Sore

Imagine waking up, pulling yourself out of bed and getting ready for work. You get to work and sit at your desk. Today is just like any other day – absolutely full of the potential of being dreary and uneventful.

Then imagine brushing your arm against the arm of your swivel chair, and wincing. You look at your forearm. Run your fingers over part of it, and wince again. You have a bruise. You rack your brain – how on earth did you get bruised there? 

Then you remember where – and last night comes rushing back. You got it from bracing yourself against the headboard. On your stomach, arms holding onto the wooden headboard, spine curved almost to the point of snapping as he fucks you from behind. You’re not quite on your knees; you strain to prop yourself up under his weight. 

After that bruise, you notice you have another one on your shin. And the muscles in your back are sore. And your pussy is sore. And your nipples are chafed.

Yes – you were thoroughly fucked last night. Indeed.

You smile secretly to yourself, pressing your fingers into the bruise, into the remnant. An echo of explosive sensation. 

Maybe today won’t be so boring after all.

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