The silence in the dining room presses in on me, suffocating, heavy. It amplifies everything: the frantic, trapped beat of my pulse, the raw, needy throb between my bare thighs, the sick, hollow cavern where my stomach should be. I stare at the food on my plate, a perfect, untouched arrangement of salmon and asparagus, quinoa salad like a miniature garden. It should be enticing—the smells alone make my mouth water— but I can barely bring myself to lift the fork, heavy and cold in my hand.
My own body feels like a betrayal. One minute I was a breath away from splintering, every nerve screaming for a release he promised but denied. Now? The only thing screaming is my pride, raw and flayed open like my desperate sex. Humiliated, confused, achingly empty…that’s the aftertaste he’s left me with.
It’s like my pussy expected Boxing Day, a feast of its own after the Christmas celebration. And then…nothing. The lights are out, the music’s stopped, and I’m left holding a half-eaten canapé, wondering what the hell just happened. There’s relief, of course. It comes in thin, shaky waves, the logical part of my brain clinging to it like a life raft. He could have gone further. He didn’t. But beneath that? The part of me that pulses in counterpoint to the grandfather clock ticking away in the hall, the part that still feels the phantom heat of his hand, the ghost of his mouth so close…that part wants to claw at something, scream at him. That part hates him a little bit for leaving me like this, twisted as it is. Hates myself for hating him.
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