Fed at the Buffet, Fucked in the Dark

Screw You, Ex-husband (5)

I woke up sore. Not the kind of sore that made me regret anything.

The kind that made me feel alive. My thighs ached, my hips protested when I shifted on the mattress.

My lower back felt like it had been through a minor car crash. But I smiled anyway.

My skin was sticky between my legs, and I didn’t need to touch myself to know why. The sheets beneath me had dried stiff.

I didn’t care. I lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling of cabin 123C.

The curtains were drawn, but a line of sun cut across the carpet. I could hear faint noises from the hallway.

Doors closing. Soft footsteps passing by.

People starting their day. It took me a minute to realize I was humming.

I stretched, wincing as my muscles complained. Then I pulled the thin sheet over my chest and swung my legs out of bed.

My feet hit the floor, but I didn’t stand immediately. I sat there breathing in the aftermath.

My body didn’t just feel used. It felt claimed.

And strangely, I liked it. The