
She showed up at his place after midnight, heels clicking like she was still pretending this was just “one last drink.”
But the second the door shut, her dress hit the floor and she dropped to her knees without being told, because deep down she knew why she’d really come: to be reminded she’s nothing but warm holes that get wet when they’re used.
Now she’s on her back, legs hooked over his shoulders, mascara streaking as he drives into her with the kind of rhythm that says ownership, not affection.
Every thrust forces a choked little “thank you” out of her throat, like she’s grateful he’s finally treating her like the disposable slut she’s always secretly craved to be.
English