I didn’t text him the next day.
Didn’t even jerk off.
I needed space.
Needed to process the fact that I’d let a stranger on his knees deepthroat me like we’d done it a hundred times. That I’d stood in a hotel room with my c**k shoved down his throat and called him a f*****g w***e—and he loved it.
But space didn’t help.
It made it worse.
Because all I could think about was that last message.
Next time, you’re f*****g me. No condoms. No mercy.
It looped in my head like a goddamn song. It played in meetings, during lunch, while I was brushing my teeth. I saw his lips, stretched and shiny, drool slicking his chin. I saw the way he looked up at me like I owned him.
And I needed more.
So I texted him three days later. One word.
Tonight.
His reply came in under ten seconds.
Same hote
