Stories

John found Claire in the kitchen early, before the sun had fully risen. The apartment was quiet, the sky outside still a dull blue. She sat on one of the counter stools, one knee pulled up to her chest, barefoot, sipping coffee from her favorite chipped mug. She was wearing an oversized hoodie—definitely not his. The sleeves swallowed her hands. It hung low, barely covering the hem of her shorts, if she was wearing any at all.

John stood in the doorway, watching her for a long second. Something about her stillness made the room feel warmer, heavier.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice gravelly.

Claire looked up slowly, eyes soft, unfocused. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He walked in, opened the cupboard for a mug. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Just had one of those nights.”

He poured coffee, sat at the other end of the counter. For a while, they just drank in silence.

Then she tilted her head and asked, “Do you ever think about what Marcus thinks of me?”

John looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… do you ever wonder what goes through his head when he looks at me?”

He paused, caught off guard. “I… I guess. Sometimes.”

Claire studied her mug. “I caught him looking again. Last night.”

John’s stomach tightened.

“I woke up and had to pee. Walked out into the hallway and he was coming out of the bathroom.”

She spoke slowly now, almost dreamlike.

“I was half-asleep. He must’ve just finished. The door was still fogged up from the shower. He didn’t expect me.”

John didn’t speak. Just watched her.

“He was still tucking himself in. His hand was on it, just… loose. His cock was heavy. Hanging.”

She looked at John. “It was one of those moments that only lasts a second, but it feels like it stretches forever.”

He said nothing.

Claire went on, voice low. “We crossed paths. Didn’t speak. But we got close—closer than you’d usually stand next to someone, you know? It wasn’t on purpose. Just… timing.”

Her lips parted slightly. “And I smelled him.”

John blinked. “What?”

She nodded. “Not cologne. Not soap. Him. His manhood. It was still warm. Still raw. I caught it—thick, musky, powerful. I could smell the weight of it.”

John clenched the mug so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“I don’t even know how to explain it,” she said. “It hit me like a ****. Like something animal. And for a second… I just stood there. Completely blurred.”

She laughed softly, without humor. “Then he walked past. Didn’t say anything. Just kept walking. Left me standing there like I’d just been struck.”

John was breathing through his nose now, hard.

Claire took a sip of her coffee, then set it down and walked around the counter toward him.

“You want me to lie?” she asked.

John looked up at her. “What?”

“You want me to pretend I don’t think about it? That I didn’t wonder what he’d do if I just didn’t move out of the way?”

He swallowed. “Claire…”

She leaned forward, resting her hand on his chest. “You want to know what I think about?”

He didn’t answer.

Her voice dropped. “I think about what he’d do if I just stopped resisting. If I stood in front of him in that hallway and didn’t move.”

John’s pulse hammered under her palm.

She leaned closer, lips grazing his ear. “If he pressed up behind me. Took my towel off. Bent me over against the doorframe.”

John closed his eyes, jaw clenched.

“I think about how it would feel,” she whispered. “To have him hold my hips. Push into me. Ruin me.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t meant to.

Claire pulled back slowly. “He said something to me earlier this week.”

John looked at her, waiting.

“He asked what kind of guy I usually go for.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I don’t really have a type.” She paused. “He looked at me and said, ‘It’s not your boyfriend, is it?’”

The words hit like a punch.

John set his mug down. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you want to hear it.”

“No, I don’t.”

Claire smiled. “Then why are you hard?”

He flinched slightly.

She moved a step closer, pressed her hand against the front of his sweatpants.

“You want to hear everything,” she said. “Even the parts that scare you.”

“I don’t know what I want,” he muttered.

“You keep saying that.” She squeezed gently. “But your body knows.”

He looked down. Her hand stayed still, firm but not stroking.

“Is this your fantasy?” she asked.

“I… I don’t know.”

Her eyes locked onto his. “He would destroy me, you know.”

John blinked.

“Not gently. Not like you do. He’d use me. Make me beg. Fill me in ways you couldn’t.”

He shivered.

She leaned in again, her voice like silk. “I think about how I’d sound. How the bed would shake. How you’d hear me.”

John’s lips parted, breath shallow.

“And you’d sit there. Hard. Helpless. Listening.”

Then she kissed his jaw. “And you’d still love me after.”

She let go, turned, walked back to her coffee like nothing had happened.

Just before she stepped out of the kitchen, she turned back and said, “Oh—and he asked if I’d ever been with a black guy.”

John didn’t move.

She smiled softly.

“I told him… not yet.”