It’s all your fault.
It’s your fault Damon just walked in through our front door while we were having dinner. Of course he had a key. Why wouldn’t he take me by the hand, pull me to the middle of the room and strip me of my clothes? Why wouldn’t he get naked, too, and start groping me, sliding his fingers between my legs to see how wet I’d become the moment he arrived?
You started me down this path. One little fantasy fulfillment, you said. One adventure. You didn’t count on what it would to to me – what it unleashed in me – what it actually did to you. I hate and love every touch of a stranger’s hands and body on and in mine. I hate and love the look on your face as as you watch it happen to me. I can’t say no to it. I cum harder than any other time when he –whoever “he” is– fucks me while you watch, agony on your face. I hate you for watching, for letting it happen, but your eyes fuck me as hard as his cock does, and it pushes me beyond lust. It’s so… satisfying to cum like that and see what it does to you. It hurts you, but I want it again and again, and it’s your fault.
Damon finishes in me, deep in me as I keep cumming on his cock, and you watch that, too, and I shudder with shame, and anger, and pleasure, and hate, and love. He pulls out, dresses, and leaves without a word, without another touch. He has used me, and I feel it, and I loathe it, and I need it.
We don’t talk about it. We finish our cooling dinner, and go on like nothing happened.
Gage walks in the front door as we are getting ready for bed. Of course he has a key.
It’s your fault.