Monday

The weekend was a haze of denial layered over panic.

Friday night had happened. That much was undeniable. Her body still ached with proof of it—deep between her thighs, along the bite-mark faint on her collarbone, in the phantom pressure where he'd filled her. Saturday morning, she texted Mickey from her real phone, just one clinical line:

Call your mom. Your dad’s in surgery.

Nothing more. No name. No softness. No hint of what had happened just hours before. She hit send and powered the phone off.

Saturday passed in silence and private spirals. She cleaned obsessively, picked at her food, flinched whenever her baby fussed, and avoided Jason's eyes entirely. Her legs stayed tightly crossed, as if denying her body could erase what had flooded through it.

Sunday, she smiled. Laughed at her husband’s jokes. Let Chloe nap on her chest. Watched TV she couldn’t remember. She even kissed Jason goodnight like nothing had changed.

Then waited until he snored.

Downstairs in the dark, a blanket wrapped around her, she pushed her hand between her thighs and came with her head pressed to the couch cushion, sobbing his name into her own wrist.

Now it was Monday.

Emily couldn’t sit still in traffic. The hum of tires and distant honking felt like static gnawing at her skin. Her panties were soaked before she even pulled out of the driveway. The soreness between her legs was still there—bruised, lingering. Her cunt clenched just thinking about it.

She didn’t plan to turn into the gas station. Her hands did it before she could stop them.

Inside, the prepaid phone hung behind the counter like a secret. She paid cash. Didn't look at the clerk. Said nothing.

Back in the car, she tore open the packaging with her teeth.

She knew his number.

Hey. It’s me. From the party.
You said to text.
Name’s Natalie.

She sent it and immediately wished she hadn’t.

But five minutes later, her new phone buzzed.

Fuck yes. Thought you were ghosting me.
Been thinking about that pussy since Friday.
Natalie, huh? You sound delicious.

Her pulse jumped.

I wasn’t sure if I should…
That night was intense.

You say that like it’s bad.
I came thinking about you yesterday. Twice.

Her breath hitched. She was parked outside work, heart pounding.

You touching yourself right now?

She stared.

No.

Not even a little?

You want to?
Send me something to dream about.

She hesitated.

Then typed:

No face. No names. Just this once.

In the bathroom stall, she took two quick photos. Her tit in her palm, nipple cropped out. Then her fingers pressing against damp panties, fabric pushed aside just enough to tease.

She sent both.

The reply nearly vibrated out of her hand.

You’re a fucking goddess.
MILF of my wettest dreams.
You want to ride my cock again, don’t you?

She clenched.

Say it again, she texted.

You're my MILF. My slut. My dirty little secret.
I want your pussy again so bad.

That night, she lay on the bathroom floor with a towel stuffed in her mouth.

Jason was upstairs. Chloe asleep.

Her fingers worked feverishly as she texted:

You’d fuck me again? Raw?

Deeper this time.
I’ll make you scream.
Beg me to fill you.

I will, she sent back, hips twitching.
I want it again. I’ve never felt so full.

I’m addicted to you, Natalie.
You were made for this.

She came so hard her body spasmed.

She stared at the screen.

And she didn’t delete a single word.