I never planned to put it into words. Most nights I kept those details locked away, but something about the way the rain hit the windows that evening made me open my laptop and start typing. My fingers hovered, then moved, describing exactly what happened with him three weeks earlier. I was thirty-two, single by choice, and tired of pretending my body didn’t crave touch. When Marcus showed up at my door with takeout and that low, steady look, I let him in knowing we both understood what would follow.
We ate on the couch, lights low. Conversation stayed light until he set his plate down and asked if I’d thought about him since the last time we’d kissed. I had. Every night. I told him so, voice quieter than I meant it to be. He reached over, brushed his knuckles along my thigh, and the contact sent a slow heat straight between my legs. I shifted closer. His hand slid higher, under the hem of my skirt, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear without rushing. I could feel myself already damp, the fabric clinging.
Marcus kissed me then, slow and deep, his tongue stroking mine in the same rhythm his fingers used to press against the damp cotton. I opened my legs wider. He hooked a finger under the fabric and pulled it aside, sliding two fingers through my folds, spreading the wetness. A soft sound left my throat. He swallowed it, then moved his mouth to my neck, sucking lightly while his fingers circled my clit in steady, firm strokes. My hips lifted into his hand. I could feel how slick I was getting, how easily his fingers slipped lower and pushed inside me.
I reached for his belt, needing to feel him too. He let me open his jeans, and I wrapped my hand around his cock, already hard and hot. I stroked him in time with the way he fingered me, thumb brushing over the head, gathering the bead of pre-come. We stayed like that for long minutes, breathing harder, until he pulled his fingers free and brought them to my mouth. I licked them clean without thinking, tasting myself, and the look in his eyes turned darker.
He stood and pulled me up with him, leading me to the bedroom. Clothes came off piece by piece. He kissed every inch he uncovered—shoulders, breasts, the soft skin of my stomach—until I was naked on the bed and he was kneeling between my thighs. His mouth replaced his fingers. He licked me slowly at first, flat tongue dragging from entrance to clit, then focused there, sucking gently while two fingers slid back inside me. I gripped the sheets. My thighs trembled. I came with a sharp cry, back arching, his tongue still working me through the pulses.
Before the aftershocks faded he moved up my body, cock nudging at my entrance. I reached down and guided him in. The stretch felt perfect, thick and deep. He started with long, measured thrusts, watching my face. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer, wanting him deeper. Our pace built together. Skin slapped. Sweat gathered at the small of my back.
I reached between us and rubbed my clit again, chasing a second orgasm while he fucked me harder.
When I came the second time I clenched around him, and he groaned, pace faltering. He pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach, and slid back in from behind. The angle hit different, sharper. His hand pressed between my shoulder blades, holding me down while he drove into me. I pushed back to meet every thrust, moaning into the pillow. He reached under me, found my clit again, and worked it in tight circles until I shook apart a third time, the orgasm longer, almost too much.
He followed soon after, pulling out and stroking himself over my lower back, hot pulses landing on my skin. We stayed still, breathing. Later he cleaned me gently with a warm cloth, then pulled me against his chest. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to.
I finished typing the last line and read it back. The words felt honest in a way I hadn’t expected. My body was warm again just from remembering. I saved the file, closed the laptop, and let the rain keep falling outside. For the first time, writing it down felt like its own kind of release.
