The cock that I crave (even if it's wrong)

The stolen anticipation of those hours the other night with Vic was a delicious kind of torment, each minute stretching into an eternity until I could finally be in his arms. Sneaking away from my family felt like the ultimate, exhilarating act of rebellion, a secret rendezvous fueled by weeks of pent-up, aching lust. That anonymous hotel room, booked under my name – a detail that always sent a naughty thrill dancing down my spine – became our forbidden sanctuary, so tantalizingly close to his work yet a million miles away from his real life. The secrecy was a vital part of the intoxicating allure for him, a dangerous, thrilling layer to our affair, the constant risk of his colleagues discovering his infidelity only sharpening the already desperate edge of our desire. And when that door finally clicked shut, sealing us in our own private world, the air throbbed with a palpable, raw hunger, a silent, shared promise of the uninhibited, animalistic pleasure that was about to explode between us. Those stolen hours weren't just about the physical act; they were about a primal claiming, a frantic, desperate exploration of needs that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long, threatening to boil over. We didn't just touch; we devoured each other, our bodies slamming together with a frantic, almost violent urgency, a desperate, unspoken need to obliterate the space that kept us apart. Three rounds? That was just the beginning, a mere scratching of the insatiable itch that only his touch could truly satisfy.

From the moment his lips crashed onto mine in that first frantic, desperate kiss, I was his to command, every nerve ending in my body screaming his name. His hands were everywhere, possessive and knowing, mapping the landscape of my body, finding every sensitive curve and hidden hollow as if he'd charted them a thousand times before. My soft whimpers of longing quickly escalated into desperate cries that tore from my throat, each sound a raw, uninhibited testament to his masterful, almost brutal touch. He explored me with a fierce tenderness that bordered on obsession, his fingers plunging deep, relentlessly seeking out that core of pleasure that made my hips lift involuntarily and my breath hitch in ragged, desperate gasps. I arched against his hand, my body a live wire begging for more, for deeper, for the raw, unadulterated everything he had to give. And my breasts? They were his personal obsession, worshipped and punished in equal measures. He’d cup them roughly in his hands, his thumbs circling my aching nipples until they were hard, throbbing peaks practically begging for the wet heat of his mouth. Then would come the exquisite sting of his teeth, sometimes a playful nip that sent a jolt of pure electricity through my core, other times a more possessive bite that left my skin flushed, swollen, and undeniably his. Lower still, his lips and teeth would blaze a scorching trail down my inner thighs, leaving a slick, burning heat in their wake, each graze igniting a wildfire of pure, unadulterated lust that pooled low in my belly, making me ache for more of his touch. And that hickey on the base of my neck? It’s a dark, swollen brand, a shameful yet thrilling badge of honor, a secret, throbbing testament to his possessiveness, a constant, visible reminder of the wild, unrestrained abandon of our night together. My skin still tingles with the phantom sensation of the scattered bruises, each tiny, tender mark a testament to his hungry bites, to the raw, primal need that clawed at us both. I reveled in every single second, every stolen touch, every delicious, sinful mark he left on my body. It was dirty, it was desperate, it was gloriously, wickedly forbidden, and it was the only thing that truly made my body and soul sing. In that anonymous hotel room, I was his willing captive, and he made damn sure he staked his claim, branding me with his touch, his taste, and his insatiable, consuming desire.

And even though the cold, hard truth remains, a dull ache in my chest, that Vic will likely never leave his wife for me, a part of me – the most base, most desperate part – can't help but crave his touch, the way his lips taste on my skin, the way he makes me feel utterly, completely alive and desired in those stolen, secret moments. He makes me feel so incredibly beautiful, so intensely wanted, desired, and utterly craved, even though I loathe my own body. Being BBW – and a lot of it is due to health issues, this constant battle with PCOS that makes losing weight feel like an impossible feat despite trying almost everything imaginable (weight loss surgery and those prescription medications that aid in weight loss are simply not options for me) – makes me hate what I see in the mirror most days. But in his eyes, in his hands, I feel… different. He's the one who ignites this kind of raging inferno within me, the one my body truly aches for, the one I want intimately entwined with, no matter how complicated or ultimately doomed the stark reality of his marriage makes it.