THE MORNING AFTER, PART TWO
Stella
When I wake, it’s to the muscle memory of last night: my whole body is sore, sticky, beautifully wrecked.
A heavy, bare arm bands around my ribcage, hand splayed wide over my right breast—his calluses rough against the softness.
Another hand, larger, veined and tan, claims the top of my thigh, fingertips splayed in possession.
Hunter behind me, always behind: a block of heat and size, breathing slow, steady, the exhale curling through my hair and making it flicker against my temple.
Lachlan in front, draped like a marble statue gone soft at the edges, his arm thrown above his head, golden in the morning.
The sheets are a disaster—twisted, wet, crusted with sweat and what must be half a pint of spunk.
I’m cocooned between these men, legs scissored open, one of Lachlan’s thighs slotted between mine.
The light through the apartment’s window blinds is a bleak, diluted gold.
It stripes the mattress, turns the spilled stains and folds of white linen into a topography of last night’s excess.
I take an inventory before I dare move: my hips ache, a deep, rolling bruise under the skin, flesh so tender I know I’ll find fingerprint marks if I look.
My pussy is stretched, thickly sore, the ache not quite pain but a memory, like the afterburn of a long run.
My ass is rawer, and I feel a faint, sharp throb every time I flex my anus or shift.
Even my lips tingle, swollen, a faint saltiness at the corners.
My tongue finds the inside of my mouth and tastes the remnants of both men.
Oh yes, they came down my throat multiple times, and the tang is still there, salty and sweet.
For a while, I just lie in bed, cataloguing.
My hair is matted across my cheek. I count the number of hands touching me—two, and if I’m honest, I wish there were more.
I’m still in the afterglow, but it’s not a gentle haze; it’s more like a fever that hasn’t yet broken, the knowledge that I could be fucked again and again, like a ragdoll to be used for their pleasure.
Some deep part of me wants them to wake up and use me one more time, just for the sound of it, the proof.
My head is on Lachlan’s golden chest. His heartbeat is a quiet drum, barely there, but solid.
He smells like sweat and expensive wine, and the musky trace of last night’s come.
In his sleep, his brow is smooth, his lips slightly parted, and I could almost pretend he’s innocent, or at least vulnerable, if I didn’t know exactly what he was capable of doing to me with just his mouth and his hands.
Hunter is less composed. Even unconscious, he radiates possession: arm heavy across my chest, leg hooked over mine, breathing so deep it rattles the bed frame.
I tilt my head back just enough to see his jaw, the stubble at his throat, the hollow where his collarbone meets his shoulder.
He’s drooling a little onto the pillow. I could laugh, but even that would take too much energy.
I watch them sleep for an embarrassingly long time, and in that silence I let my mind wander.
Last night, I let two men—one of them my uncle, one of them my pastor—use my body for hours.
I screamed, begged, swallowed, took them wherever and however they wanted.
I wanted it. There’s no point in pretending it was anything else.
The thought floats up: Does this make me a slut?
The answer is almost comforting in its clarity: yes, it does, and at this point, I don’t care.
It’s exactly what I want to be because who knows how long this will last?
Is this relationship sustainable? Is this even a relationship at all?
I have no idea, but I guess I’ll find out.
A surge of something—maybe pride, maybe hunger, maybe just an urge to pee—makes me shift, gently, to extricate myself.
Hunter’s grip tightens, reflexive. I stroke the back of his hand until he relaxes.
Lachlan’s eyelids flutter but don’t open, the golden lashes staying closed on his sculpted cheek.
I slide out from the pocket of heat between them, swinging my feet over the edge of the mattress.
Standing is a test of will. Every muscle protests, and there’s a sharp, sweet pain deep inside as gravity rearranges the mess of fluids in my cunt and ass.
A sticky trickle starts down my thigh. I wince, but it makes me smile.
These men did it to me, and I love feeling so full, feminine, and stretched at once.
I cross the room to the tiny closet and find a mirror nailed to the back of the door, old and warped, but brutally honest in the morning light.
I look like a different species. My hair is a snarl, stuck to my forehead and shoulders in ropes, wild as hay.
My lips are bruised, upper swollen into a pout, a faint abrasion at one corner from someone’s stubble.
The whites of my eyes are bloodshot, lashes clumped together.
Yes, I’m a woman well-fucked, and proud of it too.
But the savagery doesn’t stop there. My chest is a map of last night: dark marks at my collarbones, streaks of faded lipstick, a single bite at the base of my throat turning purple already.
My big breasts are scratched, the nipples impossibly red and swollen, one still glistening with spit.
I touch them, and a small moan escapes, unexpected, as a thrill runs straight from my tip to my cunt.
My hips, as predicted, are ringed with handprints—Hunter’s, I think, judging by the size and placement.
There are more bruises at the tops of my thighs, where Lachlan held me open for him as Hunter rammed his cock inside.
My stomach is sticky, and there’s a trail of something—dried come or spit or both—across my left hip.
My pussy is angry, lips swollen and shiny, with a faint pink tinge that means I bled a little.
My asshole is red, stretched, and more than a little sore.
A pale, milky streak is still smeared on the inside of my thigh, running down toward my knee.
I run my tongue over my teeth, and again, there’s the taste of them left in my mouth. It’s the best surprise to date.
I stare at my reflection, at the wreckage, and I don’t feel shame. I feel owned, and I feel powerful, a woman in full.
I turn, scanning the mess for something to wear.
The room is strewn with clothes, most of them men’s.
I find one of Lachlan’s shirts—white, button-down, heavy with his scent—and shrug it on.
It’s too big, sleeves swallowing my hands, hem falling almost to my knees.
The cotton is soft and warm, comforting in a way that makes my chest ache a little.
I pad back to the bed, sit on the edge, and watch the two of them again.
They look less dangerous in sleep, but only barely.
I imagine waking them both up by climbing between them again, hovering my pussy over their faces and begging for a morning kiss.
They’d give it to me for sure, before pulling me down on their cocks.
But something inside me is shifting, changing the calculus.
For the first time in years, I wonder what it would be like to stay here, in this moment, forever.
To never go home, to never answer my phone, to never return to the real world where I am someone’s daughter, someone’s best friend, someone’s employee.
I sit there, legs dangling off the side of the bed, and let the thought linger. I imagine the next night, and the next, waking up between the two of them every morning, always sore, always sated, always with new marks to show for it.
It would be glorious.
Hunter shifts in his sleep, mouth twitching in a half-smile, like he’s dreaming of eating me alive. Lachlan’s hand flops from his chest, palm open, fingers twitching as if reaching for something lost.
I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them, the hem of the shirt falling over my thighs.
I watch them, and I feel the slow, inevitable draw of gravity.
Not the force that keeps you on the ground, but the force that makes planets collide, makes stars burn brighter than they should, makes black holes.
I know that if I stay here, I’ll never escape.
And for the first time, the idea is not terrifying.
It’s perfect.
After a little while, Hunter and Lachlan roused. It was like watching two bears, one dark and one golden, stumble out from a winter hibernation, drowsy and still dazed. But soon enough, they got dressed and we headed out to a nearby diner for breakfast.
Patsy’s is a time capsule: the kind of diner where nothing changes but the color of the pie in the rotating case.
The walls are tiled in pink and gray, the booths patched with strips of silver tape, the fluorescents so cold and bright that everyone looks like a suspect.
I’m still in Lachlan’s borrowed shirt, a size XL men’s trench coat over it, which is so long that I look like I’m wearing a smock.
I sit opposite both my men, sandwiched into one side of the booth, shoulder to shoulder, my back to the window where an ice-spattered Ford idles at the curb.
The waitress—late fifties, hair sprayed into a helmet, name tag: BARB—drops three chipped mugs on our table, sloshes coffee into them without a word.
The pencil behind her ear is chewed to a nub.
She doesn’t glance at us twice, but when she moves on, I see her clock the two men at my side: one slab of dark, carnivorous intent, one golden and chiseled like an avenging angel, but with visible tattoos.
We make a tableau, me in the middle, hair up in a messy bun, both men bracketed around me like bodyguards.