I press my finger against it, feeling how it's soaked through. The end is still visible, a slick blue strip hanging between my thighs. I tug on it experimentally and gasp at the sensation—the fabric sliding against my swollen walls, the feeling of him shifting inside me.
I should take it out. I should shower, clean myself up, and push his cum from my body. That's what any sane woman would do.
My fingers trace the outline of my pussy lips, slipping through the wetness gathering there. I'm still so fucking turned on, my body primed and ready for him again despite the thorough fucking he just gave me.
The shower beckons, but I shake my head. I don't want to wash him away yet. I want to keep his scent on my skin, his cum inside me. I want to fall asleep knowing a part of him is still with me, still claiming me.
One night. I stare at my reflection, fingers playing with the end of the tie. Just one night to have all of him.
I know it's filthy, maybe even a little depraved, but I've never wanted anything so badly in my life.
I step away from the mirror, decision made. I'm not taking it out.
The thought sends a little thrill through me as I walk back into the bedroom, each movement a reminder of what we did, of what's still inside me. It's filthy and taboo and exactly what I want.
I rummage through my suitcase and pull out an oversized St. Charles University hockey t-shirt—one I bought from the merchandise table at a game last season. The irony isn't lost on me as I slip it over my head, the soft cotton falling to mid-thigh. His school's logo stretched across my breasts, his cum and tie nestled between my legs. I'm marked as his inside and out.
The sheets are cool against my bare legs as I settle in, adjusting my position to accommodate the foreign sensation between my thighs. I grab my phone from the nightstand, biting my lip as I compose a message to the number I saved earlier.
So...do you want your tie back, or can I keep it? Fair's fair since you kept my panties.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately turn my ringer off and toss the phone aside. My heart pounds as I imagine him reading it, picturing his jaw clenching, his eyes darkening.
I toss and turn for a few minutes, unable to get comfortable with the constant reminder between my legs.
I roll onto my back, spreading my legs slightly. I'm too wound up to sleep.
My fingers drift down my stomach, pushing beneath the hem of the stolen t-shirt until I reach the swollen, sensitive folds of my pussy. It shifts inside me as I press two fingers against myclit.
I close my eyes, replaying the way Beckham bent me over that table, the way his large hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise as he slammed into me. I can still hear his voice, deep and possessive, in my ear.
This pussy is mine now.
My fingers move faster, my hips lifting off the bed to meet them. I'm already so close—still sensitive from earlier, still filled with the evidence of his possession.
I dip one finger lower, pushing it alongside the silk tie, feeling how stretched and full I am. The sensation is filthy and decadent, knowing I'm playing with his cum, stirring it inside me while I touch myself.
“Fuck, Beckham,” I moan, imagining its his thick fingers working me over instead of my own.
I press harder, faster, chasing the release building low in my belly. My other hand slides beneath my shirt, pinching and rolling my nipple the way he did, recreating the delicious pain that made me clench around his cock.
My pussy spasms around the tie, milking it like it's his cock, my fingers continuing to work my clit through the waves of my orgasm.
As I come down, breathing hard, I feel something warm trickle down my thigh. Some of his cum has escaped, forced out by my contractions. The thought makes me moan again—I'm so fucking full of him that my body can't contain it all.
I drag my fingers through the sticky wetness, bringing them to my mouth to taste our combined flavor. Salt and musk and something distinctly Beckham. It's intoxicating, and I find myself sucking my fingers clean, chasing every drop.
Rolling onto my stomach, my hips press into the bed, putting pressure on my lower body. The movement causes alittle bit more of him to seep out, and I can feel it dampening the sheets beneath me. I should care about the mess I’m about to sleep in, but I don’t. It’s evidence of what happened between us, proof that for one night, I belonged to Beckham Kingston completely.
My eyelids grow heavy as post-orgasmic exhaustion sets in.
With the taste of our cum on my lips and his possession still heavy between my thighs, I surrender to sleep finally.
Chapter 7
Beckham
The door closes in my face, and I'm left staring at the wood grain like it might give me answers to questions I'm too fucked up to ask myself. My tie is still inside her. My cum is still inside her. And I just walked her to her door like a goddamn gentleman after fucking her senseless on a table in a room off the corridor.
