Three months in and we somehow figured out how to function like actual humans again… mostly.Mornings started the same: my alarm at 6:45, Jake's hand already between my thighs before I even opened my eyes. He'd roll me onto my stomach, spread my ass with both thumbs, and slide into me slow while the coffee pot gurgled downstairs. No words, just the wet slap of his hips against my ass and my muffled moans into the pillow. He'd come deep with a low groan, bite the back of my neck like a fucking animal, then pull out and watch his cum drip out of me while I tried to remember how to stand."Morning, baby," he'd murmur, smacking my pussy lightly so I jolted. "Go shower. You're late."I'd wobble to the bathroom on shaky legs, his load still leaking down my thighs, and he'd already be downstairs in boxers making eggs like he hadn't just ruined me.We even managed real dates now.
Friday night we actually went to a nice Italian place downtown. I wore the little black dress he likes—the one that makes my tits look obscene. Under the table his hand was up my skirt the entire time, two fingers lazily pumping while the waiter took our order. I had to bite my lip bloody to keep from moaning when he curled them and rubbed my g-spot through dessert.
He paid the bill with his free hand, then dragged me to the single-stall bathroom, locked the door, bent me over the sink, and fucked me so hard the mirror rattled. I watched us in the reflection—his jaw clenched, my mouth open in a silent scream, mascara already running. He pulled my hair until my back arched, growled "look at yourself getting bred in public like a desperate slut," and unloaded so deep I felt it in my stomach.
We walked back to the table smiling sweetly while his cum slid down my legs under the dress.Weekends were lazier.
Saturday mornings we'd grocery shop like a normal couple—except he'd finger me in the cereal aisle when no one was looking, or shove me into the walk-in freezer at the back of the store and eat my pussy against the ice cream pallets until my legs gave out. I came with frostbite on my ass and his tongue buried inside me, biting my own hand to stay quiet while an employee stocked milk ten feet away.Afternoons were for errands.
Laundry day: he'd fuck me on top of the washing machine during the spin cycle, the vibrations making me scream into his neck while he held my thighs open and drilled me so hard the machine walked across the floor.
Post office: he made me cockwarm him in the parked car while I filled out shipping labels, clenching around him every time someone walked past the window. When I finished he bent me over the hood in the empty lot and railed me until the metal dented under my palms.Evenings we cooked together—mostly.
I'd be chopping vegetables and he'd come up behind me, push my leggings down, and slide in raw while the stove was still on. We'd fuck slow and dirty, my hands gripping the counter, his mouth on my ear whispering how he used to watch me through the kitchen window when we were teenagers and jerk off under the table at family barbecues. Dinner always burned. We ate it anyway, me sitting on his lap with his cock still inside me, feeding each other bites between lazy thrusts.Some nights we even watched TV like regular people.
I'd be curled against his chest and thirty minutes into whatever show he'd flip me over the arm of the couch, yank my pajama shorts aside, and fuck me so hard the cushions fell off. Or he'd pull me onto his lap facing the screen, slide into my ass for the first time in weeks, and make me ride him reverse cowgirl while he held my throat and growled filthy shit about how tight my "second hole" still was after all these months.Bedtime was never just sleep.
Some nights he'd tie me up and edge me for hours—vibrator on my clit, cock in my mouth, denying me until I cried. Other nights he'd wake me up three, four times—once with his tongue in my pussy, once fucking my tits, once sliding into my ass while I was still half-asleep and whimpering. By morning I'd be so overfilled with cum it leaked out every time I moved.But the quiet moments—the real ones—those were the ones that wrecked me.
Like when we'd do dishes side by side and he'd suddenly pin me to the fridge, kiss me soft and slow, and whisper, "I still can't believe you're mine. Used to watch you brush your teeth through the bathroom window and pray one day I'd get to wake up to this."
Or when we'd fall asleep tangled together and I'd feel him get hard in his sleep, instinctively roll my hips back, and he'd slide into me without waking up all the way—just lazy, sleepy thrusts until we both came muffled against each other's necks.We figured out how to live.
How to pay bills, do laundry, remember birthdays.
But every single day still started and ended the same way:
With Jake inside me, marking me, claiming me, making up for every second he spent wanting me for me