Tattooed On You

XXIV: Connecting

Looking at my phone, I note that it's after five already and that I probably should get out of bed right about now. I've spent the whole day in between the sheets, only getting out for two bathroom breaks, and even though I should feel guilty about it, I don't.

What I do feel guilty about, is the reason I'm not able to get out. It's all in the scents. I can smell what happened this morning, and it's so addictive, that I just couldn't get up and lose it. His scent is still on me and it's the very reason I haven't showered yet.

It's getting way out of hand.

And although he left when I asked him to, I feel weird about how we ended it. I panicked, if I think back on it now, I still feel it rush through me. The fear of getting hurt again, the shame of being betrayed, I know that if I let myself in with Hero, it will all be a possibility, just like how it was with Shane.

I did right to tell him to leave, I know I did, but it still hurt. And it also makes me wonder; what if Shane didn't do all those things? Would it have been different now? Would I have dared to take the risk of getting hurt by Hero, just because the moments I spend with him are so damn addictive?

I will never know. And I think this morning was the first and also the last time Hero and I had sex. Just before I told him to go, I felt him relax against me. He didn't say it with that many words, but I suspect that he wanted to stay. But that shifted so quickly when I said he needed to go, I think he thought that I expected it of him.

He turned cold as if what had happened was nothing, and although I know I'm the one that started it, deep down I'd hoped he would insist to stay. But instead, he thanked me for the fuck, sounding exactly like the guy that told me he wants me crying over him and nothing like the drunk person he was last night.

I'd expected him to claim a point, but instead, he thanked me as if I was only good for making him come. It made me feel cheap and awful, and the only insult that came to my mind was mocking his stamina.

Eight minutes, I said.

I know it wasn't eight minutes. It was at least fifteen, and truthfully, if he'd gone through any longer, I wouldn't have been able to get out of bed right now. Even now, I feel sore; he's stretched me, and on various parts of my body he's left his mark either with his fingers or his mouth.

Denying is pointless here; this morning was definitely the best sex I've ever had, and it only lasted about ten to fifteen minutes. I can only imagine what he can do when he takes his time.

Unfortunately, I will never know, because up until now, I haven't heard from him. He's not home, I know because I heard the front door close around eleven, and he hasn't reached out at all. No text, no call.

Sighing, I finally give in and lift myself off my bed. I'm hungry, I desperately need a shower, and I have to get a grip; I can not lay here all day moping about the fucked up situation I'm in. I have to let it go, approach it like it is; nothing. A game. A game that I'm winning.

Walking to my bathroom, it's clear as day he did a number on me. My thighs are sticky because his cum has been dripping out and I haven't showered yet. Normally, showering is the first thing I do after sex, but hey, since everything about this clusterfuck is new, why not keep the trend up?

When walking around, the fact that I'm sore only kicks in harder. My whole body hurts which is surprising given the position we did. It was nothing crazy -dare I even say it was plain- but his movements and the way he worked my body were anything but. And the result is a sore body -inside and out- that feels as if I've been on a terrible Bootcamp.

Since my day is almost over and I don't plan on going anywhere, I choose comfortable leggings and a breezy, white shirt. Taking out my plainest, most comfortable, and therefore least sexy bra to match. I have to: even my nipple feels sore.