My cock is soft, a smear of her virginity and my release still clinging to it.
She wasn't just a transaction. She wasn't just a body to be used and discarded. She was a challenge. A puzzle. And I enjoyed solving her.
Too much.
I sigh and run the water, wetting the cloth. I clean myself up quickly, wash out the cloth, then wet it again. The water is hot, almost scalding. I wring out the excess water, my movements economical, precise.
When I walk back into the room, she’s still in the middle of the bed. Her arms are crossed over her breasts, her knees pulled up to her chest. She’s trying to make herself small, to disappear. She’s curled into a tight ball of shame and confusion.
Again, she's hiding herself from me, which sparks irritation in me as I specifically ordered her not to. If this were any other woman, I'd be barking at her to get on her knees for her punishment.
Erica looks at me, her eyes wide and wary. She flinches as I approach the bed, the washcloth in my hand.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping with my weight. "Open your legs," I say, my voice a low rumble.
Her eyes widen. She shakes her head, a small, frantic movement. "No," she whispers. "I can—"
I cut her off. "Erica." Just her name, but it's a warning.
She hesitates; her gaze locked on the cloth in my hand. Then, with a shuddering breath, she slowly, reluctantly, uncurls, her knees falling open.
She’s still a mess. A beautiful, erotic mess. The sight sends a fresh surge of possessiveness through me. I did that to her. I marked her.
I reach out, my fingers gently tracing her inner thigh. She flinches, a sharp, instinctual movement despite feeling no actual pain, but she doesn't pull away.
"It's okay," I say, my voice softer than I've ever spoken to a woman after fucking. "I'm just going to clean you up."
I gently wipe her with the warm cloth. Her breath hitches, her body tensing. I can feel the fine tremors that run through her. I’m careful, my movements slow and deliberate. I clean away the evidence, the blood and the slickness, my cum. I want to keep it there longer, make her wear it for a while.
But I have a feeling she won't react well to that.
It’s a strangely intimate act. More intimate than the sex itself. It's not new to me, aftercare. It comes with the territory of my... preferences. But this feels like more than that.
When I’m done, I toss the cloth onto the floor. I’m still looking at her, at the flushed, tender skin between her legs.
My fingers linger, tracing the soft skin of her inner thigh. Her breath catches, her body trembling.
“You were a very good girl for me,” I say, my voice a low murmur.
Her cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. She's embarrassed, and I know she's remembering the things she did, the things she said. The pleas and begs that spilled from her lips.
“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice cracking.
“Don’t what?” I ask, my thumb stroking her skin. “Don’t tell you the truth? You have nothing to be ashamed of, Erica."
A sob escapes her lips, a raw, broken sound. She turns her head away, her face buried in the pillow.
I get onto the bed behind her, pulling the blanket over us as I do. Then I'm pulling her back flush against my chest, wrapping my arms around her. My body is a hard, warm wall behind her, a cage of muscle and bone that she can't escape.
She’s stiff in my arms, her body a taut wire of tension.
“Relax,” I murmur against her hair. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She sobs, her body shaking with the force of her emotions. I just hold her, letting her cry. I don’t say anything else. I don’t try to soothe her with empty words.
Her sobs eventually subside, replaced by quiet, hiccupping breaths. Her body slowly relaxes in my arms, her muscles unclenching one by one until she's a soft, pliant weight against me.
She’s exhausted. Drained.
