Spring is coming.
Things about winter that don’t suck: flannel jammies.
She missed his wall; his hall. That place he always threw her against when she came into his apartment.
She missed feeling small and afraid. She’d grown up too much, become too jaded, too brave to feel so little.
She missed the anxiety and hunger she felt walking down his block. She missed his pretty cock. She missed the fear that was particular to being in his elevator.
The fear wasn’t about what he’d do to her, she knew he would hurt her and fuck her and use her like a doll. The fear was that she wouldn’t be good enough, tough enough, pretty enough.
All those fears went away when she was against his wall.
She didn’t cover her scars or chubby parts because he would only slap her hands away. She didn’t have time to be embarrassed about her razor burn or that her roots were showing, because she was too busy blushing about the dirty names he called her. She would fall into the whirlpool of humiliation and pleasure and dizzy confusion.
She didn’t have time to apologize because his cock was in her mouth.
She longed for all of it all.
And more than that she knew some other girl was in that hall, against that wall. His thick cock was inside of someone new and his hand was around someone else’s throat.
Perhaps it was strange that the longing could make her come so easily. Remembering that wall in that hall was almost as potent as thinking of another girls face, mascara running down her cheek, pressed against the wall as he fucked her. The humiliation and the jealousy and the heartbreak were poisons and aphrodisiacs.
The sadness kept her wet all day.