Unbound and unbroken

The past 36 hours unfolded as a carnal symphony-skin slapping against skin, guttural moans harmonizing with the wet squelch of cocks plunging into my well-loved pussy. Vic’s ghost drowned beneath an ocean of cum as four men I knew rebuilt me, thrust by thrust, orgasm by orgasm, their releases of cum merging into a chorus that rewrote my grief into something feral and alive.

First, the sculptor:
His clay-crusted hands molded my body like wet earth, bending me over his splintered workbench. “Mine,” he snarled, teeth splitting the skin of my shoulder as he buried himself to the root. We fucked in a frenzy-doggystyle, missionary, my ankles pinned to my ears-each position a new canvas for his lust. He came five times: twice against my cervix, his cock pulsing like a piston; once with my legs hooked over his shoulders, his load so hot it made me scream; twice more from behind, his cum overflowing as he finger-painted my thighs and shoved his sticky digits back inside. “My masterpiece,” he rasped, leaving me dripping and trembling.

Then, the poet:
He arrived with metaphors on his tongue and wildfire in his hands. Pinning me to the mattress, he composed odes with his teeth across my ribs, his mouth devouring my clit until I sobbed into the sheets. Nine times he filled me, his cock twitching like a metronome as he chanted, “Mine, mine, mine,” our foreheads glued together by sweat. Between rounds, he traced the bruises on my hips and whispered, “You’re my redemption,” his softening cock still oozing inside me as we dozed in a tangle of limbs.

Third, the storm:
A force of nature, he fucked like he was exorcising demons. Biting my neck hard enough to draw blood, he snarled, “Perfect fucking cunt,” as he hammered into me. Yet between the chaos came tenderness-lips brushing my ear as he murmured, “I’ve got you,” calloused thumbs wiping my tears mid-thrust. Eight times he spilled his hot cum inside me, each climax longer and thicker than the last, until his cum leaked down my thighs and pooled beneath us. “I’ll dream about this pussy,” he panted, collapsing beside me, his fingers still teasing my swollen clit.

Last, the conqueror:
He took me against the Sub-Zero, cold steel biting my palms as he sheathed himself raw. “Scream my name,” he demanded, lifting me onto the granite counter to drill deeper. We came hard-against the dishwasher, on the island, bent over his desk-his cock spurting seven loads that dripped from my battered pussy onto client contracts. “Still hungry?” he asked as he was still thrusting in and out of me.

Between them, I scrubbed until my skin burned-lemongrass soap clawing at their musk, scalding water turning my body pink. But no lather could purge the stretch of my well-used hole or the trails of cum that escaped hours later. By the final shower, their essence still seeped down my thighs-warm, sticky proof of their relentless hunger.

Now, as twilight gilds the bite marks on my breasts, I’m a canvas of scratches and teeth marks, my pussy throbbing with the memory of being claimed. Vic’s ghost lies suffocated beneath their collective release; my birth control pills the only barrier against consequences I’d risk again. The heartbreak remains, but it’s softer now smothered beneath the weight of being needed with primal ferocity.

Tomorrow, I’ll rise with stilly slightly sticky thighs and a smirk, my grief rewritten in the language of sweat, semen, and the electric hum of being utterly alive. But tonight? Tonight, I’ll nurse my sore, swollen body-aching muscles, tender nipples, the sweet sting of overused flesh-and let sleep claim me. Let the next day bring new hands, three new cocks, more cum. For now, I’ll rest…and dream of the symphony yet to come.