The Mistake 2

I barely slept.

Every time I drifted off I felt him again--thick, heavy, grinding deep while he talked to Cole on the phone like I was just a wet hole he was using. I kept waking up with my hand already between my legs, cunt sore and sticky, a slow trickle of his come still leaking out of me onto the sheets.

Morning light made it worse.

I stared at the ceiling, thighs pressed together, and felt the deep ache he’d left behind. Finger-shaped bruises on my hips. A faint bite mark on the side of my breast. My cunt throbbed like it was still stretched around him. Disgust hit first - Feeling hot and intense.

Never again.

I grabbed my phone and opened his contact. Thumb hovered over delete. I almost did it. Almost. Instead I just stared at the name until the screen went dark, then threw the phone face-down on the nightstand like that would fix anything.

I stripped the bed like I was punishing it. Scrubbed the sheets in the machine on the hottest cycle. Took the red dress—the one I’d worn to get proposed to and then fucked in by his father—and shoved it into the laundry basket under a pile of towels like I could bury the whole night. Showered once. Then again. Then a third time until my skin was pink, raw and extremely neat. I could still smell him. Under the soap, under the steam, the memory of his cologne and sweat and the way he’d come inside me stayed stuck to me.

Work was a blur. Errands were worse. Every time I sat down I felt the phantom stretch. Every time I crossed my legs the leftover soreness reminded me exactly how deep he’d been. The phone call with Cole kept replaying—Richard’s calm voice discussing numbers while his cock dragged over that spot inside me and his hand stayed clamped over my mouth. The creampie. The way it had leaked down my thighs when he finally pulled out. I white-knuckled the entire day. Drank too much coffee. Answered emails with shaking hands. Smiled at people like I hadn’t spent the night before getting bred by my ex’s father.

By evening the craving had grown teeth.

I made it as far as the shower before I broke. Hot water pounding my shoulders. I braced one hand on the tile, spread my thighs, and pushed two fingers into myself. I was already soaked. I edged for a long time—slow circles on my clit, fingers curling the way his had, stopping every time my stomach tightened. Refusing to come. Punishing myself for wanting it. The memories wouldn’t stop. His weight folding me in half. The wet sound of him fucking me prone. The way he’d called me his son’s leftover while he filled me.

I gave in hard.

I grabbed the same realistic dildo from the nightstand, spat on it, and shoved it inside myself in one long stroke. My head dropped back against the tile. I fucked myself with it the way he’d fucked me—deep, relentless, short thrusts. Chasing the exact angle that made my knees weak. “Daddy—” The word slipped out on a whimper. I said it again, louder, thighs shaking, free hand rubbing my clit in tight filthy circles while the toy stretched me open.

Right before the orgasm hit I grabbed my phone with wet fingers, still whimpering, and typed the text before I could stop myself.

**I can still feel you.**

I sent it. Then the climax ripped through me so hard my legs almost gave out. I came with his name in my mouth, cunt clamping around the dildo in hard pulses, water running down my body while I shook and moaned and hated myself.

I was still twitching when I called him.

He picked up on the second ring. Didn’t say a word. Just breathing. Low and steady on the other end of the line.

“Come over,” I said. My voice was wrecked, shaky, still half-broken from coming. “Right now.”

More silence. Just that quiet inhale-exhale. Then the line went dead.

He showed up so fast it felt like he’d already been on his way.

I opened the door in nothing but an unbuttoned shirt and the same black thong from the night before, still damp from the shower. The second I saw him the anger hit—at myself, at how weak I was, at how hard my cunt clenched just from the sight of him. He stepped inside. I shoved the door shut hard enough that it rattled.

We didn’t make it to the bedroom.

He bent me over the arm of the couch, yanked the thong to the side, and pushed into me in one heavy thrust. I was still slick from the dildo and my own orgasm; he sank in to the base with a low groan and started fucking me like he was punishing me for the text. Hard. Deep. No warm-up. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the apartment. One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so I had to arch. The other gripped my hip hard enough to add new bruises on top of the old ones.

“You text me that you’re still full of me and then open the door already wet,” he muttered against my ear, voice rough. “You think I wouldn’t come claim it again?”

I hated how good it felt. I hated how fast my body opened for him. He fucked me over the couch until my arms gave out, then dragged me to the floor, put my legs over his shoulders the same way he had the night before, and pounded into me while I clawed at his back. The second orgasm built mean and ugly. I came sobbing, cunt spasming around him, the words spilling out again—please, harder, Daddy, don’t stop—while he kept thrusting through it like he owned every pulse.

He flipped me onto my hands and knees, shoved back in, and fucked me with long, brutal strokes that made my tits swing. One hand reached under to rub my clit in tight and mean circles. The other pressed between my shoulder blades, holding me down and in place.

“This is what you called me for,” he said. “Say it.”

“I called you to fuck me,” I choked out. “I needed it—needed you—”

He came deep inside me again, grinding in hard while he filled me, the same thick heat flooding me until I felt it start to leak out around his cock. He stayed buried through every spurt, breathing heavy against the back of my neck.

When he finally pulled out I stayed there on the floor for a second, ass up, come sliding down my thighs, body shaking. The same used, sore, filthy feeling from the night before settled over me, but only worse, because this time I’d asked for it.

I pushed myself up, grabbed the shirt and pulled it around me like a defense. My hands were trembling.

“This is wrong,” I said. Same words. Same hollow voice.

Richard looked at me from where he sat back on his heels, still half-hard, come glistening on his cock.

“You need to leave now.”

That was all it took this time.

He dressed in silence. Paused at the door the same way he had before. Then he left.

I stood alone in the middle of my living room with his come leaking slowly out of me for the second night in a row, the dildo still wet on the bathroom floor, my phone still lit up with the reckless text I’d sent. Guilt and need sat in my chest and I didn't know where I was going to let in.

I couldn’t stay in the apartment this time. Tonight

I threw on the first clothes I found--jeans, a loose top, no bra—and walked out. The night air was cold. I didn’t care. I found the first bar that still had lights on, climbed onto a stool, and started ordering. Whiskey. Then another. Then wine. Then whatever the bartender put in front of me. I lost count. The burn felt better than the ache between my legs. Better than the memory of Richard’s voice when he’d answered the phone and said nothing at all.

By the time the room started tilting I was properly gone, drunk enough that the edges of everything softened, drunk enough that the shame loosened its grip for a little while. I laughed at something the bartender said. Ordered one more. My phone sat face-down on the bar like a threat I wasn’t ready to look at.

Two men ended up on either side of me without me noticing when they’d arrived.

Both tall. Both broad through the shoulders and chest in a way that said they spent serious time in a gym. One had darker hair and a sharper jaw; the other was slightly taller with a quieter intensity in his eyes. They ordered drinks. Made easy conversations with me. The darker-haired one had a smile that felt familiar in a way I couldn’t place through the alcohol. The taller one watched me over the rim of his glass like he was already deciding something.

I was too drunk to care that I was flirting back. Too drunk to notice the way they glanced at each other when I mentioned I’d just gotten out of something messy. Too drunk to catch the familiar last name when one of them paid for the next round and the bartender read it off the card.

The taller one leaned in a little closer, voice low under the music.

“You look like you’ve had a hell of a night already.”

I laughed, messy and loose, and knocked back the rest of my drink. The room spun once. His hand settled lightly on the back of my stool. The other one’s knee brushed mine under the bar.

I didn’t know their names yet.

I mean, I think they just told me earlier. But I just didn't know.

But when the darker-haired one smiled again and said, “We’re heading out soon—you should come with us,” something in the shape of his mouth looked so much like someone familiar that for a second the alcohol couldn’t quite blur it away.

I stared at him, drunk and aching and still wet from Richard’s come, and the only word that made it out of my mouth was soft and already half-lost to the noise of the bar.

“Okay.”