Aftershock (Unrestrained)

After a brutal, soul-draining day in the ER, all I wanted was to disappear—into silence, into darkness, into something that didn’t smell like bleach and blood and panic. My body was limp, wrung out, the lingering throb from the kidney stone dulled by a cocktail of painkillers and the soft steadiness of my doctor’s care. She was calm when I couldn’t be, grounding when everything felt unmoored. Her touch wasn’t just clinical—it was kind. And I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for a stranger in my life.

I barely remember signing the discharge papers. My vision was a fog, my limbs heavy. I just wanted to get home, curl into my sheets, and sleep off the nightmare. I was already halfway through the exit corridor, numb and half-dreaming, when I walked straight into him.

Hands—firm, strong—caught me fast. His body absorbed mine, his grip steady and warm. For a split second, my dazed brain thought it was her again, my doctor. But then I looked up.

The same eyes, yes. But his burned. Darker. Wilder. Her brother, he told me. That explained the shared features—but not the heat radiating off him, the edge in his smirk, the way his gaze pinned me like he already knew what I tasted like under my clothes.

The conversation was barely words. A name, a glance. A hum of something electric and forbidden humming beneath the surface. A kind of magnetism that didn’t ask for permission. It simply was.

And then the door to the doctors’ lounge clicked shut behind us.

The light was low. The room was quiet. And we were alone.

He didn’t waste time. Didn’t ask. Just looked at me—really looked—then pushed me back against the couch with a hunger that made my knees buckle. His mouth crashed into mine, all rough breath and tongue, and I gasped against him as he took what he wanted. There was nothing gentle about it. His hands gripped my waist, my thighs, my hair. My clothes hit the floor in seconds.

He dropped to his knees like a man starved and buried his face between my legs before I could speak. His tongue was relentless—no teasing, no buildup, just full contact, unfiltered want. I came fast, embarrassingly fast, clenching around nothing as he growled against me like the sound pleased him.

Then he stood. Undid his belt. Freed himself.

He was massive. Bigger than any dick I ever had…and I had many.

The kind of size you don’t forget. The kind that makes your breath catch and your brain glitch because it doesn’t seem real. Thick, heavy, dark-veined. My mouth watered. My body pulsed with greedy need.

He didn’t ask if I could take him. He knew I would try. And I did.

He bent me over the arm of the couch and entered me in one slow, unyielding push. I cried out—half shock, half bliss—as he stretched me open around his dick. The pain was real, but it blurred into pleasure fast, too fast, as he began to move. Deep. Deliberate. Possessive.

Every thrust felt like a claim. His fingers dug into my hips, his breath hot against my neck, his body pinning mine like he needed to feel my heartbeat through every inch of skin.

And then, as his rhythm turned punishing, I said it. A whisper, nothing more:

“I’m not on birth control.”

His pace faltered for just a second. One heartbeat of stillness. Then he grabbed my wrists, pushed them down, and fucked me harder. There was no pullback. No second thoughts. He wanted it. That risk. That claim. That seed.

He came inside me, groaning low in my ear, his release hot and overwhelming. I felt it fill me. Felt it spill out when he didn’t stop, even as I trembled beneath him, spent and gasping.

But he wasn’t finished.

He flipped me onto my back this time, drove into me again, deeper now, rougher, chasing something carnal and savage. The second time he came, I clawed at his back, helpless under him as he spilled into me once more. My body ached in the most obscene, perfect way.

Again.

And again.

Every time he came, it was thick and messy and deliberate.

By the time my phone buzzed on the floor—some cruel reminder that my discharge time was up—I was a wreck. Boneless. Sweat-slick. My legs barely held me as I pulled my clothes back on, every movement sticky, tender, utterly wrecked.

I didn’t bother cleaning myself up. His cum dripped down my thighs as I walked out. I wanted to feel it. To carry it with me. A filthy, delicious reminder of the chaos we made behind that door.

I looked back once.

He was standing in the shadows, shirt still open, eyes locked on me with a hunger that hadn’t dimmed. A promise that if I stayed another second, he’d do it all again.

Maybe I should have.

But I walked. Shaky-legged, sex-dazed, split wide and leaking, my heart hammering like I’d survived something holy and profane all at once.

Not every part of healing is clean or careful.

Some parts are brutal, messy, soaked in sweat and sex and risk. Some parts make you feel alive in ways medicine never could.

And I’d take that kind of healing again—without hesitation.

He came to my house this morning to “follow up” with me with a house call.