Chapter Four

It was weekend, and mine came with an emptiness I could not hide from, or the thoughts I tried so much to run from.

All week, I buried myself in work. I lingered in the lecture hall, taking questions I could have easily waved off. I stayed late at the University, afraid that if I went home too soon, I’d drive past the sex toy shop.

I only left when it was extremely late, when I was sure the light at the shop had gone dark.

And at home, to escape my inner demons, I would drown myself in teaching notes and books I had read a thousand times. I would work late into the night, and only turn in when my eyes burned from lack of sleep.

I did just anything to stop my mind from wandering… from remembering.

But today was different, it was Saturday and I had nothing to do. Completely nothing!

My lectures for next week had already been prepared, hell with the intensity I worked—my lecture notes for the upper week were also ready.

My fridge was stocked. I even cooked. I haven’t cooked since my husband died, but today I did. I even went as far as making dinner in advance.

I swept, mopped, dusted every corner of my apartment until it all gleamed. And still… my body buzzed with restless hunger. Just a little silence, just a little stillness, and memories from that day would flash in my head, very clear, and too sharp to ignore.

Now, with nothing else to do, I found myself standing before a door I had avoided for five long years. My matrimonial room. The room I once shared with my husband. The room I refused to step into after he died.

My hand rested on the knob, frozen. I had always been afraid that once I turned it, the truth of his absence would swallow me whole. I thought leaving it shut would keep him alive in some way. But it hadn’t.

I don’t know why, but today felt different. Maybe it was the weight of my shame. Maybe it was the restless ache between my thighs that refused to die down. Or maybe… maybe I was just tired of running.

I pushed the door open slowly, my mind already made up.

The smell of dust greeted me first. It rolled out like a wave, making me cough. Sunlight struggled through the blinds, faint and dull, but enough to show the gray film that covered everything inside.

My chest tightened. For a moment, I wanted to slam the door shut and take off running. Pretend I hadn’t dared to open it.

But my feet carried me in. I was here already, so it was only right I saw it to the end.

I brushed my fingertips across the furniture as I walked in, memories I had locked away started to free themselves.

I could remember it all... all the times we have spent together in this very room. I could see us again, running around the room like kids.

I could still smell him. It was like he was lurking around a corner waiting to jump out and yell, got you!

I exhaled tiredly, my eyes drifting to the dresser. My husband’s picture was still there, right where I had left it.

I picked it up with a small smile, my fingers tracing his face in the photo. “I miss you,” I whispered, as a tear slid down my cheek.

“And I’m sorry,” I let out, my voice shaking. “I’ve soiled your name. I’ve done things you would never believe of me.”

My chest heaved as tears burned my eyes. I bit my lip hard, shaking my head. “And worse, I loved it, Edward. And… and I want to experience it again, to be taken in such unholy manner. That’s all I can think about, all day, every hour, every minute, every second…”

I let out a deep sigh, wiping away the tears. “And perhaps all this happened because I have refused to let you go. Because I’ve been so lonely, Edward.” I dropped the photo on the dresser. “I think it’s time. It’s time for me to move on from you. It’s time I let myself feel again, love again. I don’t know if I can, I don’t know if I deserve to, but I think it’s what you would have wanted for me.”

I smiled through the tears, turned and faced the room. “It’s time to move on, Sylvia.”

I rolled my sleeves up looking around the dusty room. If I was truly going to move forward, then I had to begin here.

One by one, I started pulling things out. His shirts. His shoes. His wristwatches. Everything that belonged to my dead husband.

I sorted them out in different piles, some of his things– I folded neatly, deciding to keep. Others, I set aside to donate. And some… some I decided to sell.

The room slowly changed around me. Piece by piece, he was slowly erasing. And though my chest ached with every drawer I emptied, I kept going.

By the time I was done sorting through everything, I felt like I had run a marathon. The room looked different, cleaner, and emptier. I was finally moving on, and truthfully it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

My chest rose and fell as I stood there, in the middle of the room. I turned to the dresser, my husband’s picture I had set down stared right back at me.

“I’m not getting rid of you,” I whispered. “I only want to start afresh, but I promise… you will always be right here—” I pointed to my heart, “And you will always be my first love, Edward. And your memories will forever be alive in me.”

I walked to the dresser, picked up his photo, and after a long pause, opened the top drawer. I set it inside and slid the drawer shut.

I lifted my eyes to the mirror. My reflection stared back, older and worn out.

How did I let myself go? I used to be beautiful… more desirable, and now—I look like a soul tired of its own fleshy prison.

My hands drifted down to my sides, smoothing over the curve of my waist. I whispered to myself, “Even though my face has lost its glow, I still do have a banging body for a woman in her forties.”

My nightwear clung to me, thin and soft, my nipples hard against the fabric. I cupped my breasts, then juggled them a little bit. “Perhaps the stranger in the sex shop wasn’t looking at my face…”

I started really looking at myself, the way a stranger might. My hair spilled over my shoulders, messy but still thick. My face—soft, tired around the eyes.

My lips were full, and my neck long. My breasts heavy, round, the kind of breasts that could make a man lose his mind. My hips were curvy, my ass still tight. My thighs… God, my thighs looked like they were begging to be held apart.

My fingers moved higher without me telling them to, brushing over my tits through the nightgown. I gasped softly at how sensitive they were. My eyes locked with mine in the mirror, and I couldn’t look away.

I had always wondered why anyone would offer to fuck me, but now I do… even with a faded glow, I’m a desirable woman. And while I won’t continue to slut myself to men, perhaps it’s time I get a lover.

A lover that would touch me in the ways I want to be touched… My fingers found my nipples, and I pinched them slightly, tugging them gently.

He would play with my tits, the way a lover would… I rolled my nipples between my fingers, watching the way my face twisted in the glass. The heat between my legs spread fast.

I dragged the chair from the dresser and sat, legs open, right in front of the mirror. The sight of myself there, my tits rising and falling, nipples poking through the fabric, made me wetter.

And when he touches me, there would be no feelings of shame.

I cupped my breasts again, rolling them until I couldn’t take it anymore.

For him I would take off my clothes, and feel no inhibitions. I took the nightgown off, letting my tits spill free. Heavy and perfect.

I could already imagine it all… his hands on my body, and his mouth on my breast.

I leaned down, took my right breast in my mouth, and sucked on it slowly, my lips closing over the nipple. A shiver ran down my spine at the taste of my own skin, at the gentle pull of my mouth.

Oh God… it felt nice. So much nicer than I expected. My tongue circled the nipple, slow, teasing, and my eyes fluttered shut for a second before I forced them open again, staring at the woman in the mirror.

That woman was me.

I gasped softly against my breast, heat curling lower in my belly. My mouth grew greedy, sucking harder, my tongue dragging across the hard peak until it tingled. I pulled back, just to see my nipple wet and swollen, then I moaned and took it back into my mouth.

"Ohhh..." It felt so good..... My free hand squeezed my other breast, pinching the nipple, rolling it as I sucked on the one in my mouth, pretending it was his lips instead of mine.

I whispered hoarsely against my skin, “Oh God… this feels so nice…” before sucking harder, greedier, my breath quickening.

My left hand slid down, and I parted my legs wide at the intrusion. My pussy was already wet, and dripping.

I pushed two fingers inside, the tightness of my walls clutching around them instantly. My eyes rolled at the feeling, but I kept staring, refusing to break the gaze. I watched as my chest heaved, my breast bouncing slightly with each deep suck.

My hips rocked forward, grinding against my own hand. My reflection moaned back at me, eyes heavy, lips parted, looking nothing like the woman I used to be.

“Ohhh… God, yes… fuck…”

The sight of my greedy mouth on my own tit made me wetter, made my fingers pump harder. My juices coated my thighs, dripped onto the chair, but I didn’t care.

“Ohhh… yesss,” I whimpered against my nipple, the words spilling out without thought. I let the nipple slip free, my head rolled backwards, as the pleasure took over, bringing tears to my eyes.

I shoved my fingers in deeper, curling them up until my pussy screamed with pleasure. My juices slicked my hand, dripping down my thighs. I rocked against myself, fucking my fingers harder, moaning into the room unrestrained.

I bent forward again, and dragged my nipple back into my mouth. This time I bit down, groaning against it, tasting the salt of my own skin as my hips bucked.

"Fuck… fuck… oh God…” I gasped against my breast, eyes locking on the woman in the mirror. She looked wrecked — hair scattered, tits flushed and swollen, pussy stretched wide around greedy fingers. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to.

I tore my breast from my mouth, spit running down my chest, and the cry ripped out of me. “I’m cumming—ohhh fuck, I’m—ahhhhhh!”

My whole body jerked, thighs snapping shut around my finger as wave after wave tore through me. My reflection came too—face twisted in ecstasy, tits heaving, mouth wide in a silent scream.

Juice gushed out of me, soaking my hand, dripping down onto the floor. I slumped in the chair, still finger-fucking myself through the aftershocks, unable to stop.

When the spasms finally eased, I sat there, panting, sweat sticking to my skin. My eyes gazing at my reflection.

This time, I won’t deny it. I want to fuck, and I want to be fucked. I want his cock inside me, stretching me, filling me—and while he’s buried deep, I want his hands on my tits, grabbing, squeezing, taking me like I’m made for it.

But there was one truth I tried to bury… a craving I didn’t want to name.

It wasn’t only one cock I craved for. Deep down... I wanted more. To be used, stuffed, filled until I couldn’t breathe, like the woman in that video.

The thought alone shamed me even as it made me ache. But no, I would never cross that line. One cock is where I stop.