Claire Ch. 01

I think this is important to set the scene for what is to come.

This is a true story, names have been have had to be changed to protect discretion.

This starts as a love story, a story of my husband's former partner, these are his words as relayed to me.

I write as a woman, who loves a man who loved previously and lost.

Sometimes I write as him, sometimes I write as she would have.

It's bittersweet but I feel it must be told.

Part I: The Meeting : a beginning

I met Claire when she moved into the flat above me in our student halls.

She was the kind of beautiful that didn't seem to know it--wild dark hair like a storm cloud around her face, eyes too wide and too honest, with a quietness that felt older than her years. She looked like Kate Bush in one of those music videos from the '70s--ethereal, untamed, but grounded by something sharp and serious just behind her eyes.

She studied art. I was in medicine. She wore mismatched socks and hand-me-down jumpers. I was clean-cut, structured, lived by a calendar. She was chaos in denim, oil paint under her nails, ink on her wrists from forgotten sketches. But somehow, we clicked.

We started as neighbours. Then co-conspirators. Then... something else. Something harder to name.

I remember her knocking on my door that first week, barefoot, holding a chipped mug of black coffee and a printout she couldn't get to work. She sat on my floor while I helped, told me she hated printers, hated deadlines, but loved people who didn't pretend to have it all figured out.

"You seem too precise," she said. "I think I need a bit of that in my life."

I don't know when it shifted, but it did. Fast.

Evenings turned into late nights. We'd lie on my bed or her floor, talking for hours about anything and nothing. She told me about Norfolk, where she was from, how the sea made her feel small in a good way. I told her how I wanted to make things better, even if it meant learning the names of every muscle in the human body.

She laughed when I got serious.

I melted when she got quiet.

There was just one problem.

Harry.

He was her boyfriend. Long-distance. Lived back in Norfolk. Drove down once a month in a beat-up old car that stank of petrol and ambition. She never spoke ill of him--but she never really spoke about him at all.

Except that I heard him.

When he came to visit, I'd hear the heavy footsteps upstairs, the creak of her old bedframe. I'd lie there on my back, fists clenched, imagining her under him, spread out, whispering yes into his neck while I lay still and silent in the dark below.

I had no right to feel jealous. She wasn't mine.

But that didn't stop me.

She'd always be different after he left. Distant. Closed off for a day or two. Once she didn't come down at all. Another time, she sat on the edge of my bed, hugging her knees, and said quietly, "He's kind. But I think he loves the idea of me."

I didn't press her.

But I started seeing it.

The way her body folded in on itself after he'd been there. The way she smiled without her eyes. The way she never mentioned sex--but would go very quiet when I did.

Still, we stayed close.

Closer than we should've been.

Part II: The Unspoken Edge

There were nights Claire would lie on my bed, legs tucked under her, hair wet from the shower, wearing one of my old sweatshirts like it belonged to her. She'd sip tea, hum songs she never finished, and talk in slow, meandering threads that always left me wanting more.

One evening, the window was open and the air smelled like rain on hot stone. She was curled up beside me, eyes unfocused, bare legs pale against my sheets. We were talking about first times. Stumbling memories. Quiet regrets.

I turned my head and asked, carefully, "What's it like... to be fucked by someone who comes inside you?"

She didn't react. Not with surprise, not with a smirk.

She just went still for a moment. Then said, "Do you mean physically, or emotionally?"

"Both," I said. "If you want to tell me."

She lay back, eyes on the ceiling.

"The first time he did it, I didn't realise he was doing it. No condom. Just... pushed in and finished. Pulled out, said 'God, you're amazing,' and rolled over."

"Did you talk about it after?"

She shook her head. "I didn't even know how to bring it up. I felt like if I said something, I'd be ruining this thing he clearly thought was perfect."

You stayed quiet.

"I started taking the pill," she said, "without telling him. Because he wouldn't use condoms. I asked once. He laughed. Said, 'It's me, Claire. Why would we need to?' Like it was... romantic. Like coming in me was this sacred, intimate gesture."

She pulled her sleeves over her hands. "But it didn't feel sacred. It felt like I was being used."

You looked at her, heart pounding.

"Does he always come in you?"

"Yes," she said. "Always."

"And you let him."

She nodded. "Because it's easier than saying no. And I hate that."

She turned to face you. "Have you ever... done that? Come in someone?"

You swallowed. "Yes. With someone I trusted. Who asked me to. Who wanted it."

She was silent a moment.

Then asked, in a whisper: "What's it like? For a man. To be inside, and then to finish there?"

You sat up slightly. Took a breath.

"It's intense. It's like your body forgets where you end. There's this pressure, this heat, this need to let go. And when you do... it's peace. If she wants it, if she pulls you in while you're coming, it's like being welcomed. Not just emptied. Held."

She stared at you. Her eyes were wet.

"I want that," she whispered. "Someday."

Then she leaned in, slowly, and laid her head on your chest.

Neither of you moved.

You didn't kiss.

You didn't touch.

But in that silence, she gave you something she'd never given him.

Truth.

Part III: The Final Visit

It rained that morning.

The kind of soft, whispering rain that blurred the windows and made the world feel far away. Claire stood in the small bathroom of her flat, wrapped in a towel, still flushed from the shower. Her hair was damp, curling at the ends, and the mirror was fogged. She didn't wipe it clean.

She just looked at herself.

Then let the towel drop.

Her breasts, her belly, her thighs--bare, soft, pink from the heat. Her skin still tingled faintly. Between her legs, she was tender, almost sensitive. Not from sex. From longing.

She thought of you. Of the way your voice had changed when you described what it felt like to come inside someone. The quiet reverence in your eyes. The way you saw her. The way your hand had trembled the first time you'd touched her between the legs, how gently your fingers had moved, how wet she'd been from just your words.

She slid her fingers down now--softly, slowly--between her thighs.

She was already wet.

Not because Harry was coming.

Because you weren't.

She pressed two fingers against her folds, opened herself slightly, and sighed at the warmth. She imagined your mouth there. Your hands. Your cock. Not in pornographic flashes, but in truth. The kind of fucking that meant something. The kind that filled, not just physically, but soul-deep.

She shivered.

And then she heard it: the door downstairs. His boots. Harry.

The spell broke.

She dressed slowly. No bra. A soft cotton dress. She didn't hide the ache between her legs. She didn't want to.

Harry kissed her the moment he walked in.

Pulled her close. Pressed her against the kitchen counter like he'd done a hundred times. His hands on her hips, sliding under her dress, pushing her toward the bed before she could say much more than hello.

They barely spoke.

He undressed her like she was furniture--familiar, available, owed. Her panties were soaked. He smirked.

"Missed me?"

She didn't answer.

He didn't notice.

He lay her back on the bed and pushed into her in one long, fast thrust. No condom. No warning. His cock slid through the slick heat of her, her body already open, already wet. She gasped--not in pleasure, but surprise. Not even he could tell the difference.

He fucked her hard.

Deep.

Fast.

Her legs were wide. Her cunt swallowed him greedily. But her eyes were blank. Her hands didn't reach for him. Her mouth didn't open.

Still, he groaned like a man in love.

"You're so fucking wet... I knew you'd miss it..."

He grabbed her hips, pinned her down, and came deep inside her--groaning as his cock jerked and emptied into her womb. She felt the heat, the familiar thick pulsing, the slick pressure of cum spilling against her walls.

He pulled out too soon.

Watched his semen drip from her.

Grinned.

They didn't talk much after. He ordered food. Took a shower. Tried to act normal. Claimed the couch while she sat curled in a blanket, legs pressed together to hold in the mess still leaking from her.

But late--just before midnight--he wanted her again.

He took her from behind this time. Bent over the edge of the bed. No foreplay. No words. Just his cock pushing into her, fast, rough, her cunt already sloppy from the earlier load. She gasped as he sank in--it was almost too much. Too wet. Too full.

He loved it.

"You're dripping," he groaned. "Still full of me."

She didn't answer.

He fucked her hard, her breasts bouncing, her face pressed into the mattress.

And when he started grinding his pelvis against her, just right--pressing her clit with the rhythm of his thrusts--her body betrayed her.

She came.

Not from love.

From friction.

From the raw, involuntary response of a cunt being used and made to release.

She moaned softly, helplessly.

And he came again.

Flooded her a second time.

His cum pushed deep inside her, filling her already overflowing sex, his cock twitching inside her with greedy, selfish pulses.

When he pulled out, she could feel the slick trail sliding down her thighs.

She didn't say a word.

She just stood, trembling slightly, and said:

"I need the bathroom."

But she didn't go to clean up.

She pulled on her dress.

Claire stood in the bathroom, the door closed behind her, her dress clinging to her damp thighs. She hadn't cleaned up. His semen was still seeping out of her--slow, heavy trails sliding down her inner legs. Her cunt felt raw, overstretched, occupied. She didn't bother to wipe it away.

She stared at her reflection.

Eyes red.

Hair wild.

Lips parted.

And something in her face she hadn't seen before.

Resolve.

She opened the door.

Harry was on the edge of the bed, still naked, smug and relaxed, scrolling through his phone like he'd just completed some triumphant return.

She walked slowly into the room.

"Harry," she said.

He didn't look up. "Yeah?"

"We need to talk."

He looked at her then, furrowing his brow. "Okay?"

She stood, arms loose at her sides, no mask on her face.

"I'm done."

His eyes narrowed. "Done what?"

"With this. Us."

He blinked, then laughed. "Wait--now?"

"Yes."

"You're joking. You just came all over my cock."

Her stomach twisted. "I came in spite of you, Harry. Not because of you."

He stood, angry now. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

She took a step back but didn't waver. "You don't see me. You never have. You fuck me like you own me. You come in me without asking. You treat my body like a right, not a gift."

His jaw clenched. "You never said no."

"Because it was easier than being punished for saying no. Or made to feel guilty. Or ignored. Or fucked harder until I gave in."

He stared at her.

"I take the pill behind your back," she said softly. "Because I don't trust you. Because I don't want to carry something made from the absence of love."

Silence.

Her thighs were still sticky. She could feel it sliding, slow and humiliating.

And she didn't care.

"I let you inside me," she said, "just now. But I wasn't thinking of you. I was thinking of him."

Harry's face darkened.

She continued, voice trembling but clear.

"He's gentle. He listens. He asks. He sees me. And when he touches me--just touches me--I feel more wanted than in all the times you've fucked me put together."

"You fucked him?" Harry's voice cracked.

"No," she said. "Not yet. But I will. And when I let him come inside me, it'll be because I want to keep him there. Not because I'm afraid to speak."

He looked broken.

But she didn't.

She looked whole.

Claire had just told him it was over.

The room had gone still.

Harry stood there, naked, still half-hard, staring at her like she'd just shattered something sacred.

"You don't mean that," he said, stepping toward her. "You're just upset. You're tired. We had sex, Claire."

"I know," she said quietly. "That's what made it clear."

"You came," he said, voice rising. "I felt it."

She looked him in the eyes. "Yes. I came. But not for you."

He reached for her hand.

She pulled it away.

"Claire... please. Just once more. Let me... let me feel you. One last time. Just... let me come in your mouth. And then I'll go. You'll never have to see me again."

She didn't move.

"You always said it felt too intimate," he said, voice lowering, more desperate. "Let's do it now. Just once. We'll both get closure."

She hesitated.

Her body was still leaking from him. Her thighs were damp. She was sore and aching and confused and freeing herself by inches.

But part of her--some small fragment--still craved the idea of a clean ending. Of not leaving something unfinished.

She nodded.

He sighed with relief. "Thank you. Fuck, thank you..."

She knelt.

He stepped forward, his cock now fully hard again, thick and twitching in front of her. Her hands reached for it--still slick from earlier, the scent of their sex rising between them. She opened her mouth and took him in.

She felt him groan.

Felt his hand rest lightly on the back of her head.

She sucked slowly. Not passionately. Not hungrily. Just... present. Enough to make him gasp. His hips twitched forward.

"Oh God... that's it... I'm close..."

He looked down at her, desperate. Victorious.

And that's when it snapped.

Her eyes sharpened.

Her stomach turned.

She saw it: the smirk, the self-satisfaction. The belief that he'd won.

She pulled off him, suddenly, lips wet, eyes blazing.

"What the f--" he began.

She stood up, fast, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"No," she said. "You don't get to come in my mouth like a goodbye gift."

He stared, flushed and furious, still hard, leaking.

"Out."

"You said--"

"I changed my mind. Just like I changed my life."

He stepped toward her, but she raised a hand. "Don't."

The power in her voice stopped him cold.

She grabbed her dress. Pulled it on. No underwear. No cleaning up. She wanted the mess. She wanted to carry it into her next breath--not as shame, but as evidence of what she was leaving behind.

She turned to the door, opened it.

"Claire--"

She didn't look back.

She walked out, his cum still inside her, his cock still hard and unsatisfied, her own mouth still tingling with the aftertaste of almost giving in.

And as she descended the stairs...

She felt stronger than she ever had.

Part IV: Coming to You

I heard the knock just after midnight.

A soft, uncertain tap-tap--not like her usual quick rhythm. I was still awake, shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bed, trying not to think about her upstairs with him. Failing.

When I opened the door, she stood there in her cotton dress, hair unbrushed, cheeks flushed. No coat. No shoes. Just Claire.

And I knew something had happened.

She looked up at me.

"I ended it," she said, her voice tight. "He's still upstairs. I told him it was over."

I said nothing. Just opened the door wider.

She stepped inside.

I caught it then--the scent. Warm. Human. Sex.

I looked at her more closely.

Her legs were bare.

Her thighs were shining.

"Claire..."

She swallowed. Her hands clenched at her sides. "I didn't clean up."

"I can see that."

She looked away. "I didn't want to pretend. I wanted you to know. He came in me. Twice. And then he begged for a blowjob. I started. And then I stopped. Told him to fuck off. I walked out still full of him."

I stepped closer.

"You're trembling."

"I don't want to be his anymore," she whispered. "I want someone to want me like this. Even like this."

My breath caught.

Then she looked up--eyes wet, defiant. "Do you still want me?"

I touched her cheek. "I want all of you. Even the parts you think you shouldn't bring."

Her body softened, crumpled against me, and I held her. She was warm, shaking. I could feel the heat of her sex even through the thin cotton.

"I want to be taken," she said against my chest. "Right now. No cleaning. No wiping. No pretending. Just you, and me, and this truth between my legs."

I took her hand and led her to the bed.

She climbed into my lap without hesitation. Straddled me. Lifted her dress and placed my hand between her thighs.

She was soaked.

Her folds were puffy, flushed, slick with semen and heat. My fingers slid through the mess easily. I could feel it--Harry's cum. Still warm. Still leaking.

She watched me touch it. Watched me not pull away.

Then she said, "I need to feel you inside me."

I hesitated.

"Claire--"

"I want you to fuck me," she said. "Like this. Like I belong to you now."

I was already hard. Aching. I pulled my boxers down, and she reached between us, guiding me to her entrance.

"I'm still full of him," she whispered. "But I want you to fill me again. So I can forget."

And then she sank down onto me.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The heat of her cunt swallowed me whole--wet, slick, the mess of another man still coating her walls. It was like sliding into a furnace. My cock twitched inside her, and she gasped as she took me to the hilt.

I held her hips, trembling.

She was so wet. Not just from me. Or even from her. From us, already forming.

She began to move.

Riding me in slow, grounding rolls. Her breasts swayed under her dress. Her eyes locked on mine, unblinking.

"Can you feel it?" she breathed. "How full I still am?"

"Yes," I groaned.

Her cunt gripped me, thick and wet and claiming.

"Don't pull out," she whispered. "Even when you come. I want to feel it. I want to feel all of it."

"Claire--"

"I need to know what it feels like," she said. "To be filled by someone who sees me."

She moved faster now, her hips rocking, the sound of our bodies obscene--wet, messy, alive. I could feel the mix of fluids sliding down my shaft, pooling between my thighs.

She was crying. Not from pain. From release.

"You're inside me," she whispered, voice cracking. "I'm not his anymore."

My orgasm built fast.

Too fast.

"I'm going to come--"

"Do it," she begged. "Come in me. Fill me again. Make me yours."

I couldn't stop it.

My body jerked, and I came deep inside her, hips pressing up into her as my cock throbbed and spilled into her already drenched sex.

She moaned--not in shame, not in fear--but in completion.

She collapsed onto my chest, her cunt still twitching around me, both of us panting, soaked, trembling.

"I can feel you in me," she whispered. "And I want to."

We lay there for minutes.

Neither of us moving.

Her sex leaking. My cock softening inside her.

And the sheets beneath us wet with a mess we chose.

Part V: Oral Intimacy and Surrender

The light was gentle through the blinds when I stirred.

Claire was still draped over me, her skin warm against mine, her thigh thrown across my waist. My cock had slipped from her during the night, but my groin and hers were still sticky, thick with the mess we'd made hours earlier.

When she shifted slightly, I felt it.

A slow, wet drag between her folds. A slick, heavy warmth spreading between our thighs. She gasped quietly, pressing back against me.

"God," she whispered. "I'm still... leaking."

I looked down. The inside of her thigh shimmered. Her lips were swollen, still parted. My cum was there. Still thick. Still mixing with what Harry had left behind.

Her eyes met mine.

"I want you to go down on me," she said softly.

I froze.

"Claire..."

"I know. I know what's still inside me." She bit her lip. "But I want you to taste me. Taste us. All of it. And still want me."

I stared at her, my stomach turning--not with disgust, but with fear. Fear of what it meant. Of how much I did want her. Even like this.

Especially like this.

"You don't have to," she whispered.

But I was already moving.

I kissed her inner thigh first--slowly, reverently. She sighed, her legs falling open.

Her sex was a mess.

Her lips puffy, flushed, still leaking. A creamy sheen coated everything--her folds, her entrance, the soft trail between her thighs. The scent was thick and sweet: sleep, sweat, arousal, semen.

I pressed my tongue to her.

The taste hit me instantly--salty, warm, unmistakable. Not just her, but him. And me. All of us.

I groaned into her.

She gasped. "Oh my God..."

I licked her again--long, slow strokes. Her clit twitched under my tongue. Her entrance flexed, pushing more of the mess forward.

My mind reeled.

But my body... loved it.

I wanted her like this.

Exactly like this.

I pressed my tongue into her cunt, deep, tasting everything inside her. She cried out, her thighs tensing around my head. I sucked gently, then harder, letting my mouth drink her, letting my tongue swirl through every fold, every slick trace.

"You taste like us," I whispered.

She moaned--high, broken, overwhelmed.

"You're licking his cum out of me..."

"I know," I groaned.

"And you're hard."

I hadn't even realised it--but she was right. My cock was stiff in my boxers, aching, twitching with every sound she made.

I flicked her clit with my tongue.

She bucked her hips.

And then--suddenly, helplessly--I came.

I gasped, body jerking, and felt the warm rush spread across my groin, dampening the inside of my boxers.

Claire's eyes widened.

"You just..."

I nodded, face still buried between her thighs.

She reached down, cradled my face.

"I've never felt so wanted."

I sucked her clit softly, slowly, and her whole body arched. Her thighs clamped around my head as she came--gasping, grinding against my mouth, her orgasm raw and real.

When she stilled, I kissed her tenderly.

Then pulled myself up beside her.

Face damp. Boxers wet.

Spent.

She kissed me, slow and deep, tasting herself--and him--on my tongue.

Then whispered against my mouth:

"You came because you were drinking his cum out of me."

I flushed with shame.

But she just smiled.

"That's the most intimate thing anyone's ever done for me."

Part VI: The Morning

When I woke, the light was soft, golden. Claire was already awake.

She was lying beside me, watching me, her eyes clear and thoughtful. The sheet was low on her hips, her bare breasts rising and falling with each slow breath. Her thighs were parted slightly, and I could see the faint shimmer between them--evidence of everything we'd shared, of everything still inside her.

She looked... serene.

"Hi," I said, voice scratchy with sleep.

"Hi," she whispered, smiling.

There was a pause.

Then she reached under the sheet, found me with her hand.

I was soft. Warm. Slightly damp from the mess still clinging to my skin. But she held me gently, her thumb brushing along the shaft.

"You came for me," she murmured. "From your mouth. Not even your cock."

I nodded.

She leaned in and kissed my neck. Then my chest. Then slowly, wordlessly, she began to slide down the bed.

Her lips trailed over my stomach. My hips. I could feel myself start to thicken again under her touch. But not fully. I was still soft, still aching, still raw from everything we'd shared the night before.

She didn't care.

She kissed the base of my cock. Ran her tongue along the underside. Then took the head into her mouth.

I gasped.

She sucked gently, slowly, without expectation. She wasn't trying to make me hard. Or come. She was just... being there. Mouth on my cock. Holding it. Worshipping it. Letting it be safe inside her.

Her eyes met mine.

"Let me love you like this," she said. "You gave me your mouth last night. Let me give you mine. Just to hold you."

I couldn't speak.

Her mouth slid lower, taking more of me in, tongue swirling softly. I twitched in her mouth, not out of need, but from the intimacy. I could still feel the dampness in my boxers. My thighs were sticky. My stomach carried the ghost of the orgasm I hadn't meant to have.

And still, she wanted me.

She sucked me with care. Not with hunger. Just warmth. Gentleness. Devotion.

When I hardened, she didn't change pace.

When I twitched, she moaned around me.

When I came--quietly, unexpectedly, in short hot pulses--she swallowed everything.

Then kissed the tip.

And climbed back up beside me, curling into my chest.

We didn't speak for a long time.

But as her fingers brushed mine, I knew something had shifted.

This wasn't lust.

This was ours.

Part VII: Her Reflection

The room was still, heavy with the scent of skin and sleep.

Claire lay on her back, sheet pulled loosely to her waist. Her legs were parted, one bent at the knee, the other stretched out. She could feel it between her thighs--the soft ache, the faint stretch, the tender wetness drying in slow trails.

She didn't reach for a towel.

Didn't close her legs.

She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, breathing.

Her body was full--physically, yes. But not just with you.

Still, somewhere deep inside her, Harry lingered. His cum, his weight, his imprint. It hadn't all leaked out yet. She could feel the difference--the texture of it, the way it clung to her walls. She thought of how he had begged. How he had reached for her like a man not in love, but in habit.

She remembered the sound of his voice as she pulled her mouth off his cock.

The shock. The disbelief. The entitlement.

She didn't feel guilty.

She felt... free.

And yet, part of her whispered: Two men. Still inside you. Still mixed.

Her thighs were slick again now--not from new arousal, but from the quiet, sticky evidence of what had been shared. Her cunt throbbed faintly, used but not bruised. Her nipples still tingled from the brush of your chest. Her lips still held the taste of your cock--salty, familiar, loved.

She looked over at you.

You were asleep, one arm thrown across your forehead, your breathing deep and even. Your cock, softened now, rested against your thigh, faintly glistening. You didn't look ashamed. You didn't turn away.

You had gone down on her, knowing what she carried.

You had come just from tasting it.

And when you came, it hadn't been about possession.

It had been about belonging.

She smiled.

Then whispered, almost to herself:

"You came... because you were drinking him out of me."

She touched her inner thigh, where your spend had mixed with the rest. The seam between memory and future.

And she loved it.

Loved that her body could hold this truth. Loved that you weren't afraid of it. That you wanted her--even messy, even complicated, even dripping with someone else's past.

She imagined the next time.

Clean. Washed. New.

And then she imagined not cleaning at all.

Because maybe what mattered wasn't being clean.

Maybe it was being claimed.

Not with force.

But with understanding.

She closed her eyes.

And whispered one more thing into the hush of morning:

"I'm not his anymore. And I never really was."