The Reluctant Hotwife Pt. 02

The Second Time's Worse

I stare at the motel room door like it might blink first.

Room 214. Rusted numbers bolted to a warped frame. The hallway smells like mildew and cheap cologne. My heels scuff against the carpet, and I swear the pattern is designed to make you dizzy. Or maybe that's just me.

I haven't knocked yet. I'm not sure I ever will. My hand hovers near the door like it belongs to someone else. Like maybe some version of me--braver, sluttier, more compliant--is supposed to be doing this.

But I'm the one who came. I drove here. I parked in the back, like Mark told me. Out of view. Out of reach. I even texted him when I got to the lot: "Here."

He replied a second later: "Good girl. Tell me everything after."

That was twenty minutes ago.

Now I'm frozen in the hallway, wearing a tank that is a little too tight and a skirt that rides up every time I breathe. I look like someone trying to be bold. I feel like someone trying not to cry.

He's in there. The guy. I don't know his name. Mark set it up, said he knew a guy from a message board who was "safe, discreet, experienced." Those words rattled in my head all week like loose screws.

I think he said the guy's name is Tony. Or maybe Tom. I don't remember. I don't want to.

The idea was: I knock. He opens. We talk. Maybe more. I decide how far it goes.

Mark's exact words: "Only what you're comfortable with."

But I know that this won't stop with conversation. I know this will end badly.

I shift my weight, feel the back of my thighs stick to the lining of my skirt. Sweat beads along my spine. The hallway is too warm. Or maybe I'm just burning from the inside out.

A door slams somewhere behind me, and I flinch. My heart spikes so hard I feel it in my teeth. This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.

But I lift my hand anyway. And I knock.

Two taps. Soft. Like I'm afraid to be heard.

The door opens almost immediately. Like he's been standing just on the other side, waiting.

He's older than I expected. Mid-fifties, maybe. Greying at the temples. Heavyset. Smiling, but not in a creepy way. Just... expectant. Like I'm here to deliver something. A package. A favor.

"You must be Carla," he says.

His voice is calm. Not deep. Not kind. Just calm.

I nod, even though I feel like I've already left my body. My voice doesn't work. My throat's too tight.

"Come in," he says, stepping aside.

And like an idiot, I do.

30 Days Earlier

We're fighting in whispers again.

The kind of argument that can't risk being loud. That hisses through clenched teeth and clenched jaws. That sounds like normal conversation if you're just walking past the door. But inside, everything's breaking.

"I said I don't want to do this again."

My arms are crossed, body curled into itself like I'm trying to fold away. The kitchen is too quiet. The dishwasher hums in the background, soft and steady, the only thing that's functioning like it's supposed to.

Mark leans against the counter, one hand gripping the edge like he needs it to keep from lunging. His knuckles are white. His jaw tight.

"You said you'd try," he says.

"I did. Twice. And both times I came home feeling like garbage."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

I turn away from him and open the fridge just to do something with my hands. I'm not even hungry. I stare at a half-used lemon like it holds some kind of answer.

He doesn't respond. I can feel him staring at me. Waiting. Winding up for another pitch.

I close the fridge. "You think it turned me on to have some guy paw at me in a parking lot? You think it made me feel sexy, Mark? He called me experienced like it was a fetish. Like I'm some kind of porn category."

"You let him," he says quietly. "You didn't stop him."

"I didn't know how."

The words come out sharper than I meant. But true. God, they're so fucking true. I didn't stop Greg. Or Dylan. Or Ron before them. Although things didn't go all the way with them, I came home feeling used and humiliated.

"I let it happen because you wanted me to. Because I didn't know how to say no without disappointing you."

Mark pushes off the counter, walking toward me slow, hands out like he's trying to calm a skittish animal.

"I just thought... it helped last time," he says. "After Dylan, we were--"

"We weren't better. You were better."

I step back from him, my spine brushing against the cold edge of the sink.

"You finally got hard. That was the miracle, wasn't it? You fucked me like it meant something, like you couldn't get enough. And you know what I was thinking the whole time?"

He doesn't answer.

I answer for him.

"I was thinking about how I let a boy finger me in a dirty truck while he moaned about how into older women he is. I was thinking about the way I wanted to leave, and I didn't. About how I smiled and played along while my skin tried to crawl off my body."

His face twists, guilt blooming across it like a slow burn.

"You said it was my choice," I go on, voice brittle, "but it's not. Not when you bring it up every night. Not when you look at me like I'm broken if I don't follow through. You keep calling it a game, but I'm the one who has to play it. You just... watch."

Mark swallows hard, looking like he wants to say something but doesn't know where to start.

"I love you, Carla."

"I know," I say. And I mean it. I do know.

That's what makes this worse.

Because when he looks at me, I see love. Right next to the hunger. The obsession. The need that's swallowed everything else.

"You're beautiful," he says. "You don't even see it. When you're out there... men want you."

I laugh, but it comes out cracked. "They don't want me, Mark. They want an idea. A warm body with the right amount of lipstick and a dress short enough to look like an invitation. A warm body with a hot mouth or dripping Cunt. That's not the same."

"You could stop if you really wanted to."

I blink at him. "You'd let me?"

He doesn't say anything.

We both know the answer.

Friday Night

The top is too tight.

That was the point, I guess. A second-skin kind of thing. Thin straps, low-cut. No bra. Mark said it would be "liberating." He used that word like displaying my tits in public was something I wanted.

I feel exposed. The air conditioning bites at my nipples, which are hard enough to cut glass. My skirt rides high when I sit, leaving a triangle of bare thigh that even I can't ignore.

I cross my legs. Uncross them. Shift in my seat. Nothing helps.

And I'm still wearing panties.

Mark didn't like that. He didn't say it outright, but I saw the way his mouth tightened when I slipped them on. Not lacy or sheer or anything remotely theatrical. Just black cotton. Comfortable. Unapologetic.

"It defeats the purpose," he said, watching me from the bed like some disappointed director.

"No," I told him, voice flat. "It gives me one."

That ended the conversation. But not the tension. Not the expectation I felt slithering after me all the way to the car.

So now I'm here. Back at the same bar with the same too-bright lights, same too-slow music, same everything. Trying to look like someone who does this on purpose. Someone who wants to be here.

I sip my drink. Vodka tonic this time. Something clean. It doesn't help.

My skin feels loud. Like it's broadcasting every heartbeat, every twitch of discomfort. The top clings to me, pressing my breasts into high, deliberate curves. Every time I shift, I feel the fabric catch and stretch. Every time I breathe, someone notices.

Mark's watching. I know he is.

Somewhere, probably parked across the street or tucked into a booth at the back. He promised he wouldn't come in. Said it was my night. "Just see what happens."

I didn't agree to that. I didn't agree to anything.

But I'm here.

My phone buzzes in my purse. I don't look. I know what it says. "You look incredible."

Or maybe "You're doing so good, baby."

Validation dressed up like support. I can't tell the difference anymore.

A man walks past, mid-thirties maybe, gives me a once-over. Doesn't stop. Just catalogues me like an ad he's already decided not to click on. My stomach twists. I failed.

I didn't want to come tonight. I said as much when Mark brought it up on Tuesday.

"Just go," he'd said, eyes bright, hopeful. "You don't even have to talk to anyone. Just... be there. Be seen."

I asked him why.

He didn't have an answer. Not a real one. Just that same look. That hungry, twitchy gaze that comes alive the second I start to hesitate.

"You'll look so hot," he whispered, sliding his hand between my legs. "Just thinking about you out there... it drives me crazy."

So now I'm sitting here, sipping a drink I don't want, wearing clothes that don't feel like mine, waiting for something to happen.

The bartender glances my way. I nod for another round.

And then I feel it.

A presence. Not just someone walking past. Not casual. Intentional.

I glance up. An older man. Sixties maybe. Silver hair, neat button-down, wedding ring still on like it's part of the uniform. His eyes lock onto mine like he's already decided something.

My pulse skitters.

I feel Mark watching. I don't know where he is, but I feel it. Like a wire running between us, humming with tension. This is what he's been waiting for. The moment when the night might tip.

The man smiles. Small. Confident.

And then he starts walking toward me.

My breath catches.

The drink is cold in my hand, but my skin burns. My thighs are bare. My top is nearly transparent under the bar lights. I cross my arms, then uncross them. Too obvious. Too guarded.

I sit still. Frozen. Posed.

And as the man closes in, I realize something:

It's already happening.

He smells like clean laundry and something musky underneath--aftershave, maybe. Or soap that's trying too hard. He slides onto the stool next to me without asking, his shoulder brushing mine like we already know each other.

"Evening," he says. Deep voice. Measured. Like he's done this before.

I nod. I try to smile. It feels like someone else's mouth on my face.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks, already gesturing to the bartender before I respond.

"Sure," I say. Reflex.

"Vodka tonic, right?"

I blink. "How'd you know?"

He shrugs. "Lucky guess."

It wasn't. He was watching me. Probably longer than I realized.

The drink arrives and I wrap my fingers around the glass like it's something to hold onto.

"I'm James," he offers. "You?"

"Carla."

His smile sharpens just a bit. Not creepy. Just knowing. Like he's been waiting for someone to say that name.

"Nice to meet you, Carla."

He lets the silence hang for a beat too long. Not awkward, exactly. Just loaded. Like he wants me to fill it with something--flirting, teasing, availability. I don't.

"So," he says, leaning in slightly, "are you waiting for someone? Or just... open to conversation?"

Open.

The word makes my stomach twist.

"Conversation's fine," I manage. My voice sounds like it's on delay.

He smiles again. Pleased.

His eyes sweep over me--not shy, not subtle. My bare shoulders. My breasts. My nipples. The sharp line of my skirt against my thigh. I don't move. I feel like a display.

"You have a very elegant look," he says. "Classy, but... inviting."

I almost laugh. The top I'm wearing is one wardrobe malfunction away from an R rating. But he means it as a compliment, so I nod. Smile. Sip.

His hand touches my knee.

Just that. Resting. Light pressure.

It's a perfectly normal gesture. For a second, I don't even register it. And then I do.

It's happening. I should pull away. But I don't. I do nothing.

Mark's voice flickers in my head: "Just let yourself go a little."

James talks. I don't absorb the words. Something about work. A recent divorce. The usual. I smile when I'm supposed to. I throw in a "That sucks" when he pauses for sympathy. His hand starts to move.

Upward.

Fingers tracing a line just above the knee, slow and careful, like he's testing how far he can go. I tense. Not visibly. But inside, my muscles coil like they're ready to run.

I let him keep going.

His hand reaches mid-thigh. His thumb starts making small, slow circles. My legs feel like they're not mine.

I nod along to whatever he's saying, but my whole body is screaming. I feel hot and tight and hollow all at once. Like I'm onstage and the spotlight is burning.

This is what Mark wanted for me.

To be touched. To be watched.

I sip my drink again, hoping it will quiet everything.

James leans in closer. His voice drops. "You're very sexy, you know."

I want to say, No, I'm trying to look like someone who is. But I don't.

Instead, I murmur, "Thanks."

His hand inches higher. Just below the edge of my black panties. Skin on skin. Warm and assertive.

"You like this." he says. Low. Confident.

I hesitate.

Then I nod.

My skin crawls.

His fingers press slightly harder, moving higher. Almost grazing my panties. The ones Mark told me not to wear.

"You're trembling," James whispers.

"Cold," I lie.

His smile is small and satisfied. "Let me warm you up."

His fingers slip under the edge of my panties, fingers sliding along my slit. The sensation is heat and nausea and confusion all at once. I feel like I'm being split down the middle--Carla the woman, and Carla the performance.

I let it happen.

I smile, because that's what I'm supposed to do.

Inside, I'm clenching so tight I think I might snap in half.

His finger is in the folds of my slit. I didn't realize I was wet until he touched me--not turned on, not aroused. Just wet.

I don't know if it's my body reacting or rebelling.

James is talking again, something low and smooth in my ear, but I can't hear it over the sound of my own pulse. My heartbeat is so loud it feels like it's echoing through my teeth.

He leans closer. His breath brushes my neck. "You're so soft."

My whole body stiffens.

I want to lean away. I want to tell him no. But my lips are locked in a neutral smile, the kind you give when a stranger compliments your shoes and you don't know how to respond.

His hand moves again, slower now. Intentional. His finger is tracing circles over my clit.

And still--I don't stop him.

Because stopping him would be breaking the scene.

And if I break the scene, I have to admit what this is. That I'm sitting at a bar on a Friday night, letting a man I don't want touch me, because my husband gets off on pretending this was my idea.

"You're so responsive," James whispers.

He says the word like it's a treat. Like it means something that isn't filthy.

I shift in my seat, trying to disguise the twitch of revulsion. He takes it as arousal.

His fingers press harder, teasing a rhythm that doesn't match anything I feel. My breath catches, but not from pleasure.

I'm performing.

Every move, every glance, every shiver--I'm editing in real-time, managing my face, my body, my posture. Playing the woman Mark wants. The "hot-wife." The good wife.

James presses his mouth against my neck. Not quite a kiss. Just breath and pressure.

"I could make you come right here," he says, his voice wet against my skin.

My stomach clenches. I'm not sure if it's from fear or rage or shame.

Maybe all three.

My hand grips the edge of the bar like it's a lifeline. "Maybe... not here."

He chuckles. "No one's watching."

But someone is.

Mark. Somewhere. I can feel him in the air, in the way my phone buzzed twice and I still haven't checked it. I know what he wants. He wants details. He wants me to ride this out. To come home flushed and wrecked and whisper it all back into his ear while he finally, finally gets hard.

James's hand moves again.

"You're soaked."

No, I'm not.

I'm just here.

I close my eyes. Not because it feels good--but because I can't look at anything without wanting to leave my body.

My voice comes out thin. "Maybe we should go somewhere else."

James pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Yeah?"

I nod.

Not because I want to.

Because this is what comes next.

The car smells like leather and peppermint breath mints. It's clean, expensive, impersonal. Like a rental. Like something made for quick, quiet transactions.

The second the door shuts, James is on me.

His mouth crashes into mine--wet, forceful, too much tongue, like he thinks this is how porn starts. His hand is already between my thighs again, and I'm too stunned to react, too far inside my own head to push back.

He finds the edge of my panties, pulls them aside like they're an inconvenience, and slides his finger into me.

I gasp--reflex, not pleasure. It's a foreign intrusion. Too fast. Too deep. My body tenses around it, a sharp jolt of sensation that doesn't belong.

But I'm wet.

God help me, I'm wet.

It's like my body didn't get the memo.

"Jesus," he groans, burying his face in my neck. "You're so fucking ready."

No, I'm not.

I'm shaking. My spine is rigid. My thighs have clenched shut, but it's too late. He's already inside me, curling his finger like he knows what he's doing.

I moan. I hate that I moan. Why?

But it buys me time. It makes him ease off just slightly, enough for me to catch my breath. Enough for me to pretend I'm still in control.

My phone buzzes in my purse again. I don't look.

I know it's Mark.

James pulls back and stares at me, panting, his finger still buried inside me. "God, you feel incredible."

I nod. Because that's what she would do. The woman I'm pretending to be. The willing, experienced, sexy stranger in his front seat. Not Carla. Not the wife who cried in the shower two nights ago after saying yes again.

His other hand tugs at the straps of my top, pushing it down. My breasts spill free, nipples already tight from the cold air and the friction. He groans again and sucks one into his mouth, sloppy and loud.

I stare at the roof of the car, counting the seconds. One. Two. Three.

"I want to fuck you so bad," he mutters against my skin.

I freeze.

He shifts, fumbles with his zipper, his breath quickening. I feel his cock, hot and heavy, rub against my thigh.

No.

Too far. Too fast.

I can't.

"Wait," I whisper.

He pauses. Barely.

"Not yet," I say, forcing my hand down between us, pushing gently against his chest. "Just... let me."

He looks at me--surprised, but pleased.

I lower my head before I can think twice. My hand wraps around his cock, stroking once, twice, just to keep things moving. Then I take him into my mouth.

He moans, his head thumping back against the seat, his fingers threading through my hair.

I close my eyes.

I focus on the mechanics. The rhythm. The feel of him swelling on my tongue. I block everything else out--my shame, the ache in my jaw, the salt of his skin. I give him what he wants, because it's faster. Easier. Safer than sex. I just need to get him there.

He bucks his hips, not even trying to be gentle.

"That's it... just like that..."

His cock pulses against my tongue, and I know he's close. I work him harder, faster, just to end it. Just to get out of this car.

He groans--low and guttural--and I feel it: the twitch, the flood, the aftershock.

I swallow without thinking. Not because I want to.

Because it's done.

He slumps back, panting, stroking my hair like we shared something. I sit up slowly, fix my top, pull my skirt down. My mouth tastes like salt and something bitter.

"You're amazing," he says.

I don't answer.

I reach for my purse. My phone buzzes again.

Mark.

The parking lot is empty except for a flickering light and the sound of a distant train.

I've stumbled to my car and sit in the driver's seat with the engine off and the night pressed tight against the windows. My hands are on the steering wheel, but I'm not holding it. I'm just... resting.

My breasts ache. The kind of ache that lingers after too much handling. Too much sucking, too much tugging. The kind of pain that doesn't feel urgent enough to cry about, but insists on being noticed.

My throat is raw. I can still taste him. Bitter. Chemical. Like soap that didn't rinse clean.

I reach for a napkin from the glove box, wipe the corners of my mouth like I'm trying to erase the last ten minutes. But the feeling doesn't go. It clings. Under my tongue. Behind my eyes.

The passenger seat is empty. But it still feels like he's there.

James.

God, even his name feels wrong in my head. Too casual. Too ordinary for what just happened.

I glance down. My top is still half-twisted, one strap falling off my shoulder. I pull it back up and realize my hands are shaking.

Not big, dramatic tremors. Just a fine tremble, like my body's trying to protest now that it's too late to matter.

I close my eyes.

There's no crying. No screaming. Just this... quiet failure. A flat, slow-burning grief that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone watching from outside.

I press my legs together, suddenly aware of the wetness in my panties. I hate how soaked they are. I hate that he was right about that part.

My body responded. Even when I didn't want it to.

It's like betrayal wrapped in biology.

I swallow, and it stings. My throat flares, reminding me of everything it just endured. The gag, the weight, the heat. How I let it happen because it was easier than saying no.

I lean back in the seat. Exhale. My chest rises slow and heavy, like I'm breathing through water.

The windows are fogging from the inside. I feel heat pooling under my eyes, but no tears fall. My body's holding them hostage, maybe waiting for the right moment to release them--when it's safe, when no one's watching, when it won't matter.

My phone buzzes again in the center console.

Mark.

I don't touch it.

Not yet.

Not until I figure out which version of the story I'm supposed to tell.

The house is dark when I walk in.

Mark's waiting. Not on the couch, not in bed--he's standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter like he's trying to look casual, but everything about him is too still. Too quiet.

I shut the door behind me and don't say anything at first. Just set my purse down, take off my shoes, avoid his eyes.

He watches me like I'm the final scene of a movie he's been dying to see.

"Well?" he says. The word comes out clipped. Barely restrained. His voice is already thick with it.

I hesitate. My arms fold across my chest. I feel the sting in my breasts as I press them too hard. I lower them.

"I didn't sleep with him," I say. It's the first thing I want on the record.

Mark doesn't blink. "But something happened."

I nod, slowly. Like it costs me. "In his car."

His breath catches. A small, involuntary sound that makes my stomach churn.

He steps closer. "Tell me."

I don't want to. Not because I'm afraid of his reaction--because I don't want to relive it. But I start anyway.

"His name was James. Older. Polite, at first. He... touched me. At the bar. Got me into his car."

Mark's eyes flash. He's already hard. I can see it. He doesn't even try to hide it.

I force myself to go on.

"He pulled my panties aside. Fingered me. Said I was wet. Like it meant something."

Mark exhales hard, a sharp sound like pain. But it's not pain.

"He made me blow him," I add, and the words scrape on the way out. "That was it."

He's on me in an instant.

His mouth finds mine, open and insistent. His hands are already dragging my clothes off--ripping, not undressing. The strap of my top snaps. I don't care.

"Turn around," he breathes against my neck.

I do. Out of habit. Out of fatigue.

He bends me over the edge of the kitchen counter. Yanks my skirt up, tears my panties halfway down. His cock is out--hard, flushed, leaking.

He doesn't ask. He just pushes in.

I bite my lip to keep from crying out. I'm dry. Not entirely, but not enough. The first thrust stings. The second burns. The third hits something deep and awful.

He grips my hips like handles. Pounds into me like he's trying to reclaim something.

"You let him touch you like this?" he growls.

"No," I say through clenched teeth. "Not like this."

But he's not listening.

His breath is hot and ragged, his pace brutal. His cock slams into me, again and again, using my body like a memory he's trying to overwrite.

And I let him.

Because fighting would take more than I have left.

When he comes, it's with a broken sound--half pleasure, half sob. He shudders against my back, slumps over me like a dying flame.

He stays inside me too long. Like he doesn't want to let go.

When he finally pulls out, I straighten slowly, my thighs sticky, my hands shaking. I fix my skirt. My top. My breath.

Mark stands behind me, panting, chest heaving. Smiling.

"That was incredible," he says.

I turn. My face is cold. Flat.

"Why do you have to do that?" I ask.

He frowns, still drunk on the rush. "Do what?"

"That," I snap. "Take me like I'm not even here. Like I'm just some fucking symbol you get off on."

His smile falters.

"If you made love to me..." I pause, my voice cracking. "If you touched me like I mattered--like you saw me--I'd probably do anything for you."

Silence.

He opens his mouth, but no words come.

I shake my head. "But instead, I have to be this. Whatever this is."

And I walk past him, upstairs, alone.

I wake to the smell of coffee and the soft creak of the stairs.

Mark.

He made breakfast. He never makes breakfast. He stands in the doorway holding a plate of toast, eggs, bacon--smiling like last night never happened. Or maybe like it was finally enough.

"I thought you might be hungry."

I take the plate. I eat. I don't talk much.

Because here's the sick truth: I regret what I said. Not because it wasn't true. But because something in him shifted after I said it.

That night, later he touched me differently.

No orders. No pressure. No punishing thrusts like he was trying to fuck the guilt out of me.

Just... skin and warmth. Slow hands. A kiss that lingered too long.

He was inside me like he used to be. Like we had a future.

And then he did it again.

Twice.

Every night.

He kissed my shoulders afterward. Held my hand under the sheets. Brushed hair from my face like I was fragile, not some machine he could program to respond on command.

It was the best sex we'd had in years.

And it was real.

And it broke my heart.

Because I knew what was coming.

It's Tuesday when he brings it up.

We're in bed. I'm curled into him, warm and full and almost--almost--happy.

His hand is on my hip. Stroking.

"You know," he says, "I've been really trying."

I nod. "I know."

"You said something the other night. That stuck with me."

I already know. But I let him say it.

"You said if I made love to you... you'd do anything for me."

He pauses, giving me space to protest. I don't.

"I think it's time you kept that promise."

My stomach knots.

He kisses my neck. "There's a guy I've been talking to. Just to feel it out."

"Mark--"

His hand slides between my legs. I'm already wet.

I hate that I am.

I close my eyes.

Because this is how it always starts.

And I already know how it ends.

I said yes.

Not out loud. Not directly. But I didn't say no. And that's all Mark ever needs.

He handled everything--messaged the guy, picked the motel, even offered to book the room himself "to keep it easy." He gave me the address Thursday morning over coffee like he was reminding me to pick up dry cleaning.

"You'll like this one," he said. "He's older. Polite. No pressure."

Like any of that ever mattered.

Now I'm here, parked around the back of a half-dead roadside motel with faded blue doors and curtains that look like they've never been opened.

I haven't texted Mark. Not yet. Because once I do, the countdown starts. His pulse will quicken. His dick will swell. And the show begins.

I sit in the car for ten full minutes before I even open the door.

It's hot inside--summer clinging to the upholstery. My thighs stick to the seat. My breath fogs the windshield in soft bursts.

I adjust my top--low-cut, again. No bra. I didn't fight it this time. What's the point?

My skirt rides high when I step out. I don't fix it.

I walk slow toward the door with the rusted 214 bolted crooked to the frame. I don't knock yet.

I can feel my phone buzzing in my purse.

I already know what it says.

"You got this."

"I'm proud of you."

"Tell me everything."

I'm already telling it.

In my head. In my body. With every breath I take while staring at this door like it's about to open and swallow me whole.

I lift my hand.

I knock.

Two soft taps.

And we're back where we started.

The room smells like air conditioning, motel soap, and something slightly metallic--like old coins and new sweat.

He closes the door behind me with a soft click, locking it without comment.

We don't talk much. Not yet.

He doesn't ask me how I am. Doesn't offer me water or sit me down. He just steps toward me, steady and unhurried, and lifts the hem of my tank top.

I don't stop him.

His hands are warm. One tugs the fabric over my head, slow and deliberate. The other skims down to the waistband of my skirt. A quick flick of his fingers and it falls to the floor.

I'm standing there in nothing but my black panties--plain, cotton, functional.

My arms twitch like they want to cover something. But I don't move. I just breathe. Shallow and slow.

He steps back and looks at me like I'm something worth seeing. Not glancing. Looking.

That's when he takes his cock out. Hard. Heavy. Veined. Already waiting for me.

I stare at it for a moment, paralyzed by how direct he is. How unashamed.

Then I reach for him.

My hand wraps around the base. He groans, and it feels... real. Not polite. Not performative.

I start stroking him. Slowly at first. Then faster, as he breathes harder and closes his eyes like I'm doing something holy.

And maybe I am. I don't know anymore.

I sink to my knees without being asked.

His hand rests on the back of my head, not pushing--just there. Claiming me. I take him into my mouth, careful, deliberate. I work him the way Mark likes it. The way men like it.

It's not about my pleasure. It never is.

But there's a strange pulse in my chest as he moans. As he whispers, "Fuck, you're good at this."

It shouldn't feel like anything.

But it does.

He pulls me up and leads me to the bed. Pushes me gently back until I'm lying flat, panties still on, legs closed.

He kneels, tugs them down--slow, so slow--and kisses my thighs like he's memorizing them.

When he enters me, I gasp. Not because it hurts--yet--but because the stretch is real. The intrusion is complete. I'm full.

He fucks me slow, first. Hands on my hips. Watching my face.

Then harder.

Then I'm on top. His hands on my breasts, his cock inside me, and I'm riding him like I know what I'm doing.

Then I'm flipped. Face down. Ass up. Gripping the sheets. Gritting my teeth as he drives into me again and again and again.

It goes on. And on. And on.

My skin sticks to the sheets. My thighs ache. My cunt burns.

But he doesn't stop. Not until he's had all of me.

When he finally comes--groaning, buried deep--I feel a sudden, stupid wave of relief.

It's over.

I lie there, breath ragged, skin on fire. I can feel the soreness already setting in. Between my legs. In my jaw. My tits.

I want to cry, but the tears won't come.

He gets up. Disappears into the bathroom without a word.

And I just lie there, naked, used, and wrecked.

But something strange coils in my chest. Not lust. Not love.

Pride.

He wanted me.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't wait for permission. He took me. All of me. Over and over.

And I let him.

I was desired. Fully. Completely.

Controlled? Yes.

But also seen.

And that's the worst part.

Because I don't know if I want to forget it--or feel it again.

The porch light is still on when I pull into the driveway.

Mark left it for me. He always does. Like it's something tender. Like it cancels out everything else.

I walk inside. He's sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his face lit up by the glow of his phone. He looks up the second I close the door.

He doesn't say hi.

He says, "Tell me."

I drop my purse by the bench. Kick off my shoes. I don't go to him yet. I just stand there for a moment, staring at the floor like it might help me figure out what to say.

Then I start.

I tell him everything.

Room 214. The way the man undressed me. The way he pulled his cock out without a word. How I stroked him. Sucked him. Let him take me over and over in bed until I couldn't breathe.

Mark listens like it's scripture.

He doesn't interrupt.

But his hand is on his cock the whole time--stroking, slow and steady. His eyes fixed on me like I'm a movie playing just for him.

When I finish the story, he exhales hard. His cock is thick in his hand, flushed and full. He stands, reaches for me gently, like this is intimacy. Like this is love.

He kisses me softly. Then lays me down on the living room rug.

I don't fight it.

He strips me with slow, reverent hands. Like he's unwrapping something fragile. Like I didn't just get torn apart by another man hours earlier.

Then he enters me.

Gently. Possessively.

His hands stay on my waist. His mouth grazes my shoulder. He moves slow, deep, like he's claiming something that was loaned out and finally returned.

It doesn't feel good.

I'm too sore.

Too raw.

But I let him. Because his erection is back. And that means something. To him. To us. To whatever's left between us.

I close my eyes and let him finish.

When he does, he kisses my temple. Pulls a blanket over me. And walks away without a word.

I stay on the rug.

Still naked.

Still aching.

I fall asleep like that.

Later

My phone buzzes.

I fumble for it in the dark, thumb swiping the screen with half-shut eyes.

It's a number I don't recognize.

Then I see the message.

"You okay?"

"Who is this?"

"Guess."

"You?"

"You were amazing."

"Thanks?"

"I hope I didn't wreck you."

No reply

"I want to see you again?"

I stare at it for a long time.

The ache between my legs flares, memory and muscle colliding.

I type back slowly.

Maybe.