I couldn’t help but recall the intense fucking I got that evening as warm water cascaded over my skin. Calling it sex instead would be less crude, but screw politeness – it was fucking.

My lips folded inward, cushioning my incisors as my right nipple glided between my index and middle finger. I writhed as I buried two digits inside of my cunt, thinking of how my boyfriend did the same, but with more vigour.

“Be a good girl and cum for me,” he said an hour or so before, frigging my g-spot aggressively. My legs were hooked by my biceps and I sloshed all over his hand, building toward the big one.

“Mmm, I’m a good girl.” I twisted the nipple while fingering myself in the shower, remembering how he treated my kitty-cat. The handsome bastard had refused to let me cum, right as I was on the precipice. He made me keep my position, slapped his fat dick against my caramel pussy and sawed half of it in and out. It frustrated me – which I knew he liked, and to be honest, I did too.

I wondered if his blonde bitch got the same treatment.

What a thing to think about on Valentine’s evening of all evenings, huh? Shit, we never celebrated it, but you’d think my overactive brain would’ve given it a rest out of principle alone. Anger rose within my gut upon her crossing my mind as the spray beat against my taut torso.  My fingering went from sensual to furious, and I pulled my hair into a high, untidy bunch while profanities soiled the pristine shower walls.

“Fucking bitch,” I growled through my teeth. “Did he tease you like that too?” My jealousy soaked my slit as I imagined my man teasing the slut and causing her cute, round face to contort from his deep strokes. The thought of his substantial black dick beating up my white best friend’s pussy made me hot with lust and rage simultaneously. A very confusing emotion, to say the least, but one I felt for quite some time.

That needed to end.

The confrontation was happening that evening, and it wouldn’t be sweet, but those situations never were. For far too long I ignored it – bit my tongue on it. If you asked me why I never addressed it, I couldn’t give you an answer. Maybe comfort was the enemy?

So many times over the years, I wondered how he’d fuck her. Where would he cum? I always tried to veer from the idea of him filling her to the brim with his seed and entertain him finishing anywhere else. Knowing his preference for nice asses, he probably splashed her creamy cheeks, but that bitch had a big mouth and a pretty face. She’d brag to me about being an expert at taking facials and went as far as telling me she was a frat house’s cum dumpster one night in college. So yeah… there’s that.

I had to calm myself before she arrived, so I continued diddling until I bucked into my palm and squeezed a shower knob, cumming as I remembered him slamming into me, balls deep. God, it felt so good to see his lean body planked above mine, withdrawing to expose the purple glans and then delivering that impactful plap against my juicy butt and thighs. His heavy balls slapping my taint and anus never overstayed its welcome.

“Give me all that nut, baby,” I said earlier, holding onto his waist. My eyes watered from the heat building in my loins that was close to blowing away the oven door – wondering if he fucked her as hard as he fucked me.

I mean, he had to fuck her harder, didn’t he? It probably was a hate fuck since he truly loved me and barely tolerated her, right? In my fantasies, he treated her like a common street whore, whereas I ranked as his high-class escort.

Anyways, after he nutted in me and flopped out, I wasted little time. With the nut still running over my asshole, I told him he should end things with Brittany. That motherfucker had the audacity to look at me like I asked him to sacrifice the latest Powerball jackpot.

“What are you talking about?” he asked me.

“Give her up. Stop banging her; stop seeing her.”

“Aight, you trippin’.”

“I’m not playing with you. Give. Her. Up.”

He got up and walked away, which incensed me to high heaven.

I cut that memory off for the sake of my sanity, exited the shower, dried myself and entered the room we fucked in not even a full hour before. It was surreal that we were so heated after fucking, and now he lay peacefully, fully drained from our activities. I loved the fucker, but I needed respect, trust and full commitment. I threw on a beige dress, and forwent any panties, because why bother?

I left the room, allowing him to continue resting and sat on a barstool in front of the kitchen island. I already had a bottle of Prosecco set there and two glasses in preparation for when Britt arrived, but I grew impatient and poured a glass for myself. My memories went back to the argument from earlier, but that only fueled my frustration, so I fast-forwarded to the round of sex after, while easing my dress up. I knew I’d end up moistening the bar stool but didn’t care as I needed to nut, thinking about the angry backshots he gave me.

“Stop arguing with me over stupid shit and take this fucking dick, you hear me?” he barked while clapping my cheeks and yanking my hair.

“Shut the hell up and fuck me, you cheating motherfucker!” I threw my booty, impaling myself on his thick, cunt-stretching cock. You could say he was sick to treat me how he did, but truthfully, I was just as sick or maybe sicker. What kind of woman segues from arguing with her man to aggressive sex to blow off steam? Nothing was resolved, so it didn’t count as make-up sex. Just raw, primal, unfiltered, fucking between two pissed-off motherfuckers.

I channelled my feelings from that session and rubbed my clitoris like a nineties deejay working his turntables. I gulped the rest of my wine down after a brief pause and then resumed my clitoral assault.

“Goddammit, shit-shit, fuuuck!” I trembled on the stool and ground my bare buttocks against its leather. That orgasm exploded from my cunt and shot electricity to my furthest extremities. I shivered for what must’ve been a minute until I composed myself and realized I climaxed until I stood stop-sign straight. A giggle escaped my lips, and I rolled my dress down with my dry hand and skipped to the kitchen sink to wash my juices off the other. Not long after, Brittany arrived and complained about her rough work day, put down her bag and hugged me.

“You said we had something to talk about. I’m guessing it’s really important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” She removed her spectacles and rested them on the counter. “Not to brag, but tonight’s Valentine’s night, and I wanna rest up a little for any action later, if you know what I mean,” she said, undoing her ponytail and letting her hair flow down her back. I filled our glasses with Prosecco. “By the way, is our man sleeping? He’s really quiet.”

He’s mine, you whore.

“Yeah, he’s out for the count.” My smile may have been too loud, so I turned the volume down and continued sipping.

“Awww, he must be so tired.”

And I’m tired of you fucking him.

“Anyway,” I started, “I’ve talked to him already, and he wouldn’t budge, so I’m hoping to have better luck with you.”

She furrowed her brows, flicked her eyes around and said, “Um… okay. Girl, what is this about?”

Her pretentious empty-headedness irritated me because she introduced us in the first goddamn place. She begged me to go out with him and then grovelled for me to give him another chance when I told her I wasn’t feeling him. I wandered off into la-la land, recalling the argument my boyfriend and I had after he beat the brakes off my pussy again. This time, he pulled out and splattered my sumptuous rear and slender back with his thick, warm nut.

“Why’d you pull out?”

“Because I should have for round one,” he said as he dripped onto the floor after rolling off the bed.

“What difference does that make now? You nutted in me already, genius. Man, I hate when you fucking pull out.” I squinted at him while my ass remained cocked in the air.

“What is your damn issue today? First, you’re getting on about Brittany; now it’s about pulling out. Do we have a problem here?”

“Wait, are you dumb?” I sat on my calves, which allowed jizz to roll onto my heels, and glowered at him.

“And here we go…” He turned to leave the room.

“Don’t you walk away from me, motherfucker.” I stepped down from the bed and tugged at his elbow, prompting him to turn and face me.

“What?”

“Stop seeing her.”

“You’re not making any sense now, and you’re fucking delusional.”

My palm struck his face so hard he ended up looking over his shoulder. He snapped a glare at me and fumed, causing me to reverse before he put up his hands and turned to walk away again. I picked up his baseball bat that lay at the bottom of the bed and reared up to swing, but sighed, relaxed my body and let it hang from my fingertips. The fact it took me that long to realize he didn’t see me for who he should have made me ill. How could I not see that I was nothing more than a pincushion for his dick?

“The lights are on, but nobody’s home,” Brittany said, snapping me out of my reverie.

“Oh, sorry, girl.” I shook my head, bouncing my hair. “What was I saying?”

“Don’t bother.” She put the empty glass on the counter and said, “Let me take a peek at sleeping beauty until you remember.” She walked ahead, and I got up, went behind the island, and picked up the baseball bat from before, trailing behind.

“Sure thing.” My expression fell into an arctic-like cold. “I think it’s coming back to me now.”

“Okay, what is… it?” She stopped in her tracks, seeing an outstretched hand on the floor through the bedroom door.

“I want you to leave him alone.”

She remained silent and resumed her walk until she saw my man resting close to the doorway on the bedroom carpet, which had now been partially dyed red – if all around his body counts as partially. I cut what could’ve been a bloodcurdling scream short to a dismal whimper from her with one swing. She fell forward in a way that she was able to face her lover’s corpse.

I stepped to her prone, heaving figure as she tried to speak.

“All you had to do was leave him alone, but you just couldn’t. Could you?” I squatted in front of her periphery, lifted her left hand, and removed her wedding band, then placed it on my finger.

I stood, walked around him and picked up the framed picture of them smiling brightly from the bedside table – her in her stunning white dress and he in his tux.

“This meant nothing to me, you hear me?” I said while her final breaths escaped her body, and she continued staring at me, motionless. “Nothing!”

He’d vent to me and say he couldn’t open up to her and that he should’ve dated me instead, but truthfully, anytime I saw them together, their bliss proved otherwise. The sorrowful song and dance routine with me was cheap trickery to maintain access to this sweet ass pussy.

Fuck that liar, and fuck his life.

As for her… just because I declined going out with him again after she grovelled didn’t mean she had to swoop in and hog him for herself – or so she thought, at least. So what if I didn’t feel him after date number one? We sure as hell felt each other from the night she rejected his first proposal.

I sat on the bed, looking at other framed pictures they had with each other and smiled. Not because I found the images beautiful, but due to me being free from the shackles of his addictive dick and her traitorous ass. Well, they can continue their sickening union in the afterlife.

Thank God for the spare key she gave me years ago because it explained my presence on multiple occasions. Their neighbours’ penchant for minding their business was a bonus; no lie. What I did and the possibility of my freedom being nonexistent should’ve shaken me to my core, but I was more upset about the fresh red splotches spoiling one of my favourite goddamn dresses. The shame of it all.

Oh well, rest in peace, bozos.