To his flat

As you stood there on the front step, trying to figure out what you were actually gonna do, the morning sun warming your shoulders, the thought of Darren's cock, thick and insistent, kept forcing its way back into your mind, and you feel a sudden, horrifying rush of heat between your legs, a slickness that gathers and spreads against the thin fabric of your sundress, and you look down to see your nipples, hard and prominent, visible through both the bra you managed to get on, pressing against the floral print like accusations, like traitors, and you press your thighs together, trying to stop the wetness, trying to deny the evidence of a body that responds to memories you never made, that aches for a man you've never met, and the shame of it, the sheer, overwhelming wrongness of your own arousal, makes you want to tear the dress from your body, to scrub this skin until it peels, but you can't, you can only stand there, your hand pressed against your chest, feeling your own treacherous heartbeat, wondering how long you can survive in a body that betrays you at every turn, that seems to want things you never wanted, that responds to threats as though they were promises.

You could turn back, try figure this out, nut you knew you couldn't let this guy ruin this new life, if you didnt show up, didn't... pay, he'd make everything worse!

And the thought of that, of Darren showing your husband whatever evidence he has, it would make figuring this out more difficult. It made your stomach clench with a cold dread that cuts through the heat still pooling between your thighs, and you want to turn back, to retreat into the house, to bury yourself in the unfamiliar sheets and pretend you never woke up in this body at all, but your feet are already carrying you down the steps, because you don't know where else to go, because the alternative is waiting for a reckoning you can't predict or control, and so you force yourself to sift through the fog of borrowed memories, searching for a name, a street, a landmark, anything that might lead you to the man whose cock is, for some reason, vivid in your mind, whose threat hangs over you like a blade, and you hate yourself for the way your body quickens at the thought of finding him, hate the way your nipples ache against the fabric of your sundress, hate the slick evidence of a desire that isn't yours but has made a home in your flesh nonetheless, and you set off down the sidewalk, your sandals slapping against the concrete, a stranger in a body that knows exactly where it's going, even as your mind screams for you to stop.

Your body carried you through streets you don't recognize but that your feet seem to know, past a corner shop with a faded awning, across a crosssing where a car honks and you flinch, and then you're standing in front of a block of flats, red-brick and unremarkable, with a cracked concrete path leading to a door that's propped open with a brick, and you have no memory of the route you took to get here, no recollection of turning left or right, but your hand is already reaching for the buzzer, your finger pressing the button labeled "Darren" before you can stop it, and the buzz that answers is a low, electric hum that seems to vibrate through your chest, through your cunt, through the wetness that hasn't dried, that has only grown more insistent with every step, and you stand there, frozen, listening to footsteps descending stairs, heavy and deliberate, and the shame of what you're about to do wars with the hunger that has taken up residence in your bones, and you can't tell which is winning anymore.

And then the intercom crackles, his voice rough and amused, "Get your fat tits up here then," and the door buzzes, a sharp, mechanical sound that unlocks the heavy door, and you push it open with a hand that trembles, stepping into the dim hallway that smells of stale cigarettes, and the insult should make you turn around, should make you run, but instead it sends another pulse of heat through your belly, because the way he said it, casual and proprietary, as though your body belongs to him already, as though the weight and shape of your breasts are his to name and claim, feels less like an insult and more like a recognition, a confirmation that this body is exactly what he expects, exactly what he wants, and you hate yourself for the way your step quickens on the stairs, for the way your thighs press together against the slickness that hasn't abated, for the way your hand reaches for the banister as though to steady yourself against the pull of something you can't name or resist, climbing toward a man whose voice makes your cunt clench and your stomach turn in equal measure, and when you reach his door, already ajar, you can smell him, sweat and smoke and something muskier, and you push the door open with your fingertips, stepping into the dim flat without waiting for permission, because your body already knows it's welcome here, even if your mind is screaming that it shouldn't be.

And there he was, sprawled on a worn-out sofa, bare-chested in tracksuit bottoms, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he takes you in, and you tell yourself you need to do it, for everyone else's sake, not just your own, that this is about protecting the life you've inherited, about keeping your husband from finding out, about preserving whatever fragile stability this body has built, and the thought gives you just enough steel to hold his gaze, to let your hand fall from the doorframe and step fully into the room, the smell of him filling your lungs, his eyes tracking down your body with a slowness that makes your skin prickle, and when he pats the cushion beside him, you cross the room on legs that feel like they belong to someone else, sinking into the cheap fabric, feeling the heat of his body before he even touches you, and the shame is still there, a cold knot in your chest, but it's drowned out by the throb between your thighs, by the way your body leans toward him like a plant toward the sun, and you hate yourself for it, but you don't pull away when his hand lands on your knee, heavy and warm, because you've already told yourself this is necessary, this is sacrifice, this is what you have to do to keep the pieces of this borrowed life from shattering completely.

But when his hand slides from your knee to disappear behind the sofa, emerging with a small plastic bag of weed, he holds it up between two fingers, letting it dangle in front of your face like a lure, and you watch it swing, hypnotized, until he pulls it back just out of reach, that lazy grin widening as he shakes his head, not unless you do something first, he says, and the words land in your stomach like stones, because you know what he means, you feel the heat rise in your cheeks, the shame and the wanting tangled so tight you can't tell where one ends and the other begins, but your hand is already moving, already reaching for the waistband of your sundress, because this is what you came here for, isn't it, this is the price, and your body knows it even if your mind keeps trying to pretend otherwise. To protect the little peace this new life did have.

Your fingers find the hem of the sundress and you pull it off, the fabric whispering over your skin as you expose yourself to him, your heavy breasts spilling free from the flimsy cotton of your bra, and Darren's eyes fix on them immediately, his grin sharpening as he lets out a low whistle, "Fuck, look at those," he says, reaching out to cup one in his hand, his thumb brushing over the nipple with a roughness that makes you gasp,"bet your husband doesn't know what to do with tits this fat, does he, bet he's too fucking gentle!"

You feel for a second, you should tell him to stop, should pull away, but instead you feel the slick heat between your thighs intensify as he leans in and takes your nipple into his mouth, biting down just enough to make you cry out, pulling back with a wet sound to look at you with those dark, amused eyes, "We gonna have fun today" he murmurs, and the shame burns through you like fire, but so does the want, and you can't tell anymore which one is winning.

With a swift motion, he reaches around, unclips the bra, letting it fall free,

"We won't be needing this!" he laughed. And before you knew it, his mouth was around your nipple.