Semua Bab IN HER SKIN: Different Stories. Endless Lust : Bab 31 - Bab 40

The familiar cobblestones of Mauerpark flea market always felt like my stage. The air was buzzing with a hundred different conversations, the smell of sizzling bratwurst, and some busker’s sad-sounding guitar. It was just everyday life, but way more inspiring to me than quiet concert halls. Today, though, that usual hum felt cranked up, a real energy that vibrated right through my old boots. I was totally focused on finding some specific vintage denim I’d been chasing for weeks, and this maze of old treasures was both awesome and a bit much.I moved through the crowd easily, my eyes scanning the clothes racks, the tables piled with trinkets and all sorts of random stuff, but no jeans yet.I was so deep in my search, just soaking in the market's vibe, that I didn't even see her until it was too late. We totally crashed. A bunch of ripe, red tomatoes went flying from an overturned basket, splattering on the dirty cobblestones like tiny explosions of color. Then some oranges rolled every

The air in the support group meeting room, usually thick with a hushed, communal sadness, felt different for Amelia. It was sterile, yes, the plastic chairs unforgiving, the fluorescent lights casting a stark, unflattering glow on the faces around her. Yet, tonight, a subtle shift had occurred. Her husband’s absence, a gaping wound that had seemed insurmountable only weeks ago, was still there, a phantom limb ache that would likely never truly disappear. But the raw, visceral agony had begun to soften, replaced by a profound, aching emptiness that felt, in its own way, almost bearable.She had come to these meetings seeking a semblance of normalcy, a place where her grief wouldn't be met with pitying glances or awkward silences. She’d found that, to a degree. People spoke of their losses, their voices sometimes cracking, sometimes steady, sharing stories of husbands, wives, children, parents gone too soon, too unexpectedly. Each story was a shard of glass, reflecting a different facet

The low light of the club cast long shadows across the small table where Mark and Lena sat. A saxophone’s slow wail filled the air, warm and thick, wrapping around them like smoke. After eight years of marriage, their relationship felt like a well-worn sweater—familiar, dependable. But lately, something new had stirred between them: curiosity. A hunger neither of them had spoken aloud until recently.It started with late-night conversations whispered in the dark. Fantasies. The idea of a threesome came not from desperation, but from something shared and genuine, a desire to deepen their bond, to explore edges of themselves they hadn't touched before. And yes, they had kids, but this wasn’t about escaping routine. It was about reconnecting with each other, differently.Then came Chloe. A friend of a friend of a friend. She had a magnetic laugh, an open smile, and a presence that drew people in. One evening, over dinner and wine, the three of them clicked. There was chemistry, undeniabl

Mr. Henderson was a study in contrasts. He had long, dark hair that fell across his forehead, and beautiful blue eyes framed by brown glasses. Dimples appeared on both cheeks whenever he smiled. He was beautiful and handsome in a way that had always captivated me, but he was also my best friend's father. That was the line. The one I knew I could never cross, no matter how many times I found myself dreaming about it. I don't know when it started or how it became what it was, but I had fallen deeply in love with a man who would never feel the same about me. The dream was foolish, childish, and entirely mine. Then came the divorce. When I found out his wife had found comfort in the arms of our high school gym teacher, a spark of hope ignited inside me. A ridiculous, tiny chance that maybe my dream wasn't as crazy as I thought. Maybe now, with her gone, I could have a shot. My friend, absorbed in her new boyfriend, had practically moved in with him, leaving her father's house and our

It’s not like I was crazy. I was just a little obsessed. Not with a man, not with anyone else, just with me. With how I looked. How I smelled. How people saw me. Call me a bitch if you want. I was that bitch. And every bitch deserves to be fucked like a queen. Was that a twisted way of thinking? Maybe. But it was mine. The truth is, I didn’t want to submit. I wanted to dominate. To control. To flog. To slap. To make sure pleasure was given, not taken. Sex should be a gift I deliver, not something I surrender to. Apparently, this made me weird, at least according to some chat forum I joined. Like, who wouldn’t want to be in control? I know I did. So when my friend Michela handed me a card that said FREE ME and said they could match my “exquisite taste,” I figured, why not? She’d been glowing lately. Whoever was fucking her clearly knew their job. But me? I didn’t want to be fucked. I wanted to do the fucking. I stood in the crimson-drenched room, the air thick with anticipation