That third day you fucked me on every room, surface, and orifice until my insides felt bruised and raw and I begged you to stop. Then you fucked me one more time, long and slow, making me come over and over before coming inside me one last time. As I got dressed for the first time that weekend you told me to let you know when I made it home. I left soon after that, your come running down my thighs and my body relaxed despite the pain. That goodbye on your porch stairs was the last easy moment I had with you.
It's been two months since my weekend with you. The pleasure soaked weekend where you made good on every claim you'd ever made to me. Especially the last one.
I couldn't walk right for over a week, had to make up a lie for family and co-workers about a pulled back muscle so they'd stop telling me to go to the doctor.
I definitely couldn't touch myself for a good three weeks, even though memories of our time together combined with my sore and sensitive ass and pussy never kept them far from my mind. I went to bed sore and frustrated every night but even the slightest brush of my fingers was too much. The memories played back in HD quality every night while I silently, desperately, waited for a call a text, anything, despite all the lectures and and reminders and promises I made to myself.
You were better than most, calling me that first night and asking how I felt but the conversation was stilted and awkward. When we hung up, I cried, knowing this was the end.
The few texts you sent after that were sporadic and generic at best. I was almost relieved when on the sixth day, I didn't hear from you at all. By the twelfth day, I stopped looking for your name on my phone.
By day twenty, I was pissed at myself for still thinking every time my phone vibrated it was you, so I went out, found a fairly attractive man who was funny and sweet that I couldn't stop comparing to you, and fucked him to spite myself. He was just as sweet and considerate in bed, he even made sure I got off once. But he didn't stretch me past the point of pain, and he never once tried to touch my ass or make me deep throat him. I deleted his number as soon as he left, feeling worse than before. You really did ruin me for other men.
I knew you had moved on and who could blame you? So I did my best too. But you had set the bar ridiculously high, the thought of being disappointed by these new standards was disheartening.
My friends were fed up with me me by this point as well. I was distant and hadn't gone out with them and they didn't understand my sudden desire to stay in instead of meeting men. I hadn't planned on telling them about you, though if I had they would have high fived me, poured me a drink, and demanded all of the juicy details. But maybe that was what I needed.
When I met up with them six weeks after our weekend, I couldn't do it. The bar was too loud and crowded and our story didn't need that many witnesses. I did, however, flirt with some men at the bar, and made a big show of exchanging numbers with one of them. Maybe he would be better than the first guy.
He wasn't.
A week later, my friends showed up at my place with carbs and alcohol, declaring they wouldn't leave until I talked. So I did, after getting good and buzzed.
They squealed and swooned and cussed me out as I told them everything, then declared we were going to go to a club that weekend and get over you.
As they say, the only way to get over someone is to get under someone else.
I'm trying to go with it, but don't have high hopes. Clubs are too crowded and loud for my tastes but my friends mean well so I tel myself to suck it up for a night. Maybe I'll meet someone. But every man that grinds up on me or touches my body, feels wrong, despite the encouraging smiles from my friends.
After yet another disappointing dance ends with my too drunk companion sloshing alcohol on my shirt, I make my excuses and went to the bathroom to clean up, dotting at my shirt with a wet paper towel. My buzz was gone, my feet were aching in the torture devices my friends called shoes, I had a headache from the too loud base, and now I smelled of alcohol.
I straightened my hair over my shoulder and pulled the door open.
"There you are," the drunk guy from earlier slurs. "I thought you went home without me but you waited. Ready to go?" He takes a step forward, hand reaching for me. I must have danced with him at some point, but I have no intention of going home with him.
I dodge his hand but he has me cornered. My heart is racing. "No, I don't think so."
"You playing hard to get after grinding on me all night like you want it?"
He's bigger than I am, somewhere close to six feet tall but lean, not terrible looking at all except for the attitude. Judging from the sunglasses on his head despite the late hour and the Abercrombie clothing, he's a douche. I back away again, my back hitting the wall. Trapped.
My eyes dart wildly for an escape route but you have it blocked. Should I lock myself in the bathroom? "I'm sure you're terrible in bed but girls keep faking orgasms for you and now you're convinced you're some sort of sex god, but I was just dancing. I'm not interested."
I try to wiggle past back to the safety of the crowd because of course the bathrooms are deserted right now. He grabs my arm and I spin, trying to twist myself free. "No! Let go!"
He shoves me into the wall, and only a last minute reflex keeps my nose from being broken. "Let go!" I yell but it's muffled by the pounding bass. I struggle, wriggling, kicking, but it's not doing any good. Bile rises in my throat when his hands touch me, worming under my shirt. And then he's gone, cussing as he falls backward into a wall.
"I thought I heard my friend tell you she wasn't interested." I freeze and then slowly turn around, hands shaking as I fix my clothes. I have to be hearing things. It can't be... it's you.
"Good luck with that cocktease," he mutters before storming off and disappearing into the crowd.
My mouth goes dry, my eyes taking you in, my body heating up. "Thanks," I say lamely, licking my lips. "I should go rejoin my friends. They're probably wondering where I am."
