Back home

The next day, Amber found herself back in the relative safety of her dorm room, surrounded by the familiar smells of cheap incense and stale takeout.The way home had indeed been surprisingly straightforward. After leaving Earl's cabin, she had stumbled upon a well-trodden trail she hadn't noticed before. It was as if the woods had parted for her, guiding her back to civilization like a glowing path in a fairy tale. The trek into the city had been a blur of lights and sounds, each step bringing her further from the cocoon of terror and arousal she had experienced.

The bus ride was a surreal contrast to the night before, the mundane chatter of students and the hum of the engine soothing her frazzled nerves. It was almost too easy, as if the universe had conspired to make sure she didn't have to think too much about what had happened. As the cityscape grew closer, she found herself wondering if it had all been a feverish dream—the cabin, the man, the things they had done.

But then she looked down at the shirt she wore, Earl's shirt. It hung loosely on her, the fabric soft and worn, a stark contrast to the tight, revealing clothes she usually wore. She could still smell him on it—his musk and sweat, the scent of sex and the forest. It was a tangible reminder that it had all been real. The dampness between her legs, the stickiness that clung to her skin, was a more intimate memento, a constant reminder of his presence in her body.

Now, in her dorm room with trembling hands, Amber peeled off the flannel shirt, her eyes never leaving the mirror. Her chest heaved, her breaths shallow as she surveyed the marks he had left on her body—the bruises, the bitemarks. She felt both a twinge of revulsion and a pulse of desire. This was what she had done, what she had allowed him to do to her. And yet, she couldn't ignore the way her nipples tightened at the memory of his rough touch, the way her core clenched at the thought of his cock filling her up.

Her hand traveled down her body, tracing the path of his fingers from her breasts to her stomach. She felt the slickness between her thighs, the remnants of his release and her own arousal. With a trembling sigh, she slipped her fingers into her panties, her eyes fluttering closed. Her touch was gentle at first, almost tentative, as if she were afraid of what she might find. But as she stroked her clit, she felt the familiar swell of need, the throb of desire that had haunted her since that night.

Her hand grew more insistent, her hips moving in time with her fingers. She couldn't shake the image of him above her, his eyes filled with **** need, his body shaking with the **** of his climax. Each stroke brought her closer to the edge, her breaths coming faster, her body tightening with anticipation. Her mind replayed the moment over and over, the feel of his cock in her mouth, the power she had wielded, the way he had begged for mercy.

As she neared her climax, she slipped a finger inside herself, feeling the emptiness he had left behind. She imagined it was him filling her again, his thickness stretching her, his roughness claiming her. The pleasure grew until it was all she could think about, a crescendo that threatened to consume her.

Her hand moved faster, the wet sounds of her masturbation filling the small room. She was lost in a whirlwind of sensation, her body a canvas painted with lust and power. Her other hand gripped the shirt she was still wearing, the fabric sticky with his cum. She brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply, the scent of him mingling with the smell of their encounter. It was a heady, intoxicating aroma that only served to fuel her arousal.

Lying on her bed, she imagined it was him again, his weight pressing her down, his cock pumping into her. The friction of the cum-stained fabric against her skin was an additional layer of sensation, a constant reminder of what they had done. Her breasts, unrestrained by a bra, bounced with each thrust of her hips, the sensation sending shivers down her spine. She watched herself in the mirror, the sight of her flushed face and heaving chest only heightening the experience.

Her hand grew slick with her own juices as she continued to rub her clit. The pressure was building, her hips rocking into her own touch as if she were fucking him all over again. She could almost feel his hands on her hips, guiding her, urging her to take him deeper. The room around her began to fade away, leaving only the sensation of her fingers and the memory of his cock.

With a final, **** moan, Amber came. Her body arched off the bed, her back bowing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. Her vision blurred with the intensity, stars dancing before her eyes. It was an orgasm unlike any she had ever experienced—deep, consuming. Her toes curled, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. She bit her lip hard to keep from screaming out his name, the taste of metal flooding her mouth.

Her body slowly descended from the heights of climax, each tremor a reminder of the power she had felt just moments before. She lay there, panting, her chest heaving with the aftershocks of pleasure. Her hand remained buried in her panties, her fingers still moving in lazy circles around her clit, savoring the last vestiges of her high.

The days that followed were a blur of classes, studying, and furtive glances at the mirror, tracing the marks on her body with a mix of fascination and horror. The bruises on her hips and the bitemarks on her breasts were like badges of a dark, twisted honor that she couldn't bring herself to regret. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the cabin.

In the solitude of her dorm room, Amber found herself masturbating more frequently than she ever had before, the memories sending her spiraling into a vortex of pleasure she couldn't resist. The flannel shirt remained unwashed, a silent accomplice to her nightly ritual. She'd clutch it to her chest as she pleasured herself, inhaling the lingering scent of Earl's sweat and the musk of their shared lust. Each time she came, the orgasms grew more intense, yet left her feeling hollower.

The guilt and confusion began to gnaw at her. Was she broken? Had she crossed a line that she could never uncross? The whispers of doubt grew louder in her mind, and she found herself contemplating the idea of seeking help. Maybe a therapist could unravel the tangled mess of her emotions and help her understand why she felt so alive when she was on the cusp of fear.

But the reality of being a college student was that therapy was a luxury she couldn't afford. The thought of sharing her dark secret with a professional was both terrifying and enticing. How would they look at her, knowing the depraved things she had enjoyed? Would they judge her, or worse, would they see her as damaged goods?

Amber pushed the thoughts aside and focused on the mundane tasks of her day. She had classes to attend and papers to complete. The routine was comforting, a stark contrast to the tumultuous nights spent lost in her thoughts. Yet, as the days turned into weeks, the memories of Earl's cabin began to infiltrate her waking moments.

Walking through the crowded halls of the university, she'd catch glimpses of men that reminded her of Hugh, Oswald, or Dale. Her pulse would quicken, her mind racing with thoughts of their encounters. The way their hands had felt on her body, the sound of their grunts in her ear. She'd have to bite back a moan, her cheeks flushing as she hurried to her next class.

The nights grew longer and the guilt heavier. What she had felt had morphed into something else entirely—an insatiable craving. Her masturbation sessions grew more intense, but they weren't enough. Amber found herself scanning the dark corners of the internet for something, anything that would give her the release she craved. She wondered if she was a sex addict, a thought that both thrilled and horrified her. Her friends had always seen her as the strong, independent, and she didn't want to admit to herself, let alone anyone else, that she was losing control. But she knew deep down that she needed more than just her own hand to get by.

The idea of a meeting for sex addicts had been lingering in her mind for days. It was a concept she'd heard of in passing, something that seemed too taboo to ever consider. Yet, as the whispers grew louder, she found herself drawn to the idea. She pictured a room full of people just like her, sharing their stories, finding solace in their shared addiction. Perhaps it was the allure of the forbidden, or the hope of understanding, but she couldn't shake it.

The advertisement was tucked away in the back of a local alternative magazine, the kind that was filled with ads for tarot readings and underground punk shows. It was a simple flyer with a plain black background, the words "S.A.M." printed in bold, crimson letters—Sexual Addiction Meeting. The location was a nondescript community center downtown, the time and date circled in thick, red marker. It was as if someone had placed it there just for her to find, a beacon in the sea of her own confusion.

Amber stared at the paper, her heart racing. The idea of going was both exhilarating and terrifying. Could she really sit in a room with strangers and talk about what she had done? Would they understand? Would they judge her? Her mind swirled with questions and doubts, but the craving grew stronger with each passing day. She needed to find a way to cope, to get these thoughts under control before they consumed her completely.

With a trembling hand, she circled the date and time, committing to the idea. She had to go. It was the only way she could think of to deal with the cacophony of emotions and desires that plagued her. The anticipation grew as the day approached, a mix of fear and excitement that left her both nervous and aroused.