot, thick, pulsing down her throat as she held him in, swallowing around every wave of it, eyes fluttering, her body already unraveling.

She bucked hard onto the toy, her orgasm tearing through her like it had been waiting at the edge all along. Her thighs trembled. Her knees almost gave out. She moaned around him, choked slightly, and came again--sharp, breathless, and loud.

When it was over, she pulled back slowly. His cock slipped from her lips, spit-slick and twitching. She stood, unsteady, water cascading down her flushed skin.

Neither of them spoke right away. The silence between them wasn't empty--it was thick with emotion, power, an undercurrent of unsureness flowed through the moment.

She raised her head and looked at him with something raw in her eyes, and he looked back, dazed, breathing hard.

He broke the silence first. "That was... incredible," he said, voice still hoarse with aftershock.

Something clicked in her chest. Not panic, exactly--but a need to ground it. To make sure it hadn't shifted anything too far.

"You know it was just all talk, right?" she said gently, brushing water from her lashes. Her voice trembled just enough to give her away. "I'm happy. With you. Just you."

He nodded, stepping in closer, his hand warm on her waist, grounding her. "I know, baby. I do. But you really like talking like that during. I can tell. I'm okay with it. Totally."

She searched his face for hesitation, for anything unspoken--but there was only openness, warmth. Still, a strange tightness bloomed behind her ribs, not from guilt, but something she couldn't quite name. Permission? A green light she hadn't asked for?

"It just... comes out of me in the moment," she murmured. "Like something raw. Maybe even messed up. But it's just talk. I swear."

"I know," he repeated, softer now. His thumb brushed her side, his eyes gentle but lit with something else--something curious.

She watched him carefully, the way he wasn't pulling away, wasn't shifting uncomfortably. If anything, he was leaning into her. There was no suspicion, no judgment. Just... a presence.

It steadied her, even as something inside her twisted.

"It's like there's a voice in me that rises up and takes over," she added. "I don't know where it comes from, but it's real. I like it. I like what it does to me... I want to explore it".

His breath caught faintly, not quite a gasp. "It does something to me too. I've never seen you like that. It's... wild. Hot. Honest. I want to as well..."

Her heart thudded. Honest. I want to as well. Words that wrapped around her like heat, she felt her loins stir again.

She smiled slowly, kissed him deeply--wet, grateful, searching. In his kiss, she didn't feel judged. She felt invited, safe, comforted.

She rested her forehead to his, voice quieter now, real. "You know I've done most of that before," she murmured. "Beijing. I told you."

He nodded gently, letting her speak.

"Back then, it felt like I was chasing something, or trying to disappear inside the noise. And I know it hurt you. I know what it cost. But it wasn't the act that was wrong, not really. The act was... incredible." She hesitated, her thumb brushing a bead of water from his chest. "It was the honesty that was missing. That's what made it ugly. That's what broke everything. I loved it, Dale. I did. And that scared me more than anything. But I can't keep denying that part of me--not to you, and not to myself."

He looked at her with that calm stillness she'd always trusted in him. "You're not hurting me," he said. "You're being honest. That's what I want. Always."

She blinked, surprised by the ease in his voice. "Really? Even after everything?"

He nodded, a slow smile forming. "Mia, I've spent a lot of time being angry at things I didn't understand. But I get it now. It wasn't the sex. It was the secrecy. The wall it built between us."

She searched his face, disbelieving for a moment. "So you don't think it makes me... broken?"

"No," he said gently. "I think it makes you honest. And maybe you're still figuring it out--but I don't think you're broken."

She laughed softly, a little breathless. "You're more open to all this than I thought."

He shrugged, voice low. "I meant it when I said I want this. That includes the wild parts. The messy parts. The ones we haven't figured out yet."

She pressed her lips to his again, deeper this time. When she pulled back, he kept his hands on her hips and spoke quietly. "I just need time to think about it all. Not because I'm uncomfortable with you--just because I want to really understand it before we take it any further."

She nodded, a flicker of concern in her eyes, but he caught her chin gently. "I uh... I'm happy to use it when we're together--when we're turned on. Those thoughts, those words? They're hot as hell. I get why you need it. And I love how you open up during."

She blinked. "So... just not in real life yet?"

"Not yet," he said. "But I'm not saying no. I just want to be all in if we ever do more. Not half-sure. Not second-guessing it the next day. When I'm ready, I'll be all in. And I will be. I really believe that." He paused, then added, "But I'm not gonna deny it--seeing you filled in every part like that... it's a hot as hell image. It really is."

She smiled slowly, eyes burning with the start of a new hunger. Without breaking eye contact, she took his hand and walked them both to the bed. In her other hand, she carried the toy--dark and slick. She grabbed the lube from the drawer beside the mattress, laid it down, and glanced back at him with something halfway between confidence and confession.

"I've been practicing," she said softly, voice low but unashamed. "A lot lately. I don't know why... I've just felt the need."

She squeezed a ribbon of lube onto her fingers and reached back between her cheeks, the slick gel warming slightly against her skin. The hot shower streamed down her spine in glistening rivulets, tracing the sculpted curves of her back, cascading over the dimples at the base and dripping rhythmically from the swell of her hips. Steam wrapped her body like breath made visible, turning every surface into a glistening canvas of want.

Her breathing hitched. She leaned forward, tits brushing the mattress, ass tilted high, and with a slow, steady motion, she clasped both cheeks and spread them wide--obscenely wide--offering herself to the air, to the moment, to the heat that seemed to come from inside and out. Her asshole puckered and flexed, the tight ring twitching with anticipation, as if it sensed what was coming and had been waiting all day to be filled.

Her fingers circled slowly, deliberately, teasing the outer rim, her breath catching with each pass. The lube made her glide smooth, and soon, with trembling precision, she began to ease a finger in. Her moan was soft and strained, the stretch real even with all her practice. Her labia quivered, pink and swollen from heat and hunger, visibly pulsing with every beat of her heart.

She pulled back slightly, coated the toy with more lube, then laid herself down against the sheets, legs spread wide, her whole body gleaming under the shower mist like polished marble set aflame.

Guiding it with one hand, she angled it toward her ass and pressed. The tip eased in--no hesitation, no strain. She let out a long, trembling breath as it slipped in smooth, deep.

Dale's mouth parted slightly as he watched. "Wow... I can see," he murmured, voice hoarse.

"Come here," she murmured.

Dale moved toward her, mesmerised, his gaze locked to hers.

"I want to feel it all," she whispered. "I want to feel you--everywhere."

He climbed onto the bed, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped her hip. She looked up at him, eyes fierce, raw with want.

"Slow," she said. "I want you slow. In my pussy. While I'm already full."

As he pushed into her, inch by inch, her body arched to meet him, the stretch drawing a moan from her lips--low, breathy, half-disbelieving. Her head tipped back against the pillow, and she gasped, the feeling overwhelming.

"Oh god," she whispered, her voice thick, breath shaking. "I want this to be real. I want it so badly. Just like this. Completely filled. Everything used."

Her fingers dug into the sheets as she rocked her hips to meet his thrusts, every movement pressing the toy deeper while he stretched her from the front. "Just imagine," she panted, "me between two of you, completely taken... I want to feel that again. I need it, Dale. I fucking need it."

He groaned into her neck, thrusting a little deeper, a little slower. Her muscles clung to him with rhythmic urgency, squeezing and milking him with every inch. He could feel the shape of the toy through the wall between them, a dense, unrelenting pressure that made her feel even tighter--hotter--more overwhelming. It wasn't just sex anymore. It was immersion. Her body massaged him with every movement, pulling him in deeper, wringing sensation from him until his breath came in ragged bursts.

"Oh god," she moaned, voice breaking. "Please... I want it. I want it so bad."

She writhed beneath him, breath catching, legs trembling.

"Fuck, Dale... let me have it," she begged again, her voice raw. "Just like this. Please. Don't stop."

Another cry tore loose--ragged, high, and full of need. "Even just once... please... God, please..." Her voice cracked, hands gripping the sheets like lifelines. She gasped again, body trembling, eyes wild with something raw and pleading. "I'm begging you--let me have this. Let me feel it. I need it."

"You'll get it," he breathed, voice low and thick with promise, "Just give me time... just... anything new we do, we do together ok?"

She looked back, gasping, her breath catching in her throat as each thrust drove a fresh moan from her lips. "A--ah... oh god... yes..." Her voice shook, words breaking as the pressure mounted. "Abs... absolutely," she panted, eyelids fluttering. "We only... do new things... together." Her fingers clenched the sheets, back arching as she choked out the last part, raw and trembling. "I--I love you... so much..."