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I wasn’t planning to actually do it. I told myself meeting him was just curiosity—flirty texts, a drink, see what happens.
We ended up at his place after one too many cocktails. The second he pinned my wrists above my head and kissed me like he already owned me, I knew I was in trouble. He took his time—teasing, building, until I was shaking and begging. Then his fingers curled just right, relentless, and something snapped inside me.
I’d never squirted before. Not once in my relationship I cried out so loud I scared myself, legs trembling, body betraying every promise I’d ever made. He just smiled down at me, whispered “good girl,” and kept going until I couldn’t breathe.
I came home at 2 a.m., showered twice, but I could still feel him. My bf was asleep. I slipped into bed, heart pounding, thighs still sensitive. He stirred, pulled me close like always. I let him. I felt sick with guilt… and alive in a way I hadn’t in some time
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