The afterburn

It’s been two days since that night with Vic, and my body still hasn’t let me forget him. Mornings are the worst-or maybe the best-because the soreness is sharpest when I first wake up. I shift in bed and the ache between my legs reminds me of every way he took me, every way I gave myself to him.

Getting ready for work is a ritual of reminders. Even pulling on my panties is a jolt-my pussy is still swollen and puffy, the skin sensitive to the touch. When I look in the mirror, I see the faintest marks on my inner thighs-his fingerprints, maybe, or just the aftermath of being spread open for hours. I run my fingers gently over the tender flesh, and a flash of memory hits me: Vic’s hands gripping my hips, his voice rough in my ear, “You take all of me so well.”

Most often than not, I hate my appearance. I’m overweight, not “pretty” in any traditional sense, and so often I feel invisible-ignored, overlooked, never the one anyone would call beautiful. I see every flaw, every curve that doesn’t belong in a magazine, every imperfection that seems to set me apart for all the wrong reasons. I’ve grown used to fading into the background, to feeling like I’m never enough.

But with Vic, everything shifts. When I’m with him, I feel beautiful-sexy, wanted, desired in a way I never thought possible. He looks at me like I’m the most captivating woman in the world, like he can’t get enough of me. The way he touches me, the way his eyes roam my body, the way he moans my name and pulls me close after-he makes me feel like I’m more than enough, like I’m something to be worshipped. I don’t know how he does it, but when I’m tangled up with Vic, I forget to hate myself. I feel powerful, irresistible, alive.

In the shower, I can’t help but explore, just to see how much is left of that night. I press my fingers between my lips and feel the heat, the faint sting. When I slip a finger inside, I gasp at how swollen and sore I still am. I remember the way Vic stretched me, the way he pushed inside, slow at first, then rougher, harder, until I was crying out, begging him not to stop.

I lean against the tile, letting the water run over me, and close my eyes. I can still feel the ghost of his dick inside me, the way he filled me so deep I thought I’d break. The memory is so vivid I almost expect to see him behind me in the steam, his hands on my waist, his mouth at my ear.

Sitting at my desk at work is its own kind of torture. The chair presses against my ass, and I can still feel the bruised, stretched ache from how Vic took me from behind. Every time I shift, there’s a dull, throbbing reminder of how he claimed every inch of me. I remember how he bent me over the bed, how he whispered, “Relax for me,” as he pushed his incredible but big dick into my ass, how I gasped and grabbed the sheets, how he didn’t stop until I was shaking, my body spent and satisfied.

Sometimes, I catch myself zoning out, lost in flashbacks. The way he looked at me, sweaty and wild, his eyes locked on mine as he thrust harder, the slap of skin on skin, the way he held me down and made me cum over and over. I remember the taste of him, the way he filled my mouth, the salty, musky heat as I swallowed every drop, the way he praised me after, pulling me close, kissing me like he couldn’t get enough.

Even now, two days later, I can still smell him on my skin, faint but unmistakable, like sex and sweat and something that’s just him. I can still feel the ghost of his hands, the echo of his voice, the way he made me feel raw and wanted and completely undone.

And the truth is, I don’t care that he’s risking his marriage. I don’t care that I’m risking my relationship with my boyfriend. The thought should make me feel guilty, but it doesn’t. If anything, the danger, the secrecy, the way we both know exactly what we’re doing-it just makes it hotter. I want Vic. I want the way he makes me feel, the way he takes me, the way nothing else matters when we’re together. I crave the risk, the recklessness, the way we both throw caution aside for a night that leaves me aching for days. Honestly, I doubt Vic cares much about the risk either. We’ve been meeting up on and off for years-if he really cared about his marriage, he wouldn’t be here with me, wouldn’t keep coming back for more. Maybe we’re both just too far gone to stop, or maybe we’re exactly where we want to be.

Sometimes, in the heat of it all, we’ve both slipped and said those three dreaded words - “I love you!” - right in the middle of fucking. I’m not even sure if I meant it, and I have no idea if he did either. Maybe it was just the intensity, the way our bodies fit, the way we lose ourselves in each other. Or maybe it was something more, something we’re both too scared to admit outside the dark, breathless moments tangled in the sheets.

But when the memories fade and I’m left alone with my thoughts, the inner conflict creeps in. I wonder what I’m doing-what we’re doing. Am I just chasing the high, the thrill of being wanted, the escape from my own relationship? Is Vic just using me to fill a void he can’t talk about? Sometimes I tell myself it’s just sex, that it doesn’t mean anything, but then I remember the way he looked at me, the way we clung to each other like we were the only two people left in the world. I wonder if I’m lying to myself, or if we’re both just pretending not to care about the consequences.

Still, the ache between my legs and the hunger that lingers in my chest tell me I’d do it all over again. And I know, deep down, that it’s only a matter of time before it happens again.

My phone buzzes, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s a message from Vic:

Vic:
Still thinking about you… can’t get you out of my head. 😘

I read it twice, a smile tugging at my lips, my heart pounding all over again. I type back, already feeling that familiar pull, the anticipation building for whatever comes next.

Me:
You’ve been on my mind too. Even now, I can still feel you. I don’t know exactly what this is, but I do know I can’t resist you.