It started as talk.
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Late night confessions.
Whispers in bed.
A kink we never thought we’d act on.
We’d fantasize about her being wanted.
Touched. Taken.
By someone who wasn’t me.
At first, it was just dirty talk.
But it started to evolve.
We made it real in small ways.
Lena would dress sluttier when we went out. No bra under tight dresses. Lipstick that left marks on glasses and men’s minds. She danced closer, slower, let strangers press their bodies against her at bars, grinding just long enough to make them hard, and me harder.
Then she’d slip into my ear and say things like:
“He grabbed my ass.”
“He whispered he wanted to take me to the bathroom.”
“I was so wet thinking about what you’d let him do…”
She always came back to me. But the space between fantasy and reality was shrinking.
And I was the one handing her the scissors.
We opened up more about our pasts, too.
Deep stuff.
Not just the number of people we’d slept with, but how they made us feel. The moments that stuck.
That’s when she told me about Matt.
The ex.
Toxic. Controlling. Jealous.
But the sex?
“It was the best I’ve ever had. Honestly.”
“He was huge, thick and long. I used to go numb sometimes. But in the best way.”
“Even when I hated him… my body still wanted him.”
She told me about being pinned down. About getting wrecked for hours.
“There were nights I couldn’t stop cumming. Over and over. My legs would shake, my voice would crack. It felt like my body stopped resisting and just… surrendered.”
And I couldn’t stop picturing it.
I started asking questions.
“Was it different with him?”
“Did you come harder?”
“Would you do it again, if I watched?”
She got quiet.
Then admitted something that shook me:
“Sometimes… I still dream about him.”
That’s when I said it.
“What if we made it real?”
She thought I was joking.
But I wasn’t.
I told her I wanted to see her that way again, not with some stranger, not with someone random…
With him.
The one who had already ruined her once.
The idea of her going back to him… fully consensual, fully in control, turned me on more than anything in my life.
I told her to message him.
“Just see if he still wants you.”
She stared at me.
Then picked up her phone.
Typed it. Slowly.
“Hey… I’ve been thinking about you. About the way you used to fuck me.
I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to catch up.
I just want to feel that again.”
She hit send.
And for two days… nothing.
No reply. No follow-up.
She didn’t bring it up.
Neither did I.
It was like it never happened.
Until he texted back.
“Still think about your tight little body.
Name the time. I’ll ruin you all over again.”
She showed me the message without saying a word.
Just handed me the phone. Waiting. Watching.
And I said the one thing I didn’t know I meant until I heard myself say it:
“Let’s do it.”
We planned everything.
Next Saturday.
He’d meet her for dinner, nothing flashy. Then take her to a hotel nearby. One room. One night. One rule:
She’d record everything.
For me.
She asked me five different times if I was sure.
I told her I was.
I told her I needed it.
But deep down… I was spiraling.
This wasn’t some stranger.
Wasn’t a random kink in a bar.
This was him.
The man she once stayed with for the sex.
The one who used to fuck her until she was shaking, trembling, begging for more. The one she told me “broke something open in her.”
And now… she was going back.
With my blessing.
The night before, she got quiet.
We were in bed, her back against my chest. I could feel her heartbeat in the silence.
“Babe, what if I can’t stop?” she whispered.
I didn’t ask what she meant.
I already knew.
“What if he touches me the way he used to, and it all comes rushing back?”
There was fear in her voice. Not of him, but of herself.
The version of her she tried to bury.
I kissed her neck. Pulled her tighter.
“Then don’t stop. I want to see you let go.”
Saturday came.
I watched her get ready like she was going on a date with someone else, because she was.
Hair curled. Lingerie under her dress. Perfume I’d never smelled before.
She looked at me before she left… eyes wide, lips parted, pupils dark.
Nervous. Excited. Alive.
And then she was gone.
9:41 PM.
Her name lit up my phone.
“I recorded it.”
That’s all she wrote.
No warning. No buildup.
Just three words that split my chest open.
I opened the message.
There were three videos.
Each one longer than the last.
And from the very first frame…
I knew exactly who it was.
I knew exactly what she’d done.
And I knew…
She didn’t need my permission anymore.
Nothing would ever be the same.
I asked for this. I told her to let go. And now I can’t unsee what she gave him.
Chapter 2: I Watched Her Get Fucked by Him Again
I waited a few minutes before opening the first video.
Not because I wasn’t ready.
Because I was.
Too ready.
My hands were shaking. My chest was tight. My cock was already hard.
It felt wrong. It felt inevitable.
Like every word, every fantasy, every conversation… led to this.
I hit play.
The screen lights up, shaky at first, then steadies.
She’s holding the phone, arm stretched out, checking the angle. Then sets it on the dresser. Angles the frame to catch the bed.
Steps back.
They’re both in frame now. Standing close.
Her in a tight black dress. Him in a black tee, jeans, that same arrogant posture she used to fall for.
She glances toward the phone.
“Okay… it’s recording.”
Then to him:
“He wants to watch.”
He smirks. Says nothing.
Just grabs her by the jaw and kisses her, hard. No warmth. Just hunger.
She melts into it.
When he pulls away, she sinks to her knees without being told.
Unzips his jeans.
His cock falls out… long, heavy, already hard.
She wraps her hand around it and looks up at him like it’s instinct. Like she remembers it.
Then wraps her lips around the tip.
And starts sucking.
I couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t gentle.
Wasn’t slow.
She devoured him.
Spit dripping down her chin. Both hands wrapped around his base. Head bobbing faster and faster.
She gagged once. Then again.
He grabbed the back of her head and fucked her throat hard. Deep.
She choked. Coughed.
And didn’t stop.
She loved it.
“Jesus Christ…”
I whispered it out loud, alone in the room, cock throbbing in my hand.
Because I’d never seen her like this.
Not for me.
I didn’t even know she could suck dick like that.
The noises coming from her… wet, filthy, needy.
Like she wanted to be used.
She wasn’t performing.
She was remembering who she used to be with him.
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