I glance up at the kitchen wall clock – five to nine. Bob left half an hour ago, his regular treatment day at the hospital. I let a gentle sigh escape my lips, then take a sip from the mug cradled in my hands, the warmth of the contents flowing down my throat remind me of another liquid yesterday evening.
The memories surge back, fingers clawing at the sofa cushions, breath quick and shallow. My eyes locked on Bob—watching, silent—as Stan takes me. I close my eyes, surrendering to the replay of sensation, a wave of pleasure coursing through my body. My fingers find the belt of my gown, loosening the overhand knot until the fabric slips open, revealing my bare chest.
I trace a fingertip over my nipple, rolling it slowly between my fingertips, feeling it harden beneath my touch as warmth and desire bloom across my breast. I need more, and after placing the mug on the table, I run my hand across the soft flesh of my tummy, my gaze locked on the black knickers covering my mound, the entrance to a land of pleasure.
My legs spread open, almost of their own accord, welcoming my hand and its probing digits slipping under the waistband. This is the moment I treasure: intruding inside my fanny, fingers spreading my lips apart to find the wetness within.
Two fingers slip as far as I can reach, then I crook them behind the hard bone. Flashes of pleasure course through my brain; my head drops back and my eyes slam shut.
Slowly I withdraw, pulling my juices out, smearing them around my fanny and over my bud. Oh God, that first touch on my bud sends shivers through my body. It feels so good. My rhythm has a life of its own, decades of practice and knowing my body. Stan is inside my head, his prick slamming into my body, as he did last night. Every thrust is replicated with another press of my finger on my clit.
I feel my hips flexing and my breath coming in shallow bursts, while my finger flashes faster and faster. Not long to go now. I squeeze my nipple hard, and a shot of pain gives the extra boost I need to reach orgasm. Somewhere distant, I hear my whimpers turn into cries as my body jumps and squirms on the chair. Waves of pleasure wrack me, and light floods my brain. It is stunningly glorious, just what I need.
Panting from my exertion, I run a fingertip along my little shaft and feel my body shudder. It is so nice I do it again, enjoying the extreme post-orgasm sensitivity, and suddenly I find myself needing another. My finger flicks across my bud; I hear myself muttering a series of ‘yes’ before I tip over the edge into my second orgasm.
Perhaps a third, I ask myself, with a gentle slip across my clit, but the pleasure has become too intense, and I decide no. I lift the slick and slimy hand from my loins, push three fingers in my mouth and taste my arousal, licking the juices off.
I shift restlessly, blink open my eyes, and push myself upright. Then, something unexpected catches my gaze—something that wasn’t there when I began to lose myself. I turn my head slowly, and there, framed in the doorway, silent and watchful, stands Stan.
Caught, and with nowhere to hide I know, without thinking, that I’m his again. Stan’s gaze locks onto mine, boring into my soul—unyielding, unblinking—stripping me bare as he advances, each step deliberate, soft and silent.
My head tips back as he moves between my parted legs, the heat of his thighs brushing against mine. Stan’s hands rise to the collar of his robe, drawing my eyes down. Slowly, they glide downward, never breaking the thread of my attention, until they find the knot at his waist. With a tug the fabric yields.
He stands before me, hard and open. A flutter stirs in my belly, a tremor that climbs my spine and sparks behind my eyes. Then his rough fingers tangle in my hair, guiding me toward what I already know is my destiny.
His grip tightens at the base of my skull as he pulls me forward. My jaw slackens instinctively—not in submission, but reflex—as he fills my mouth with the heat of his cock. There’s no gentleness in the thrust, just the urgent slide of skin against palate, the ridge of his crown catching briefly on my teeth before sinking deeper.
The taste hits me, salt and musk, as my throat spasms against the intrusion. He groans, low and ragged, as his hips pulse and roll to leave my saliva drooling down my chin.
Stan’s thumb brushes my cheekbone where it’s stretched taut. His other hand stays knotted in my hair, guiding the rhythm—forward until my nose presses into wiry curls, back until just the swollen head rests heavy on my tongue.
I breathe through flared nostrils, eyes watering as he picks up pace. The chair legs scrape the floor beneath me.
"Been dreaming about this," he mutters, gaze locked on where my lips stretch around him. "All night."
A muffled gag escapes when he pushes too deep, and my throat convulses around him. He stills instantly, fingers loosening. "Easy," he soothes, voice rough but softer. "Don’t choke."
He pulls back slightly, letting me adjust—a brief mercy before his hips snap forward again. Spit dribbles down my chin and drops onto my chest.
I feel his thighs tremble against mine, then his hands release my hair abruptly, leaving my scalp tingling as he grips my wrists instead. He hauls me upright so fast the chair clatters backward onto the floor.
My knees buckle momentarily before he spins me hard enough to make the room blur. The edge of the countertop slams into my lower ribs, knocking the breath from my lungs as he shoves my torso down. My cheekbone cracks against cold laminate, the shock jarring my teeth.
His weight pins me there, one hand splayed between my shoulder blades while the other slips under the waistband of my knickers as his hips grind against my backside.
“Hold still," he growls, breath hot against my ear, his free hand already tugging the thin fabric aside. The sudden glide of his cockhead against bare flesh draws a ragged groan from him as he presses forward.
The counter edge digs deeper into my stomach with each thrust and the top grips my sweaty face.
Stan groans as he sinks deeper, his thick shaft stretching me open relentlessly. His hips piston forward, grinding my pelvis against the edge with each thrust; sharp jolts of pain mingle with the pleasure of slick friction inside.
He curses under his breath, fingers digging bruises into my hipbone while his other hand pins my shoulder blade flat. "Tighter than I thought you would be," he rasps, breath hot against my ear as he snaps his pelvis hard, driving me against the counter.
Spit pools beneath my cheek. My face is mashed against the surface, and I can taste blood from a split lip opened by the impact. His rhythm grows erratic as he lets out a grunt that shakes his entire frame.
Outside, a car engine sputters to life. The routine sound feels odd, jarring against the intimacy of his body pressing me into the worktop. I whimper softly when he withdraws, leaving me empty for a heartbeat before slamming back in deep enough to make my knees buckle. "Shh. Almost there, Louise."
His hand slides from my hip to my neck, fingers pressing gently, holding me down, claiming his dominance.
"Look at me," he demands, voice rough as gravel.
I twist my head sideways, cheek still pressed to the surface, and his eyes lock onto mine, pupils wide, but there’s something else—a need for justification.
"Tell me you want it." It’s not a question.
My mouth struggles to form the words, sticky with spit and blood. "Yes," I rasp. "Oh, God, yes.”
He smiles, a quick, fierce look, before his hips snap forward in three brutal, final thrusts before he stills, buried deep. A shudder runs through both of us as he spills inside me with a guttural groan that sounds ripped from his chest. The sensation of his cock pulsating and the heat of his cum in my fanny takes me over the edge, and I feel my whole body tremble before the pleasure of orgasm blinds me to everything other than the convulsions wracking my frame.
His forehead drops between my shoulder blades, breath hot and damp on my skin. For a moment, the only sounds are our ragged breathing. His grip on my neck eases, fingers tracing the line of my jaw instead. "Christ," he mutters against my spine, voice muffled. "You wreck me."
He pulls out slowly; the sudden emptiness makes me gasp. His hand slides from my back my hip, steadying me as I lift myself up onto my elbows. I turn and see he’s watching, eyes softer now.
He thumbs away the smear of spit and blood from my chin. "Bit rough," a statement, not an apology.
"You alright?" he asks as his knuckles brush my cheekbone, surprisingly gently.
I push myself upright, wincing as the counter’s edge releases its bite from my stomach. "Yeah," I manage, my voice raw.
My knickers are twisted sideways, soaked where he’d shoved them aside. He reaches past me to grab a tea towel hanging from the oven door handle and hands it to me wordlessly. I wipe my face, the rough fabric scratching my split lip.
His gaze shifts back to me, lingering on the red mark blooming across my stomach where the edge dug in. "Sorry, Louise, shouldn’t have pinned you so hard." He says it flatly, a casual aside. I shrug, tossing the towel aside. "Got carried away."
“No, Stan, I wanted it. If I hadn’t, you would have found out pretty smartish.” He grins sheepishly, pulling his gown across his front, puts an overhand knot in the belt, and then picks up and sits on the chair I was sitting on earlier.
“How about a nice cuppa, Louise?”
I tear a sheet of paper off the roll holder and stuff it down my knickers to soak up our combined juices, giving him my sweetest smile, and then lean over and kiss him on the lips, pushing my tongue into his mouth.
With my arms over his shoulders, we lock together, tongues dancing, tips flicking, saliva flowing from one to the other, until I choose to break contact. The first moment I have any control over events since my fingers had first slipped into my knickers as I reminisced over Stan fucking me last night.
I boil the kettle, make two mugs of tea, then sit and reach across the table to squeeze Stan’s hand. My smile is unguarded—he’s given me back something I hadn’t realised I’d lost: the thrill of being desired and taken forcefully.
“I’m sorry, Louise. I have to go home. I’d love to stay longer, but I can’t.”
My fingers tighten around his. I know he must leave, but knowing doesn’t make it easier. We sit together while he drinks, the minutes stretching out. Then he rises, walks to the kitchen door, and stands there as if caught between two worlds. After a long pause, he returns, cups my face in his hands, and presses my cheek against his gown. His lips find my scalp, linger for a few seconds, and then he’s gone. I hear his footsteps on the stairs, each one pulling the morning further from me.
._.
The house feels hollow without him. I lean against the worktop, warming my hands around my second mug. My fingers drift across the counter, tracing the spot where my face had been pressed earlier—where desire had bloomed, where release had come. It feels like a lifetime ago, though barely an hour has passed.
I think about Bob and about our arrangement. It was his idea—his way of loving me, of being close even as he watched. That was the boundary: he would watch. But this morning, Stan took me while Bob lay in a hospital bed, tethered to machines, with tubes threading into his arms and throat.
Later, I’ll have to explain. I’ll have to find the words for how and why. I don’t regret it. But I don’t want to hurt my man.
Tears bead in my eyes and run down my face. Sobbing, I drop the mug on the floor and watch the shards scatter. Something undefined in my head controls my body, and I slip my hand inside my still wet knickers, pulling out the kitchen paper I had stuffed in there earlier. I hold it against my nose, breathing in the mixed aroma of our aroused bodies.
A hand explores the heat between my legs and finds the hard knot of my sex. It feels robotic; I have no control over my actions. It is as if someone else’s hand is in there, not mine. I turn around, bend over the counter and lay my head against the hard surface, reliving my experience. An alien hand arouses my body, taking me over the edge again and again, sobbing and whispering, “Harder, Stan, harder.”
