Invading real life

I wish I could say it ended there, or the next morning, or when I got home. I wish I could say it's ended since. But it's a terrible kind of poison that makes you want to taste more of it. You wake up in the middle of the working day with a feeling you can't account for. They say amputees think they can still feel their lost limbs sometimes. It was like that, but better, which made it a hell of a lot worse.

This time I was smoking a cigarette with a coworker in the highest levels of the parking garage. Outside the cement frame was a milk white cover of unbroken clouds. It was a setting designed to get me feeling frisky. I was staring at him, smiling a little, getting ready to pass him my cigarette so he could see the imprint of my lipstick on it. Up to now I showed serious restraint, by my standards. We'd been flirting for months. Nobody had taken any clothes off. We hadn't hidden ourselves away in a hotel room when we should've been going to a conference. It was just shared looks and smoke breaks. DMs on socials that maintained plausible deniability about the fact that we wanted to ravish each other. He had a girlfriend, I'm afraid to say. That wasn't going to stop me, I'm afraid. Too many 3 A.M. likes of old posts had been exchanged. Any moment now we would sneak a little further away from where the windows in the office can see, and I would show him what's under my–

In the dark. Not with him, the coworker. With someone else. Two someones again. Rania nowhere to be seen. One of them had both his hands on my face as he fucked it. The other with his thumb in my ass. Laughing at the way I squirmed. "Hoe,"

Yeah.

Mouth too full to say anything. Want to respond but can't. "Yeah." Please let me say it. I want to admit it. But who are they? One, two. Is this that night again? Or are they–

As they fuck me way past senseless I know this isn't a coincidence. My body, so pale to begin with, is covered in bruises and handprints and cum and and and...

After the one in my mouth cums down my throat I turn my attention to the one fucking me from behind. He's tired of watching what he wishes he had. I can tell what's on his mind. To him, oral is more dehumanizing, and I'm too pretty to go a whole night with my humanity intact. He wants to fuck my throat too. At the last moment he relents, but it's not out of mercy. (He doesn't know what he's dealing with. I don't care about being human if I can have a little fun. Let me be your delusion, daddy.) He drags me by the hair to the end of the bed.

How I came to be here, I don't know. Can't remember. The thing with my coworker at the top of the parking garage, that aborted attempt at an office affair, feels like seconds ago. It could be today. The chance that I made my move and was rejected isn't zero. Then, let's say, I had a meltdown. Called these two. Whoever they are. That much I know. I brought them here. Possibly I told them to bring me here and they obliged.

He lets my head dangle off the end of the mattress and pins my arms down for a second. I understand his intention. Keep them there until I'm ready for them. He sits on my face, stroking his own dick, and I obligingly wrap my arms around his legs and my hands around him. My tongue probes his ass. He grunts. "You..."

Put on a show. Play up the scene. Make them love you for a fraction of a second. They'll never forget tonight. It might not be night.