I’m not drawn to men. I don’t feel trapped in some gender-based trap, in some cage I was trying to break out of, or some identity crisis waiting to break open. I don’t fuck men.

I think women are beautiful, and the right flavor turns me on. It’s not a type—just a taste. Blonde, red, brown, black. Short bobs, messy curls, shaved sides. Mohawks.

Tits. Small and taut, or soft and heavy. A curved bum, big or small. Black. Asian. White as a lily. None of that matters, as long as she’s got it. That flavor. That look in her eyes that sees through my too-pretty face and wants what’s under it.

And still—still—I was Troy’s bitch through college.

His girl.

His best fuck-toy.

But more—so delightfully much more.

He—

It takes a certain man to become what I was.

Poetry class was my domain. The girls swooned. The queer guys fluttered their lashes. I let my hair grow long, worked out just enough to keep a flat stomach and a firm ass. The girls liked it. The boys, too.

He—he let me lick his girls clean. Eat the cum out of their cunts when he…after. Always after.

Shannon was the most delightful—endlessly soft, deep pink, and came with a wetness that matched his bacon and chili. She knew Troy fucked around, but the cheer-captain needed her glossy photos. Her and her boyfriend. The brand.

She came on my face sometimes, too. Always gave me a smile in the hallway—never that New York swagger, never the Black-bitch eyes she used to decapitate the other English majors. Just a smile. For me.

She didn’t take it up the ass. He had other girls for that.

And somehow, eating him out of an ass drove me crazier than anything else. But the best part?

When they left.

I rode the remains out of him like the good little cunt I was. Only with him did I fall apart—fold inward and become someone else entirely.

Sophia revealed herself to me in my senior year. We'd crossed paths before—shared lectures, swapped recommendations, lingered in each other's orbit since freshman year. But I hadn't seen her. Not really.

She invited me to a film—French, subtitled, and slow in that elliptical way I would have understood better if it had been in English. I tried to say no. I mumbled something about deadlines or sleep or not liking cinema. She twisted it into a yes.

I felt awkward. I was used to staying in. Used to being Troy’s bitch. Getting fucked before kickoff, after a win, with my knees pinned and my throat full. That was easy.

But she laughed at my misplaced jokes, and she smelled too good. She kissed me goodnight with a promise.

And I promised, without meaning to, that I’d take her out again.

Troy fucked me a little harder that night, and I felt more deserving of him, too. As if stepping outside my skin—even for a night—had made my cunt a little slicker. A little more broken in. I never got entirely used to the ways I came on Troy’s cock, but when he dressed me in lace and fishnets, when he folded me in half with my knees near my ears and breathed hot and heavy into my open mouth—why not cum? Why not fall apart from the inside out?

That night, he came in my ass for the first time. And him not finishing in my mouth didn’t feel like betrayal. No. I wished he could make me pregnant—so I could carry him inside me, hold him for the duration, let my body stretch around his presence like it finally knew what it was for.

He told me to stay in bed with him. He fucked me twice more that night. Stuffed me. Pumped me full. I begged—for more. More cum, more meaning. More purpose.

The second date with Sophia was fun. It turned into another, and then another.

And with each one, Troy fucked me harder. Like he could smell her on me. Like he wanted to fuck her out of me, or fuck the girl in me so raw she forgot Sophia ever existed.

He started rubbing my clit then—slow, practiced, mean—let her cum in his palm and made me lick it clean as he stuffed me full with that all-filling cock.

And that? Made me put more effort into Sophia. Until I loved her.

In April, I got Sophia pregnant.

“It’s been almost three months, Aaron,” she said. “Not once have you—”

She wore that dress that made her look quaint-English. Not proper—just delightful. Now she was astride me, rubbing her cotton panties against my crotch. She’d undone the clasp behind her neck, and her breasts pressed forward behind a bra that sculpted her like poetry in fabric.

Sophia had that flavor. It.

And when she reached down between her thighs and unzipped me, I found something like manhood still left in me. She rode me. Just like that, under the trees.

It felt foreign at first, being inside her. My body hesitated, like I wasn’t built for this anymore. But she moaned softly—nothing like me on Troy’s cock, unhinged and drooling.

No, she rode beautifully. With a slight furrow in her brow, a small twitch in her nose. Subtle. Complete.

Cumming inside her didn’t ruin me. It didn’t leave me fucked and spent—gaping and torn open. But it was good. Sweet, even. And still, I’d never fucked anyone. Still, only the fucked.

None of us meant for her to get pregnant. We received our diplomas, still blissfully unpregnant.

I wasn’t a father-to-be that final night, kissing her under the willow trees down by the lake. We didn’t know what next week would bring—still caught between love spent and love surviving, between letting go and trying long-distance.

Shannon was the fourth cunt I fucked. Another accident. I swear.

When I entered our room, still damp with the scent of Sophia, they were already at it. Shannon—the uncrowned queen of cheer—split open on a bed too fucked to hold dignity.

Troy’s large frame above her looked absurd. Perversely obscene. Blasphemous against her fragile bones. And naturally, I wished to be her.

“Aaron,” he grunted, “get undressed.”

I usually came to him after he’d finished with them. That was the rhythm. My body understood that sequence. But now, the order was off, and I couldn’t find myself in it.

I usually undressed prettier. Feminine. Seductive. But now the buttons felt like Greek letters, and my clothes spoke Mandarin. My fingers fumbled through foreign rituals, and I hated the boy they exposed me to be.

But my cock?

My cock spoke all the languages. It murmured to my boy-cunt in a dialect only the body understands—something thrilling, something about to rupture.

Troy slid out of her and gave a simple nod. An unceremonious passing of the scene.

Shannon adjusted without complaint. She reshaped herself around me like she’d never known another. Her moans returned like second nature, already tuned to this new rhythm.

She looked up at me, brown eyes bright, untroubled.

“Hey, handsome,” she said, smiling.

Not a trace of Brooklyn in her. Just ease. Warmth.

She wrapped her arms around my head and kissed me. Sloppy and sweet. Lips parted, sucking and nibbling like she’d missed me.

“It’s easier to cum on a cock that fits,” she whispered, her spit in my mouth like a secret she wasn’t supposed to share. “I want you, Aaron, before it’s too late. You’re almost too late.”

Troy had other plans. His goodbye-fuck was fast, furious—complete. Like he meant to leave her body echoing him long after we left.

I never really fucked Shannon. Not then. Not ever.

He just fucked her through me.

Her orgasm surprised me. I was used to hearing her break—loud, raw, wrecked over Troy’s cock. But this one was soft. Long. A wave that moved through her instead of crashing. She trembled. Gripped me like I was hers.

And I let her.

I tried to last. For her.

She was a sweet girl, caught between a too-tight body, a football team’s worth of cocks, and an academic plan that had failed her. I often wonder what happened to her.

I tried to hold on—to whatever manhood I had left—with Troy. But it slipped away. Slowly. Willingly.

And still, she kissed me through my whimpers. Complimented me through my cries. Hushed me when I begged him to fuck my cunt open.

She apologized when I spilled inside her.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

We sucked him off together. She spat. I swallowed.

I helped her dress. Hooked the clasp of her bra—small, tight, white—and smoothed the dress she’d worn for someone else’s date night. She didn’t ask for help with her shoes.

She kissed me like it was a secret. Kissed him like it wasn’t. Then she looked back—once. Not at me, but at the room.

“We’re not coming back here, are we?” she said.

Then she left—bare-legged, unsoiled panties tucked in her bag, and just enough dignity to keep her beautiful. And I never saw her again.

Troy fucked me once more. No words. Just need. Just finish. In the morning, he packed what was left, called a cab, and flew to Miami to meet the team. First-round draft pick. They’d work out the contract once he landed.

I packed the last of my books. Cardboard boxes. No labels. I still didn’t know where I was going.

I still didn’t know what I was. Not really.

What’s left of a bitch fucked open in an empty room?

Not a lover. Not a man. Not a memory worth keeping. Just a wet ache in the shape of someone who used to read poetry.

And the bed still smelled like all three of us.

I showered and got dressed. I didn’t pack the sheets. I left them, stained and clinging to each other in ways we no longer could.

Let Sophia take care of the rest—the talking, the mending, the putting me back together, and pulling me apart with fatherhood and pregnancy.

Not whole. Not healed. Just functional.

A frame. A scaffold of someone she would marry four months later, before her belly showed the twins.

Her vows? Poetic. Gentle. Forever.

I do.

I did.

I learned to love her like she loved me. Teaching English in high school felt rewarding. Fucking her pregnant again felt right.

And this time, I fucked her—me giving, her receiving. Just a man and his cock, claiming the woman he loved. And it felt like it mattered.

Troy’s rookie season was riddled with disappointment. He looked better on the cover of Esquire than he did on the field.

I tucked the twins in, kissed my pregnant wife goodnight, and turned on the game.

I didn’t understand the plays. I didn’t need to. Number sixty-eight was out there—big, Black, beautiful—and lost.

They called him a flop.

Miami missed the playoffs.

And I was rubbing my clit in the front room.

I sent him a text later.

Still your bitch.

A week later, he fucked me in a motel just off the highway near the airport.

No jerseys. No college walls. No dorm beds creaking under stolen time.

I was his girl. He was my man.

And I came like I’d been waiting three years to remember who I was.

The twins were too young to understand the importance of the man who sat at our dining room table the next night, but they understood the gifts. The toys. Sophia was surprised when I told her Troy was coming over, but too pregnant to argue.

“You’re a giant!” Aloma blurted.

Her sister, Isola, giggled like she always did when her sister was being funny.

They loved their Uncle Troy instantly.

I took him to the airport two days later.

I wore a bra and those panties he liked under my clothes. His plane didn’t leave until the morning, but Sophia didn’t need to know that.

I’d bought lipstick. Red. I looked in the mirror of the motel bathroom.

Yeah, Sophia didn’t need to know.

I was his cunt.

Red lips. A borrowed body—no—a reclaimed body. In the mirror, I still looked like someone Sophia could love. But not tonight.

Tonight, I belonged to someone else. And my cunt ached for him until he fucked every ache out of her.

I sucked him in front of the bathroom mirror, just to see my red lips stretched over his fat, Black cock.

Why do Black men love white girls so much?

Is it because our bodies can’t resist? That we can’t deny them what is undoubtedly theirs to take?

I came in my panties before he came down my throat.

And still, as he left for his plane, I felt—

I love my kids. Sophia is more than I deserve. I worship the ground she walks on. I kiss her swollen belly, her toes, her soft, maternal hands. I fuck her like she’s holy. Teaching is rewarding. My students test well. My principal calls me dependable.

I am a success.

—and I still felt so incomplete without him in me.

He fucked me twice more that year.

Once in our motel off the highway—quiet, brutal, familiar.

Once at an upscale hotel in Green Bay, right after crushing their quarterback. Then he crushed me. Bent me over the king-sized bed, called me princess, and came in my hair.

We were a family of five that Christmas. Uncle Troy came bearing gifts and a slender, model-girlfriend. She was tanned and plastic, but her mouth looked wide enough for him. They stayed at a hotel.

I didn’t need to hear her break on him.

Sophia closed the door behind them.

“They’re a cute couple,” she said, but there was something buried in her eyes—something folded tight and unspoken.

“I’m glad he’s turned his career around,” I answered, eyes fixed on the hallway, not her.

That night, I fucked her like I was trying to scrub myself clean. Like I owed her a performance that might somehow make it right.

A month later, she found me in the den.

Lights off. TV on. Conference finals of a game I still didn’t understand.

Cock out.

She sighed.

But she didn’t leave.

Instead, she slid between my legs and wrapped her hand around me—soft, familiar, unfazed.

“Watching Troy does this to you?” she asked, stroking slow, like it wasn’t really a question.

“Don’t be silly…” I said, already shrinking under the lie.

She kissed the tip, gentle as anything.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Just—no lies, okay? And tell me it’s only him. Please?”

“I—”
The beginning of a lie.
“We—” Another one.

“You’re really hard, honey,” she whispered, her hand slow and unforgiving. “Is he as big as his body lets on?”

She didn’t look angry. Just curious. Just knowing.

She stroked again and looked up at me with those ever-tender eyes—the ones she used when the twins were sick, when my father died, and when I told her I didn’t get the university job.

“Do you suck him? And how?”

Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t accuse. She didn’t need it to. The question hung in the room like a silk curtain—weightless but impossible to ignore.

My throat tightened. I should’ve said no. Should’ve laughed. Should’ve kissed her and said something about how beautiful she looked in the dark.

But she kept stroking me, watching.

“Do you choke on it, baby? Is that why you twitch like this when he’s on TV?”

She leaned forward, kissed the base of me, pressed her cheek to my belly.

“Is it the taste?” she asked softly. “Or the weight?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My mouth wasn’t mine anymore. Just a vessel he’d used and left behind.

She kissed the tip again. “Don’t lie,” she said. “I love you. But don’t lie.”

“I suck his beautiful, Black cock,” I whimpered.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Her hand trailed my jaw, warm and featherlight, then came to rest at my lips.

“With this mouth?”

She was still stroking me, slow and steady. She didn’t need rhythm. Just pressure. Just presence. Her thumb dragged over the tip, smearing precum like a question she already knew the answer to.

I opened for her. No hesitation. No thought.

“These lips, honey? That promised forever and whispered I do?”

She pushed three fingers in.

“Show me,” she breathed.

I sucked.

Not eagerly—obediently. Lips closed tight around her knuckles, cheeks hollowing, tongue tracing the underside in the rhythm my body remembered. The rhythm I had practiced. Perfected. Her fingers tasted like salt, lotion, her own skin. But in my mind, they thickened. Grew. Darkened. Her wrist blurred. Became his. The hand that fed me. That pulled me apart.

She watched.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Just watched.

And I kept sucking. Deeper now, lips slick, jaw stretching slightly. I moaned around her, soft and desperate, the way I did when the head of his cock pressed the roof of my mouth and I knew I’d choke if I didn’t earn it.

She pushed deeper.

I gagged once.

She didn’t flinch.

Her other hand kept moving, stroking me with a patience that bordered on cruel. My thighs twitched. My hips gave a single thrust—reflex, not control. I didn’t want control.

“Do you cry when he fucks your throat?” she asked, voice low, almost kind.

I moaned again.

“Do you taste his cum for hours after?”

Another moan, softer this time. Shame caught in breath.

“Do you swallow everything he gives you?” she whispered. “Every drop?”

My eyes were wet now. Her fingers slick with spit. My cock throbbed helplessly in her hand.

She pulled back slightly. Let her fingertips rest on my lower lip.

“Yeah, baby,” she murmured, brushing a thumb down my chin. “You do. You’re so fucking pretty like this. You shouldn’t be. I should be disgusted. But every line you ever loved in Leaves of Grass was about this. About him.”

Her hand trailed down my chest, slow and unhurried, like she was still deciding whether I deserved to be touched. She rubbed against my cock, felt it twitch beneath her palm, then pressed gently lower—beneath, where I was soft, where I was hers.

“And then?” she asked. “You let him fuck you?”

“Mhm,” I whimpered.

Whimpered. To my wife.

She kissed the head again, lips light, tongue flicking at the salt before she sucked me in—just the tip—then let me fall free. I twitched as air hit me again, exposed, throbbing. She didn’t look up.

“He doesn’t suck you, does he?” she asked. “No. He fucks you.”

She said it like a fact. Not cruel. Just accurate. A correction, maybe. As if I’d ever mistaken what I was to him.

Her hand slid lower. Slick fingers—my spit, her spit—pressing gently between my cheeks, then firmer. She found me—that place.

And I gave.

Not with a gasp. Not even with a flinch.

I gave like memory. Like want. Like a hole long since claimed.

“So, honey,” she whispered, “I won’t suck your beautiful cock either. Just guide me through it.”

Her fingertip pressed past the edge, slow and certain, and my hips arched—not away, but toward.

“How do you take it, honey?” she asked. Her voice was calm. Patient. Devastating. “Pretty, like you are now? Or ugly, like a man?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t a question. Not really.

Not when she already knew the answer. Not when her hand was knuckle-deep in the truth of it.

“Show me, honey,” she whispered. “Show me how you take him.”

She pulled her hand from me, slow and wet, and the emptiness left behind was too familiar—too easy. I didn’t even flinch. Just breathed through it. Like something I’d practiced for.

Then I slid to the floor.

My knees pressed into the rug her mother had gifted us when we moved into the house. A soft ivory weave, expensive, hand-dyed, meant to elevate the room. My face found the fabric, and I breathed her mother’s taste in—linen and something faintly floral, something meant for dinner parties and good impressions.

I didn’t belong on it.

I buried my face anyway.

My hands spread in front of me, and I my ass tipped up toward her—arched, presented, waiting.

“Like a bitch,” I whispered. “He fucks me like a bitch.”

There was no shame in my voice.

Only memory.

And the slow throb of need curled inside me like heat behind the eyes. I breathed it in—sweat, spit, memory—buried in a rug too clean for what I had become.

She rubbed her fingers against my hole, slow and deliberate. Not teasing. Reading.

Then she bit my balls. Not hard. Not cruel. Just too loving. A bite meant for ownership.

“Ass whore?” she murmured. “Somehow I knew—the way you read poetry, honey.”

I whimpered into the floor.

She didn’t wait. She pressed again, firmer now, and slid two fingers in like they’d belonged there all along. My hole gave instantly, no resistance, no thought. I gasped. My hips jerked once.

Then her other hand returned—fingers slick, practiced—rubbing my clit the way Troy used to, when he wanted to make me scream while he filled me.

My thighs shook.

My chest hitched against the rug.

“No,” I whimpered. “I’m a cunt. A pussy. I—deeper. God, fuck me deeper.”

My voice broke on the word. Caught between prayer and begging.

And still, I arched for her.

Opened for her.

Asked her to ruin me.

“All of me?” she whispered. Her voice caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “The whole hand?”

“Everything,” I groaned. “Everything, before I cum.”

There was a pause—long enough to feel sacred. Then the drag of slick skin, her palm pressing slow against the rim of me, her fingers curling inward with careful, deliberate force. My body hesitated. Trembled. Welcomed.

“You sound like a woman, babe,” she said softly.

Then she filled me.

All of her.

I whimpered—long and low—my mouth falling open, catching threads of the rug between my teeth. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My body locked around her wrist like it belonged to her. Like I had always been waiting for this.

Her breath caught. Her hand stayed. Inside me.

And I knew I wouldn’t last.

Not like this.

Not when every inch of me was being read.

“More,” I grunted. “Deeper.”

A moan followed—half breath, half break. A whimper dragged from the hollow behind my teeth.

And she pushed.

“Fuck, honey,” she whispered. “Half my arm is in you.”

“Sophia—fuck me. Oh, fuck.”

But she didn’t fuck me. Not in the way he did. Not with hips, or rhythm, or power. She pushed—slow, steady, claiming every inch inside me as if it had always been hers, never his. Like she was redrawing the map of my body, fingertip by fingertip, until I belonged only to her.

Then she pulled.

And pushed.

A slow, unbearable rhythm. Too tight. Too real. Too much.

And it had to break me.

“Your pussy’s so hot, honey,” she whispered, breath thick with awe and filth. “Your cock—clit? Yeah, your little clit is so excited. You’re going to cum on my mother’s rug, aren’t you, baby?”

I moaned again, helpless now, thighs quivering. Her words struck somewhere deep in my guts, curled around the pressure building behind my eyes, behind my cock, behind whatever was left of me.

Not a man.

Not a husband.

Just a cunt, trembling on the floor, begging to be used.

“Show me how you cum for him, honey. God—show me how you cum.”

She fucked me steady now. No rush. No cruelty. Just certainty. Her hand moved inside me with the rhythm of someone who knew she’d already won, pressing deep, then deeper, each motion reshaping me around her. Down onto the floor, down into the rug her mother had chosen with love and taste and optimism, down into the grain of domestic life I would never quite fit inside.

She rubbed my clit.

And I shattered.

Not all at once. Not cleanly. But in tremors. The kind that start low—hidden in the curl of toes, the quiver in thighs—and then rise, like a storm surge, sweeping everything. My moans came broken.

Ugly.

Beautiful.

My hips lifted once, then collapsed. My body convulsed around her, clenching, milking, desperate.

I came. Not like her husband. Not like the man who’d fathered our children. I came like a cunt claimed. I came on her hand, on her arm, on the floor. It was wet, obscene, endless. And she tried to collect me in her palm while her other hand stayed buried inside me, still pushing, still holding, still mine.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “So much cum, baby.”

The rug darkened beneath me.

And still I pulsed.

Still I leaked.

Still I moaned.

“Good girl,” she whispered, stilling her arm inside me. “Good fucking girl.”

She let me stay there—let me find the edges of myself again, find some kind of coherent breathing in the wreckage of what I’d just been. Then slowly, impossibly gently, she pulled from my gut. It felt like a breaking, a loss. I wanted her to stay there forever. God—I wanted her to fuck me again. Ruin me again. Let me lose it all again, just to remember how whole I could feel once emptied.

But she didn’t.

She lay beside me instead, her body warm, breath soft against my back. Then she reached down, pressed her cum-drenched hand against my lips, and slid her fingers into my mouth.

“Clean,” she whispered.

I sucked her clean. Salt, slick, memory. I licked every drop, every thread of myself from her fingers while she watched, her grin low and wide.

“Such a good fucking girl,” she praised.

Then she kissed me. Soft. Deep. Tender. She brushed a lock of hair from my face—hers or mine, I couldn’t say—and her hand stayed there for a long, still moment.

“I love you, honey,” she whispered. “All of you.”

Another kiss.

“But if you don’t eat my cunt out right now,” she said, dragging her fingers down my chin, “I won’t ever fuck you like that again.”

She slid on top of me, her silk nightgown fanning around my face like a curtain—not shy, not ashamed, just unwilling to offer me anything but scent, heat, and pressure. As if looking down at me would break whatever had just been made.

She was soaked through her underwear.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Didn’t undress. She only slid her panties to the side with one hand and pressed herself down, spreading over my mouth like she’d been waiting to do it her whole life.

She tasted like salt and heat, like silk turned wet and real.

Sophia had never cum this fast. Never fucked my face before. Never gripped the back of my head and rocked herself against my mouth, her thighs shaking as she used me—not with apology, but with all the quiet, unshakable certainty of a woman who knew what her body was built for.

She moaned above me. Raw. From somewhere deep and full.

Her cunt opened, then clenched. Her hips rolled forward again, wetter now, not careful. She pinned me with one hand on my shoulder and rode my tongue until I could barely breathe. Until her thighs trembled around my ears and her breath turned high and guttural and full of something older than language.

She came with her whole body. Not just wet. Not just spent.

But sovereign.

Troy phoned a few days later.

“Super Bowl,” he said, voice low, warm, impossibly casual.

“Yeah, I heard,” I admitted. “Congratulations.”

I was standing in the kitchen, a dish towel over one shoulder, the girls shouting from the other room. Sophia was upstairs—somewhere between work calls and bedtime stories. The kind of evening that felt safe. Earned.

“I need you there,” he continued.

A pause. Then softer—lower.

“Babe.”

The word landed with the weight of memory. Like a hand at the nape of my neck. Like a cock against my tongue. Like my whole body remembering who it used to be.

I gripped the counter.

“Troy…” I said, already losing the shape of my refusal.

He waited.

He always waited.

Because he knew.

Sophia knew, too, the moment she came downstairs.

She kissed me softly, her lips cool from the upstairs air.

“When are you leaving?” she asked.

“Next Thursday.”

“Just—” She sighed, touched my chest like she was grounding herself there. “Attention follows him, honey. I don’t want to turn on the news and see your face spilled across… the kids. School.”

I nodded. Swallowed. Didn’t lie.

She fucked me angrily that night.

Not cruelly. Not even to punish. But like someone fighting a ghost with her body. I let her. Took it. Loved her for it.

I stood in the doorway waiting for the cab. My bag by the door. My shoes already damp from pacing.

She took my hand.

“Just—” she said again, and her voice caught. “You’re coming back to us. You know… after?”

I nodded.

It was okay.

The cameras were on him. On the girls he surrounded himself with—plucked from agencies and high-rises, gowns painted onto bodies they’d bought. It was their faces plastered across the networks. The Miracle Man, they called him. The Miracle Girls.

It was okay. None of them were beautiful like Shannon.

I sat in the stadium and watched my bull tear the other team apart. I watched him hoist a trophy that obviously meant something to someone—coaches, sponsors, men with teeth too white and suits too tight. I watched the interviews, the lights, the girls on his arm—three deep, maybe four. Same dentist. Matching cleavage. Laughs that came too easily.

It was okay. Because that night, it wasn’t them he took back to his hotel. It wasn’t them he crowned.

It was me.

From the black limo to the champagne. The pink dress—strapless and so soft it felt like sin—ripped off like it offended him. He called me baby, sweetheart, girl. He kissed me so deep my clit wet. He sucked my tits so hard I forgot my name. He pinned my wrists above my head like he owned them, and he did. I moaned like I was made for it, because I was.

Because it was my cunt he fucked raw.

Because I was his princess.

And when I came—balls tight, clit dragging hard against the cool steel of his trophy—it was my cum that made it shine like it was worth collecting. And I understood what it meant. Because it was mine now, too.

And it was his cum that glazed my insides. Mouth first. Then ass.

I cramped like the pussy I was. My body locked around his cock like it belonged there. Like I had been made to hold him and nothing else. I begged. I sobbed. I came.

I convulsed and released, over and over, like the good little fuck-hole he trained me to be.

I came so much I forgot how to stop.

I think I was still cumming as Sophia picked me up at the airport. Not visibly—nothing anyone else would notice. But inside. A slow trickle of release down my spine. Like his cum had rewired me. Like my body couldn’t stop remembering what it had been made to hold.

“He’ll always fuck you, won’t he?” she asked as we merged onto the highway.

Not a question.

Nothing I needed to reply to.

“Part of me wants to watch,” she said. “Part of me wants to forget.”

She thumped the wheel once. Not angry. Not jealous. Just… tired of making peace with a truth that didn’t ask her permission.

“Just him, right?”

“Sophia,” I started. Paused. The words weren’t ready. They still trembled in my mouth. “I’m not gay. I love you.”

“But?”

I turned in my seat. Met her eyes. She didn’t flinch.

“I’ll always be his girl,” I said. “And if he stops, I’ll break.” My voice cracked. “We’ll break.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t rage.

She pulled into the service station two blocks from our house. Parked. Let the engine idle.

She stared at me for a long moment. Her gaze wasn’t cold. It was something deeper. Hungrier. Sadder. She looked like a woman standing outside her own church, trying to decide whether to burn it down or go inside and worship differently.

“You love my cunt?” she asked quietly.

“I worship your cunt,” I vowed.

She exhaled through her nose. Nodded once. Reached for my hand and brought it to her lap.

“Good,” she said. “Because it misses you. Not like a cock misses a hole. Like a home misses its body.”

She kissed my knuckles.

“I don’t need to be the only one,” she said. “I just need to be the one who knows how you breathe after. How to hold the girl you come back as.”

I nodded.

She kissed me.

“I need you to come back to us, just man enough to be a father. Man enough to fuck me pregnant again. Fuck me up against the fridge sometimes.”

She looked out the windshield, like her words hadn’t fully formed around her mind.

“We’ll play doll if you’d like. Dress you in my clothes, if that’s what you need.”

She turned to me again.

“I like fucking you that way. I want to fuck you like that now. But more—I need you to come home and fuck me like your wife.”

And then she offered the scorch I longed for.

“But if you ever fuck anyone but him—ever—it’s all been a lie, Aaron. Everything. I can live with all of you, honey, but never a lie.”

And with that, she put the car in drive.

And took us the rest of the way home.