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I was never supposed to be that girl. Good family, good grades, good girl until him. My boyfriend. The one who looked at me like I hung the moon but had this darkness in his eyes that made my thighs clench.
One night, after too much wine and too many what ifs, he asked: “”What if I watched you… with someone else?””
I should’ve laughed. Should’ve said no. But the way he said it voice rough, eyes black with hunger made me drip right there.
We talked for weeks. Rules. Limits. What ifs. Then, a hotel near Clarke Quay. I picked him carefully older, knowing, the kind of man who’d make my boyfriend burn with jealousy.
The second the door shut, my boyfriend sat in the armchair, knuckles white from gripping the arms. His bulge was obvious. It made me bold.
The other man didn’t waste time. His hands were on me the second I stepped close, his mouth crashing into mine like he owned me. I moaned, pressing into him, feeling my boyfriend’s eyes on us hot, hungry.
Then he was inside me thick, deep, hitting spots that made my toes curl. I tried to stay quiet, but a gasp slipped out when he nailed that perfect angle. My boyfriend’s breath hitched I heard it.
I came with a choked cry, nails digging into the sheets. The other man followed, his breath hot on my neck as he finished.
After, I fixed my dress, smoothed my hair, and walked to my boyfriend. He was hard as steel, eyes dark with need. I straddled him right there, lips brushing his ear: “”Did you like watching me, baby?””
His hands were on me instantly, his cock pressing against me as he groaned. We didn’t even make it back to our place before he was inside me rough, desperate, like he needed to claim me all over again.
Now? We can’t stop. Every time, it’s hotter. More intense. More addictive.
I never thought I’d be this girl the one who gets off on being watched, on pushing limits, on the way my boyfriend looks at me after like he’s never wanted me more.
But here I am.
And I don’t think I’m ever going back.