A Divorce

𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐘

~~~

I’m not one to masturbate. Never have been.

I mean, I've always been sexually confident—comfortable with my desires, with my body, with asking for what I want, and giving what is asked of me. But I never touched myself. Not when my body first woke up in my teens, not after I lost my virginity to that jerk Seb—may his soul rest in the deepest pit of hell. Amen.

I didn't masturbate not even when I was in the UK when dorm whispers turned into late-night how-to tutorials and everyone swore the world ended in their own hands.

I didn’t need to. I believed pleasure should arrive from someone who wanted to give it. It shouldn't be taken by oneself—not that I judged those who did.

But after a few years of marriage, all that changed.

My marriage to Ryat was a flash in-your-face wedding, that gave me the satisfaction that I needed at the moment, but it all ebbed away just as quickly.

I had our son eight months post-wedding.

Stress brought him early—or at least that's what the doctor said.

He said that my boy was perfectly fine—strong lungs, good weight, not a hint of struggle in him. But me? I fell apart. My body had recovered quickly from the delivery, but my mind... it sank.

I smiled for visitors and cradled my son like I was supposed to, but inside, I was drowning.

From there, sex slid downhill—quietly at first, but more profound later.

Ryat didn’t like me breastfeeding; said it "felt weird." He didn’t like my postpartum body either. He never said it, but his eyes skimmed past me like they were sparing me.

I worked myself raw to get close to the woman I’d been—dawn workouts while the baby slept, tiny meals when I wanted bread, hope counting calories like prayers.

Eventually, I got some of her back and he looked at me again—really looked.

But whatever flame we had, if we had one, was ash.

For a while, there were duty nights. Mechanical. His body near mine, his mind somewhere else. Mine tracing cracks on the ceiling, bargaining with the clock. But after a while, even those stopped.

By two and a half years into our marriage, his touch was gone, but my body still remembered being wanted. He just didn’t want to be the one to satisfy my urges.

So one night, in the hush of the house, with my son asleep and the fan ticking like a metronome, I slipped my own hand under the sheets.

Guilt flared first—like I was breaking a rule I never agreed to. But the ache in me was louder. It wasn’t about fantasy, not then. It was about silencing the hollow. About proving I could still feel.

And once I started, I didn’t stop. Not out of thrill, but survival.

The same survival that has me in my room, drawing the curtains and dimming the lights, posing nothing but my underwear.

I crawl onto the bed slowly, putting on a show for god-knows-who, before laying on my back.

Inhaling deeply, I gently trail the mould of my breast, tracing the roundness and feeling the heat radiate from my body.

Gently, I lift my body off the bed and trail my hand lower, grabbing my ass in the most sensual way I can fathom, moulding the soft skin, while feeling the pool between my thighs increase.

I trail my hand there, ghosting over my warm core that’s still hidden away by my underwear.

Pressing my hand on the spot, a bolt of pleasure shoots through me, and I grab my breast, biting down a moan.

My excruciatingly painful nipples harden even more—if that’s possible—and push against the lacy fabric of my bra. I slip a hand under and pinch—hard. Twisting and turning, eliciting fresh bolts of pleasure that has me pouring, and soaking my panties.

I grab the strap of the underwear and yank it down, not completely off, just around my thighs, and I bury my hand between my legs, in my wetness. Running it over my folds, soaking in how wet I could get for myself, and how lucky the next man to get the pussy would be.

Trailing up, I tease my sensitive bean, circling the tip of my fuck-finger on it, but not applying enough pressure to have me moaning to my own expertise.

After a short while, I go lower, inserting one finger in my cunt, finger fucking myself—fast.

"Ah." I arch my back and close my eyes, feeling my own warmth pour onto my hand, smearing myself with my juice. "Fuck!"

I slip in another finger and it feels too much, but not enough. Curving the tips of my fingers, I continue to thrust, repeatedly hitting my G-spot with maddening intensity.

"Hmm!" I arch even further, pressing my head into the soft pillow.

The pillow.

Withdrawing my fingers, I yank my panties completely off and grab the pillow, placing it comfortably between my legs.

"Fuck..." I bite my lips as I look down at where my cunt connects with the pillow, taking in the profoundly sexy sight.

Slowly, I start to grind, up and down, gliding my cunt on the material, smearing it with my sweet juice.

"Uhh."

I bring my hand to my mouth and stuff it full with the two fingers I’d utilized in fucking myself, licking and sucking my arousal from my fingers as I continue mindlessly fucking the pillow.

My other hand finds the hook of my bra, disconnecting it before pulling the fabric off and exposing my breasts to myself.

I grab one, moulding the flesh, and pinching my nipple until the pain turns to pleasure.

The pressure builds in my core, and all of a sudden, the pillow is not enough. Grabbing the annoyingly soft material, I fold it three times over, making a hard mass before pressing it further into my middle, and thrusting again—hard and fast.

"Shit! Yes!"

I continue to ride like my life depends on it—because it just might.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck..."

The pressure becomes too much—my stomach tightens, every muscle pulling taut like a bowstring about to snap. My toes curl, clawing at the sheets, my thighs trembling violently against the folded pillow.

"Ahh—" It rips out of me, raw and uncontrollable, my voice breaking into desperate, breathless cries.

Heat floods through me, liquid and electric, pulsing from deep inside my core and spilling out in waves—soaking the sheets.

My vision blurs. My mouth falls open, sucking in air that feels thick and heavy, but never enough.

I grip the pillow so hard my knuckles ache, grinding down in frantic, uneven strokes, riding the last, shuddering pulses until I’m nothing but raw nerve and molten heat. Then, my body collapses, boneless, into the damp sheets.

My heart pounds in my ears, sweat slicks the entirety of my skin, and beneath it all, the aftershocks keep fluttering through me, tiny bursts that make me gasp and clench even as I go limp.

I loosen my hold on the pillow, sliding it away from between my thighs. My knees fall apart, the cool air brushing against me as my hands cup my breasts, fingers teasing and rolling my nipples.

Then, a sound comes from across the room.

My brows furrow, unsure of what I heard.

The overhead light clicks on, flooding the room in harsh brightness that makes me flinch and throw an arm over my face.

"Ahem!" It comes again and I jerk upright, a sharp gasp tearing out of me.

My hands fly to cover my breasts, legs snapping together so fast my thighs sting. My heart hammers against my ribs—half from the aftershocks, half from sheer panic.

Ryat stands there, leaning against the door, filling the doorway like he owns the air I’m breathing.

I’d locked that door. I remember turning the bolt, certain no one could come in—but locks mean nothing to him. They never have. If Ryat wants in, he gets in. Fucking mafioso.

"Enjoying yourself?" His mouth tilts, the words slow, heavy, like he’s tasting each one before tossing them at me.

The shock cools fast. My pulse settles, the urge to cover myself replaced by a simmering irritation that he’s here—now—of all moments.

I drop one arm, still shielding the essentials, but let my glare burn through him.

He pushes off the door, stalking towards me like he's in his space and not intruding mine.

"What do you think you are doing?" My voice is venom, spilling out of me like poison from a cracked vial.

He doesn't answer, just keeps walking until he reaches the foot of my bed and slides on it. "You didn't answer the question."

My brow quirks. "What question?"

"If you enjoyed yourself?" His eyes dip to settle between my legs, and I find myself clamping them even further.

He grabs my thigh, and yanks them apart.

I squeal. "What do you think you're doing?"

His hand snakes further into my private area, flicking my sensitive folds. My breath hitches, and a distasteful surge of pleasure rides up my core.

"I sure do hope you enjoyed it." He slips a finger in and I draw in a sharp breath. "'cause I did."

I slap his hand away, drawing my legs back together, before pushing away from him. "Leave!"

"Literally the best you can do," he says with his signature devil smirk playing on his face.

I fist the edge of the sheet, drawing it over my bare chest.

"Is that how you are gonna behave when I want some of my own pussy, huh?"

I don't speak, just continue to glare at him.

"You can give it out freely, but you'd shield me from having access?" his voice maintains a lethal calm that makes my skin crawl.

"What do you want, Ryat?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." He shakes his head, leaning a little away from me. "A divorce."

My shoulders fall, the blanket falls too, and I lean into him. "What?"