Chapter 27
She slicked lube on her fingers, rubbed it slow over me. The tip of the toy touched my entrance and my body gave a little, like it remembered the way. The first inch burned soft, the second made a quick wet sound. I bit my lip. The position was getting to me.
“Get on all fours,” I said, flipping over and propping up on my elbows.
Jules grabbed my waist, spread my legs firm and pressed in again. I felt the smooth texture of the silicone, the temperature difference between it and my heat. When it slid in, it went deep enough to steal my breath. The mattress creaked, the sheet stuck to my knee. She started a steady rhythm: thrust, pause, thrust deeper. With every push, a jolt shot up my spine, and I knew exactly where it’d hit next.
That’s when Vitorino crashed in. Same position. Same promise of pleasure. The memory slipped in with the toy: him behind me, rushed, not looking, no hand on my skin. The dry smack of his hips against mine, off-beat, no angle found. The cold “you good?” in the middle of it. I’d faked an orgasm to wrap it up quick. A made-up moan, hollow throat, no real shake in my legs.
“Like this?” Jules asked low, right there, palm flat on my lower back.
“Like this,” I answered, the word coming out like a breath. “Like this…”
Jules shifted the angle and nailed it. My clit throbbed on reflex. I arched more, offering my body for the next hit, and she got it. Her hand gripped my hips and pulled me back every time I slipped an inch. The wet sound got louder, the whole room seemed to pulse in the same beat: fan, my breathing, the bed creaking.
Vitorino’s memory tried to push back in: the smell of his sweat, too strong, the rush, the lack of presence. I saw the scene like a shitty photo, overexposed flash. No touch in the right spot, no care for my timing. Me on all fours, waiting for it to pass. Me faking the wave that wouldn’t come.
Jules thrust and held it in, no pull out, just pressing. A heat spread through my lower belly, like water rising past the pubic bone. The skin inside felt textured, every millimeter distinct. I could map the whole path: edge, tunnel, spot, retreat. The pleasure had direction, weight, and warmth. It wasn’t an idea. It was body.
“More,” I begged. “Don’t stop.”
“This is killing my wrist!” she complained, but I just ignored it.
She did as I asked. Started a deep, steady back-and-forth that unraveled me in pieces. With every thrust, I let out a short sound, almost a grunt, and felt the pillow scrape my mouth. My hand went forward on its own, and Jules got it again: brought her fingers, grazed my clit light, tiny circles, just teasing. The sensation narrowed to a single vibration between the pressure inside and the touch outside.
Vitorino tried to creep back. The “cum for me” he’d demanded without giving me a reason. I’d played along with acting, clenched my abs, panted, shook fake. I remembered the emptiness after, the feeling of a wasted body.
The present yanked me back hard. Jules hit the spot again, her finger synced with the thrust. The heat turned to spark, then current, then urgency. I lost the rhythm of my breath. Her pace went through me like it was tuning a gear that was always mine, just misused by others. No more comparison, just contrast: here there was pulse, listening, focus. I felt the orgasm build without rush or fail, a wave gaining momentum from behind my knees, climbing my thighs, gripping my belly, leaving my chest hollow with air.
“There… there…” was all that came out.
I shattered on the mattress, knees buckling, belly clenching, throat opening in a sound you couldn’t fake. I came clutching the sheet, strength draining from my hands, letting my body shake. Jules kept the dildo in, steady, and didn’t lift her finger from my clit until the last spasm. No hurry. Just presence.
When the fan noise came back into focus, I was still pulsing inside with smaller waves, like echoes. Vitorino shrank, distant, a blurry nothing. The contrast was so sharp it almost hurt: there it had been empty, here it was solid. There I’d mimicked an end, here the end ripped through me in layers.
Jules pulled out slow, and the withdrawal was another pleasure, a warm line drawn from inside out. I breathed deep, smelled myself on my fingers, the plastic in the air, salty sweat in my mouth. I felt her kiss between my shoulder blades. Calm. Real. My whole body answered with one more short tremor, satisfied, like finally filing the right scene over the wrong one.
I collapsed flat on the bed.
“I gotta pee,” her voice came out awkward.
“Go… but don’t turn on the light.”
I didn’t want light. Knew light brought truth, and truth hurt. I stayed still, body in pieces, a good limpness that quivered on its own under the skin. The fan was now jammed against the wall, blowing air the wrong way; I’d have to get up and smack it to spin right again. I ran a hand over my thighs and felt the damp skin down to my knee. Touched the sheet and got the damage: soaked, like I’d pissed there. It was cum, sweat, lube, all mixed, my thick scent heavy in the air.
The bathroom door click gave away the flush. Then, faucet metal turning and water starting in the shower. The spray on tile told me the sex was done for now. I lay listening to the water hit the tiles while the good aches showed up: light burn inside, a satisfied weight in my lower belly, thigh muscles trembling if I shifted an inch. Every little spasm reminded me of what had ripped through me.
I thought about the light when she came back. How I’d look at her face after what my body had done in her hands. I wanted to hide my after: sweaty, open, soft. I buried my face in the sweaty pillow and breathed deep, trying to hold the room as it was: dark, smelling of sex, with the water sound in the background like a blanket.
The shower stopped. The slide of glass. A short silence. My nipples perked up again for no reason, just the echo of touch. I gripped the sheet with my fingertips and waited for her return.
When she came back, she seemed happy. She flicked the switch and turned on the light, blinding me in the process. Laughed with her whole mouth, chatty, already talking about the old shampoo that was finally gone and how now she could use the new one. I remembered the fight when she bought it, the price stuck in her throat for days.
She sat on the bed, small towel rubbing her hair, a bigger one wrapped around her body. Her skin still gleamed from the bath.
“This weekend we’re gonna shoot video and take pics, okay? Can you do a salon visit?”
I looked at my nails, awkward, grown out, no pro in months. My body still hummed low.
“I can try. No time. It’s crazy busy,” I said to the ceiling, dodging the light.
“Book for Friday. I’ll hang with Dad and call a makeup girl to do us both Saturday morning. Hair and makeup.”
I turned my face. She looked like she had a whole flowchart ready. The topic felt out of place. My body still lived in the before, craving more, throbbing in little waves that came and went uninvited.
“Who’s taking the photos?”
“Patricia.”
“We’re doing videos?”
“Yeah, but it’s vanilla stuff. She’ll direct us.”
I nodded on autopilot. The white light rubbed truth in my face, and I wanted the dark back. The room’s smell had shifted: less sex, more soap. Still, when she tossed her head forward and the towel hit her neck, the simple conditioner scent cut the distance and poked my skin. My body responded before my brain. A small spasm climbed from the base of my spine. I bit the inside of my cheek to not beg.
She leaned to grab her phone from the nightstand and the towel parted a bit. I saw the slant of her breast, the shadow of her collarbone, a water drop trailing and vanishing between her tits. The fan noise turned back to blanket, but now it carried my own breath, short.
“We need three looks,” she went on, counting on her fingers. “Hair up, hair down, and something more messy, you know? Patricia said she’ll bring stuff for us.”
“Turn off the light,” I asked low.
She looked at me, crooked smile, finger still on the phone.
“Now?”
“Now.”