Ex claims what is rightfully hers [FM]

This is part of a longer narrative documenting my college years and beyond; take the time to check the rest of it out if you’re at all interested :)

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We left for the club together. Not hand in hand; this was decidedly, unspokenly, not going to be a romantic thing, but the least you could do with someone whose ass you’d just painted with your cum is walk and talk with them on the way to the bar. And talk we did! She was a real firecracker, with a sense of humor that bordered on the profane and a generous laugh that she treated me with for the duration of our gaggle’s processional downtown. I finally caught a name, and shared mine in turn, and we caught a healthy ribbing from the dozen or so folks we walked with; our conspicuous disappearance from the party hadn’t gone unnoticed and a nosey party informed me that I should have had the decency to find out who she was before dicking her down. She leapt to my defense, pointing out that she hadn’t learned mine first either, and her friend called her a fucking liar. Several of them made awkward faces at each other; she had definitely known who I was.

Still, I was having a good time. My recent breakup was still carving swathes of insecurity through my mood, but the distraction provided by this outing was entirely good for me. Still, refractory clarity reared its ugly head off and on through the first hour after we all left the house, and I made the mistake of making drunken eye contact with myself in the club’s bathroom mirror; the man looking back was not having a good time. I missed M, and no blowjob was going to draw that from me, regardless of quality.

It had been very good though. Maybe it could do the trick if I tried it again. Maybe?

I went back out to the floor, and found my date…date?…backing herself up ludicrously on the girl whose birthday we were allegedly celebrating; they laughed riotously, spilling overpriced drinks all over each other and having the time of their lives. I laughed to myself, resolving to damn my misery and have some fun with them. So I danced, badly, and drank, excessively. The woman attached herself to me at the hip, and got increasingly handsy as we bumped and ground into each other for what felt like an eternity. It was like an hour, tops, but time moves differently in clubs and we had teased each other for far too long. Taking the lead, again, she insisted we leave so that I could give my cock to her again. I excused myself to use the washroom again before we left.

I was, in that moment, so ready for this. I had the distinct sense that, for all she had shown herself to be capable of back at the house, there was so much more in her playbook that I had yet to see. The wild abandon with which she had devoured me, and the tenacity with which she had insisted upon riding me had me convinced that I might be in for the night of my life. I was sure of this, and more, until I left the washroom.

She stood by the coat check, and she wasn’t alone. I thought I recognized the guy she stood there with from class; they were obviously getting ready to leave together. I wasn’t shattered by any means, but surely pulled a face regardless as I stood there. I resolved to at least force some recognition that I was still here, and took a sole step forward before one of my new roommates held me fast with a hand on my chest; he was shaking his head, lips pursed together. That was an on-again, off-again boyfriend, and there was nothing to be upset about. He was right, in that case. I guess I’d been a distraction. I guess she had been too. Maybe we both got what we needed.

I had one more round with my friends, then decided on drifting off into the night towards my empty bed. I was a bit of a sad sack, and felt quite sorry for myself. It was pissing rain when I got outside, which didn’t help. What was I mad about? A stranger had only fucked me once instead of twice? I’d put literally no effort into the exchange, was owed absolutely nothing, and would likely survive the disappointment without any lasting damage done. All of that aside, I was still in my academic ascendancy, and the term was due to start up anew in a measurable length of mere hours. I rebuked myself, and turned to walk up the drive of my new place, deciding I had better things to worry about, like sobering up.

M stood there, soaked from the rain, huddled under the eave on the poorly covered porch. She turned to look at me. This was shaping up to be a terrible Notebook ripoff, until she opened her mouth. I’d left shit at her house, in her own words, and she thought I’d be home. She yelled over the rain. I went out, I yelled back. I was a dumbass, she exclaimed, and we should get out of the rain before all my things were entirely soaked and ruined; she had a flimsy box of my things at her feet. She was always so much smarter than I, and I told her so. She waved me towards the door emphatically as if to beg the question of why I was still stood there like an idiot at the end of my own driveway.

Taking the 15 steps toward her felt monstrously difficult. We’d broken up, so why on earth I felt the crushing weight of a cheaters’ guilt constricting my chest was hard to overcome. I couldn’t look at her, but she stood mere inches from me, staring at the side of my head as I fumbled with the lock and key. I nearly gagged on my words when asking her to come in, which she did without comment. She pressed on into the living room, swiping the hood of her jacket off her head and gazing about the place. It was nice, she lied. It was the kind of place you’d expect 4 dudes to be sharing, full of thrifted furniture and dirty dishes. I had no idea what to say. She asked for a drink, which was a good place to start; I still hadn’t managed to say almost anything.

Knocking about the kitchen to find a glass that wasn’t half dirty to give to her, I jumped half out of my skin when she asked what was up my butt from scant inches behind me; I hadn’t heard her come up at all, but she found it all so amusing and implored me to relax. She’d shed her coat, which had done precious little to protect her from the rain; her hair was plastered to her face and her shirt was soaked through. I mumbled an apology, and gave away my guilt in doing so. The apology was explicitly for being so jumpy, but she heard the truth layered in it all the same.

She hugged me, saying that it was okay. She was soaked to the bone, and cold to the touch, but it was the most honest, wholehearted forgiveness I’ve ever known in a hug. She had no way of knowing exactly what I was apologizing for, and I’m not sure what all the hug was meant to forgive, but we both understood it to be a blanket gesture for anything and everything that it needed to be, and her soft, squishy little body pressed into mine, up against that filthy counter in that disastrous den of dude funk healed an awful lot. I think maybe she was sorry we’d broken up.

I fucked someone, I told her.

She knew.

I was sorry, I said.

There was nothing to be sorry for.

I choked. I told her I hated this. I hated this a lot. She hated it too. I have no idea how long we stood there for, but we decided in unison that it had gone on long enough and broke away, her holding on to my finger, and me leading her down the stairs to the basement bedroom I hadn’t entirely unpacked into yet. Wordlessly, and curiously matter-of-factly, she closed the door, pulled off her wet shirt, peeled out of her still-sopping yoga pants, and moved in to kiss me tenderly while she undid the buttons of my shirt. There was little ceremony in this; there was no discovery to inflect itself on what was happening. We had been each others’ for months prior, each and every day, and this was just what was going to happen. She stripped my shirt off, still pecking at my lips and neck. The neck kisses made short work of me, and my body melted as my cock stiffened. She knew this would happen, of course, having owned every inch of me a hundred times and more. This was the way it was to be, without question. She bade me to lay down, and I did so, still in my pants.

She stared straight into me, pinning me in place with her look, an entirely blank expression on her face while she unhooked her own bra. It wasn’t the nicest one that I knew her to own, but it wasn’t her comfiest one either, and it was a match for the panties she had on. She’d come with intent, but not necessarily the conviction that she would be following through. Evidently, she had made her mind up now though. She dropped her underwear and stood in the low light of my room stark naked while I stared, dumbstruck, at her beautiful nude form. I’ve described her at length previously; wide hips, strong legs, soft in the places that my hands loved to hold. She was incredible, and stood for long moments before deciding on what she wanted.

She climbed across me as I lay on my back, and swatted my hand away when I reached for my belt buckle. Again, I didn’t need to be told; this was just what was going to happen. She shuffled forward on her knees, past my tummy, tucking her knees up under my armpits and reached down to run her hand over my cheek and through my hair. She commanded I look.

She was shaved immaculately. She was never shaved clean, but she clenched a fist full of my hair and jerked my head forward roughly, forcing me to examine. I could do nothing but exhale loudly; I’m sure it sounded like a whimper. She held me there, forcing me to watch as she used her free hand to grind at her mound, preferring this over directly rubbing her sensitive clit. I watched, transfixed, while she did so, furrowing my brow and licking my lips as I watched her warm herself up inches from my face, knowing that this was to go on for as long as she desired. Her ministrations began to really take root, and little jolts of spiking pleasure caused her grip on my hair to momentarily tighten and relax intermittently. I was told I would eat that pussy. I already knew that. I did not need to be told.

She crawled over me the rest of the way, hovering over my watering mouth with her calves nested under my arms so I could reach up to hold her hips and ass while I feasted. My vision was full of nothing more than everything I so desperately needed, and I had to draw deep breaths to calm myself. She felt me trying to regulate my urges, hovering there for all the world like a monument to my torment. She ran the fingers of both hands through my hair and cooed softly to me while she shifted her hips in tight circles above my tongue. She was so visibly wet, and I was so obviously in agony. She lowered herself down to me.

Women don’t taste like roses, or sunshine, or cotton candy. They aren’t sweet and any claims that they are just don’t hold. She tasted like herself though, and that was simply the most electrifying flavor I’d known.

She gasped loudly and settled firmly but mercifully on my face. This wasn’t punishment; it was loving ownership. It was a seat at her own table. It was taking what she still wanted to be hers. I licked, of course I licked, but the wetly parted lips hardly needed the working of my eager tongue to drive her mad; only seconds of immobility passed before she began to grind herself on my face, from nose to chin. My face was slick with her – she marked what was hers. One hand left my hair, presumably to grab the headboard, and she began to voice her favorite litany of profanities and oaths and curses and supplications aloud, growing louder as I was named to be a Motherfucker, and still more so as the experience was christened to be So Fucking Hot, and yet louder still as both the Holy Son and Father were invoked and invited to watch. She dispensed with the formality of cloaking her cries in actual words and resorted to guttural, primal grunts, groans, moans, and cries as she forced my face into her, pulling me by the hair into her with all the strength she could muster. I held fast to her ass from below and hoped the overlooked Holy Spirit would spare a care for my depleting capacity for breath.

Just as I was sure I would finally fall limp from the lack of oxygen, her orgasm ebbed to a more manageable trickle, and she remembered to let me down for some air. She laughed, high on the endorphin rush, as I took only one sucking gasp before trying to lift my head up high enough to tongue her again. She pinned my head back down, telling me that I was a good boy; she lifted her hips higher than I was going to be able to reach her and slapped her pussy wetly with the hand not full of hair above my face, telling me as she did that I had made her cum so hard. I asked her to Give Me, adding a pathetically desperate Please.

She climbed off, swinging off the bed entirely. I complained, and was hushed. She undid my belt, button, and fly, again swatting my hand away as I reached out to touch her hip. My cock sprung from my briefs, soaked with eager precum and stood to attention while I watched her run the palm of her hand between her legs to wet herself. Wiggling sticky, slick fingers at me, she grinned devilishly and wrapped the hand firmly around my cock. She began to stroke.

It was her cock. She told me so. Yes, I said, it was hers. It was still hers, she said. I nodded, and she stroked. She owned it, still, no matter what. I was simply aching. She paused to run one finger up the underside and tease a streamer from my leaking tip upwards with her forefinger. She stuck it in my mouth, and continued stroking with the other hand. She talked on for agonizing minutes, crushing my ability to withstand her barrage of insistent claims that I was always going to belong to her, no matter the circumstances, or distance between us, and that no random pussy or amateur effort to suck that away from her would ever change what was already signed, sealed, and delivered to her: complete and utter governance of what hung there between my legs. I sucked at the finger for dear life, and my legs began to twitch, knees clenching, thighs tightening. My stomach, next, began to contort it’s muscles. She saw what was coming, and berated me for ever forgetting what I was to her, admonishing me for allowing myself to feel guilt, as though what I could ever do would change reality for us.

I was hers.

It was too much, and I began to stiffen altogether, every bit of me working in unison to coordinate and reroute the pain of refusal into something that threatened to overwhelm the senses. Thin, streaming fluid began to emit itself from my tip, my toes curled, I gripped the sheets, I bit her finger, I clenched my eyes shut.

And she stopped.

I opened my eyes. Her back was turned, and she was moving away. I looked in disbelief as she bent to pick up a pair of my sweatpants off the ground. My eyes could not have been wider. She asked what I was looking at, feigning obliviousness perfectly, and asked if there was a shower down here. I told her it was down the hall. She told me she’d be back shortly, and she’d know if I made myself cum while she was cleaning up. She’d always know, she said. It was her cock, after all.

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We’ll call this one here; it seems a good intermission. I want to make sure I take the moment to offer a hearty and sincere THANK YOU to the 7 or 8 people who have been regularly reaching out about these; you’re cool people and I love you. I’m also going to be digging into occasional prompts over at /r/dirtywritingprompts just for a change of pace and an excuse to write more through the week, so if you see something cool there then let me know!

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/ywvj76/ex_claims_what_is_rightfully_hers_fm