Penis Reduction Seduction
Copyright© 2025 by Kacey Loveington
Chapter 9
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 9 - Married Doctor helps the kid next door with his big problem. Dr. Zoe Monroe was trained to help. But when the issue turns out to be size, not sickness, she finds herself caught between clinical curiosity and a hunger she can’t quite suppress. — A slow, teasing descent into temptation, boundaries, and the kind of longing no textbook could ever prepare her for.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Slut Wife Interracial Black Male White Female Oral Sex Doctor/Nurse Size
Zoe waited at the window until Barry’s car disappeared down the street, the hum of the engine fading like an exhale she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her coffee sat cooling on the counter behind her, untouched — forgotten. The light through the curtains turned the room gold, catching on the rise of her cheek, the slope of her collarbone, the loose knot at her robe’s waist. The silence in the kitchen wasn’t just stillness — it was an invitation. The kind of silence that says yes. That says go.
She turned and walked toward the bathroom with slow, deliberate steps, her bare feet whispering across the floor. This wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t guilt.
This was preparation.
The robe slipped from her shoulders before she reached the door — it didn’t fall, it surrendered. It pooled at her feet like obedience itself. She stepped over it, naked, calm, the chill of the hallway brushing her skin as she moved. In the mirror, she paused. Her reflection stared back — cheeks still flushed from the night before, breasts still sensitive, inner thighs faintly bruised with the ghost-prints of his grip. Bite marks bloomed like little secrets on the soft flesh near her hip.
She touched one lightly and smiled.
“I want to be clean,” she whispered to her reflection, lips curling, “before I get dirty again.”
The shower hissed to life, fogging the mirror in seconds. She stepped under the spray and tilted her face into the water, letting it pour down her scalp, her neck, over the curve of her tits and down between her legs in a steaming cascade. Her hands glided across her skin — slow, slick circles of lather — tracing her arms, the soft hollows behind her knees, the arch of her back. Her palms slid across her breasts, cupping them, lifting them, teasing her nipples into stiff peaks with the barest brush.
But it wasn’t the water that made her breath catch.
It was him.
Nate. In her bed, sprawled out and flushed. Nate, cock in her throat, cock in her hands, cock dripping and twitching against her. Nate with his head between her thighs, eating her like she was his only religion. The way he grunted when he came. The way he tasted when she swallowed. The way he looked at her — like he already knew how this ended.
But it wasn’t enough anymore.
She didn’t want to suck him. She didn’t want to ride his face. She didn’t want to tease.
She wanted to take him. Every last inch. All of it.
She wanted to stretch wide around that monster cock, to feel it split her open, to cry out as it pushed deep, impossibly deep, until she wasn’t sure if she could breathe. She wanted him to hold her down, hips locked, balls slapping against her as he fucked her raw. No condom. No mercy. Just pure, heavy need.
Zoe moaned — low, guttural — her fingers sliding between her legs, two slipping easily into the wet, swollen heat of her cunt. She was soaked already, slick and ready, her clit throbbing beneath the pad of her thumb. She pressed harder, rubbing in tight, frantic circles, her knees beginning to shake. Her other hand gripped the tile, anchoring her as her hips bucked forward, seeking more pressure, more contact. She could already feel it rising — that hard, deep twist of tension low in her belly.
She imagined him behind her now — grabbing her hips, slamming into her from behind, grunting in her ear as her tits bounced, as her cunt tightened, milking him. She imagined his voice, thick with lust: “Take it, Doc. You can handle it. Open up for me.”
Her orgasm slammed into her hard — a clenched, buckling spasm that wracked her from the inside out. She gasped, biting her wrist, her pussy spasming around nothing as her thighs trembled violently. Her breath came in sharp, shallow pants as the wave rolled through her, deep and punishing, leaving her limp against the wall.
But it still wasn’t enough.
She rinsed quickly, almost angrily, fingers still twitching from the aftermath. She didn’t bother drying off fully — just wrapped the robe back around her dripping skin and stormed down the hall, her pace fast, driven, her hair wet and clinging to her collarbone.
She wasn’t going to wait.
She was going to own him.
The door creaked open. She didn’t knock. She didn’t speak. She slid the robe from her shoulders again, ready to climb on top of him, ready to finally feel that massive cock stretch her open like nothing else ever had.
But the bed was empty.
The pillow still held the shape of his head. The sheets still carried the scent of sweat and sex and skin. But he was gone.
Gone.
Zoe stood naked in the doorway, her body humming with lust, her cunt still aching and clenching, and for a moment — just a beat — she didn’t know whether to scream or cry.
She marched to the bedroom. Grabbed her phone.
Her fingers shook as she typed.
Zoe: Where did you go? I’m not done with you yet.
The reply didn’t come fast. The dots blinked. Stopped. Came back.
Nate: Then don’t be ... next time 😉
Zoe stared at the screen, jaw slack, chest heaving.
Then she smiled.
Not from relief.
But because next time...
She wasn’t going to stop.
She was going to break him.
Zoe had been wound tight all day.
From the moment she stepped out of the shower that morning — wet between her thighs, her hand still shaking from the orgasm she’d chased against tile and steam — only to find Nate gone, the tension had taken root. It coiled low in her belly and deep in her chest like a fist clenched around something sacred. She’d paced the house with her phone in her hand, rereading that final message a dozen times. Then don’t be ... next time 😉. But there had been no next time. Not yet. Not today. Not tonight.
Dinner was a blur. She’d cooked without thinking, chewed without tasting. Barry’s voice had filled the kitchen — talking about system updates at work, the new neighbours’ lease, something half-watched on Netflix — but she’d only nodded, smiled when required, her body in the room but her mind down the street. One door over, on a bed she could still smell, feel, ache for. Bent over. Spread wide. Taken. The hunger had only grown sharper with each hour that passed untouched.
By nightfall, Zoe was raw with want. The street lamps clicked on outside with mechanical indifference, casting dull light over empty pavement and darker porches. She stood at the window, fingers braced against the edge of the sink, robe loose around her frame, camisole clinging damp between her breasts. Her panties were soaked — not fresh, not clean — but sticky with arousal that hadn’t eased all day. She exhaled slowly. The dishwasher hummed in the background, too domestic to belong in the house of someone this close to breaking.
“You’ve been staring out that window all night,” Barry said from behind her, his voice soft, good-natured. “What’s got you so distracted?”
Zoe didn’t answer immediately. She let the question hang, heavy and unanswered. Her gaze remained on Nate’s house, still dark. Still silent. She could feel her nipples stiffen under the thin cotton of her top, brushing against the inside of her robe with every breath.
“Nothing in particular,” she murmured, finally.
Barry stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing a light kiss to her shoulder. “You seem ... tense.”
“I guess I am.”
“Maybe I can help with that.” His hands slid lower, suggestive, familiar. “One of our games? You liked being the student last time...”
Zoe’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile. Something more hollow. She was tired of games that pretended to be something they weren’t. Of dildos in place of cocks she really wanted. Of a man who got hard for fantasy ... while the reality was walking around next door with ten and a half inches of truth between his legs.
Still, Barry was her husband. This was his script. And she could play the role.
“If it helps me relax,” she said, sweet and low, “then maybe your little games will do the trick.”
He groaned softly, already stiffening, his hand cupping her ass through the shorts. “God, you’re such a fucking tease.”
“Oh? You wanna see me be a filthy little slut again?” she said, voice syrupy now, head turning slightly. “You want me to ride that big black toy for you?”
His breath hitched. “Fuck, yes.”
She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto his. There was a smirk on her lips — pretty, practiced — but her eyes were cold. Calculating. Already somewhere else.
“What did we name it again?” she asked softly.
Barry grinned, drunk on the routine. “Nate.”
Zoe laughed — a dry little breath of sound. “You’re a perv.”
“But I’m your perv.”
“You are,” she agreed, stepping in, brushing a kiss across his cheek. Her hand slid across his chest, her fingers trailing like smoke. “And since you’re mine ... anything to make you happy.”
She pulled away with feline grace, her voice like warm velvet over something sharp. “Go upstairs. Pick a scene. Make it something fun tonight.”
Barry grinned like a boy with a secret, already bounding toward the stairs.
Zoe lingered. Alone now. Her gaze turned back to the window one last time.
Still dark.
Still empty.
But her cunt pulsed anyway.
She reached between her thighs and pressed her palm against the front of her sleep shorts — just for a second, just to feel how wet she still was. The fabric was soaked. Hot. Sticky against her folds.
She smiled faintly.
The bedroom glowed with soft, sinful warmth — all dim amber light and flickering shadows, like the whole room had been prepped for a scene they both knew wasn’t just pretend anymore. The curtains were drawn, the television screen pulsing gently with the blue glow of grainy porn. Onscreen, a pale, submissive wife with neatly curled hair and glassy, needful eyes struggled to fit a thick, black cock into her mouth. It glistened with spit, too big for her throat, slapping her cheek obscenely before forcing its way between her lips again. In the corner of the screen, her husband sat hunched in a chair — forgotten, jerking off in silence.
Zoe paused in the doorway, letting the weight of the room settle around her.
The heat. The tension. The scent of Barry’s cologne mixed faintly with the sweat of anticipation. His chair was positioned like a throne beside the bed, angled just so, facing the TV — and her. He sat shirtless, already stiff beneath his thin boxers, one hand gripping the remote, the other curled tightly around the base of the massive dildo. It sat heavy in his lap, thick and glistening under the low light, as if it had been waiting for her.
Zoe didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her presence filled the room.
She stepped into the light — all black lace and deliberate intention. The sheer bodysuit clung to her body like a second skin, transparent enough to show the flush at the tips of her breasts, the way her nipples strained against the delicate mesh. Her thighs gleamed with lotion, smooth and kissable, framed by dark garters clipped taut to her stockings. Her makeup was heavier than usual — smoky eyes, darkened lips. Filth in lipstick. Seduction dressed for blood.
Barry’s breath hitched audibly. “Jesus Christ...”
Zoe tilted her head, a slow, languid smile playing at her lips. But her eyes ... her eyes were glassy, dangerous. Not soft. Not loving. Something raw lived there now — hunger, power, memory.
She sauntered toward the bed with grace that bordered on feline. Her heels clicked softly against the hardwood floor before she stepped out of them one by one, never once looking away from the TV screen where the actress now rode that thick cock, her body visibly stretched, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.
“You picked this one?” Zoe asked, voice calm. Controlled. Almost amused.
Barry nodded, the dildo twitching in his grip. “Yeah. Thought it might be hot. Cuckold setup. You always play it so well.”
Zoe turned her head slightly, studying the screen. The way the black man held the woman’s hips. The way her pussy swallowed him whole. The way her husband in the corner looked so ... small.
“Is this what turns you on?” she asked, still watching. “Watching your wife get ruined by someone bigger?”
Barry shifted, suddenly unsure. “I mean ... it’s just role-play. I don’t actually want it to happen.”
“No?” Zoe climbed onto the bed slowly, knees sinking into the mattress, every movement like silk sliding off skin. She crawled toward the pillows, hips swaying, and then flipped onto her back — legs spreading without invitation, lace stretching tight across her cunt. “You don’t want to see me stretched open around a cock that makes yours look like a child’s toy?”
His breath caught audibly.
Zoe’s fingers slid between her thighs, teasing the damp patch at the centre of her lace. She wasn’t even pretending to touch herself for him — this was real. She was wet. Hungry. Her body still carried the ache of a cock she hadn’t yet taken. She watched the screen again, whispering as though it wasn’t meant for Barry at all.
“He’s so much bigger than you,” she murmured. “Look at how deep he is. You couldn’t reach that far if you tried.”
Barry groaned, eyes wide, cock twitching inside his shorts.
“Ohhh, you like that,” she purred, finally looking at him. “You like thinking about your wife getting used by something she was never meant to handle. A cock that leaves her sore for days. You want to see me lose myself on it. Is that what this is?”
Barry swallowed hard. “It’s just a fantasy...”
Zoe turned slowly, her voice velvet wrapped in glass. “What’s his name again?”
He hesitated. Just a second.
“ ... Nate,” he whispered.
She smiled — slow, wicked, and devastating.
“Right. Our big, black, beautiful houseguest.”
She sat up now, knees wide, breasts heaving through the lace, and extended a hand toward him with quiet authority.
“Pass me Nate, baby.”
Barry obeyed immediately, handing her the dildo like it was sacred. Zoe took it without flinching, fingers curling around the thick base, the girth of it already slick with lube he’d clearly applied in anticipation.
She held it in both hands now, admiring it — the weight, the texture, the way her hands couldn’t close fully around it.
And then she kissed the tip. Soft. Deliberate.
“Watch carefully, honey,” she whispered. “Because tonight?”
Her legs spread wider, the toy poised between them, already glistening.
“I’m not pretending for you.”
She brought it lower, sliding it along her slick folds, soaking it in real arousal.
“I’m fucking him.”
The tip pressed in — just an inch. Enough to make her gasp.
“And you’re going to sit there...”
She moaned, taking more of it, her hips arching.
“ ... and jerk your little cock while I do.”
Zoe lay back across the bed like she was offering herself up to something ancient — primal — her knees falling open in slow, languid surrender. Her thighs parted with purpose, the black lace of her bodysuit stretched thin across her hips, slick already darkening the delicate fabric. Her chest rose and fell in shallow waves, nipples taut and aching beneath sheer mesh. She held the dildo in one hand — heavy, glossy with lube, obscene in its scale — and dragged it up the inside of her thigh with teasing, deliberate pressure. Every inch of movement shimmered with intent.
Barry sat frozen in his chair, hand gripping his cock through the fabric of his boxers, visibly twitching now — a prisoner to the show. His mouth hung slightly open, eyes wide, almost reverent. He wasn’t just turned on. He was unraveling.
Zoe’s voice cut through the thick air, velvet and venom all at once. “Look at that...” she murmured, lifting the thick length to her face. Her fingers curled around it as best they could — but the girth defied her grip, thick enough to demand submission. “So big ... it barely fits in my hand.”
She kissed the tip again — wetter this time, her tongue dragging slowly along the head before her lips wrapped around it with mock hunger. She moaned softly, theatrically, but there was nothing fake in the way her eyelids fluttered, the way her thighs shifted restlessly beneath her.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think he’d let me suck him before he fucked me, Barry?”
She didn’t wait for a response.
“No,” she hissed. “He’d just grab me. Push me down. Split me open like I was made for him. Like the filthy bitch I’ve become.”
Barry whimpered aloud.
She dragged the dildo down between her breasts, letting it rest a moment there — like it belonged — then lower, over her belly, trailing slick across her soft, heated skin. Her breath caught as the tip passed over her panties, and she didn’t hesitate. She hooked her fingers beneath the lace and pulled them aside, baring herself completely. She was soaked. Glistening. Her arousal was sticky and abundant, smearing the base of the toy the moment it met her heat.
With a soft gasp, she pressed the head against her entrance, and the breath rushed from her lungs.
Slowly. Painfully. She pushed it in.
Inch by thick, stretching inch.
Her body arched, muscles tense, jaw slack as her pussy spread around the silicone, dragging the ridged head past her lips with agonising depth. Her hips rolled instinctively, greedily, needing more. Needing it all.
“Fuck...” she moaned, half to herself. “He’s so much bigger than you...”
Barry’s eyes were locked to her cunt, his cock now freed from his waistband, red and twitching in his hand. He stroked without rhythm — sloppy, desperate.
Zoe began to move.
Rocking.
Slow at first. Worshipful. Then harder.
The slick slap of the toy sliding in and out echoed in the air, mixing with the distant, rhythmic pounding from the television. Onscreen, the actress wailed — her mouth open in a silent scream as her body was plowed from behind, her breasts swinging, her hands gripping the sheets.
Zoe matched her rhythm. Matched her cries.
She grabbed one breast and squeezed, her fingers digging into the flesh, her other hand pushing the dildo deep. She rode it harder now — hips grinding, cunt clenching. Her body was wild, soaked, sweat beading at her temple, her spine bowing off the mattress.
“You see that?” she gasped, her eyes burning into Barry’s. “See how deep he goes? You’ve never been there. Never touched that part of me. But Nate...?”
She rolled her hips savagely, angling the toy until it kissed something inside her that made her cry out, fingers curling into the sheets.
“Nate fills all of me.”
Barry let out a strangled groan, cum already rising, his hand jerking faster.
Zoe didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink.
“I want you to imagine it,” she hissed. “Me bent over the kitchen counter while you’re upstairs. My tits against the marble. My legs shaking. Nate behind me ... grabbing my hair. Driving into me over and over until I can’t speak your name anymore.”
Barry was already cumming.
His back arched, hips bucking, cum spilling across his stomach in quick, pulsing ropes, his mouth hanging open in silent awe. He was breathless. Twitching. Ruined.
But Zoe didn’t stop.
She was lost now — possessed. Her orgasm rising like a firestorm under her skin, the dildo buried to the hilt, the wet squelch of her cunt echoing in time with the filthy soundtrack on TV. She adjusted the angle and slammed it deeper, harder, her thighs trembling as she cried out.
“You like watching me get fucked, don’t you?” she gasped. “Like watching my tight little cunt get stretched wide by a cock you could never match?”
Barry nodded, dazed, voice trembling. “Yes ... fuck yes ... it looks so good...”
Zoe’s hand flew faster over her clit, body slick and shining, eyes wild.
“Say it.”
“I like watching you get fucked by a bigger man. A bigger cock!”
Her orgasm hit like a freight train — a full-body seizure of pleasure, her legs locking, her throat releasing a long, guttural moan as her cunt spasmed around the toy. She rode it through the climax, grinding into it, her hands shaking, her mouth repeating his name like a prayer.
“Nate ... Nate ... oh my fucking god...”
She collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, the toy still buried deep inside her, Barry still slumped in the chair, sticky and silent.
And she wasn’t finished yet.
Zoe’s orgasm ebbed in slow, seismic pulses — each aftershock tightening through her belly, her thighs, the base of her spine. Her skin gleamed, sweat and climax mingling across her body like oil and sin. Her chest rose and fell in slow, controlled heaves, each breath dragging through parted lips. She held the dildo loosely in her hand, slick with her release, her scent, her heat — the thick silicone shaft still glistening from where her body had squeezed it, milked it, worshipped it.
She lifted it from between her thighs with reverence, letting it catch the golden lamplight, her breath still shallow. The sound it made as it left her cunt — wet, obscene, final — echoed softly across the room.
Barry hadn’t moved.
He sat slouched in the chair beside the bed, his body loose and spent, cum drying across his stomach, his cock softening in the wreckage of his orgasm. His eyes were wide. Dazed. Utterly transfixed by the woman before him — the wife who had just fucked herself to a screaming climax while imagining another man inside her.
Zoe sat up slowly, her movements feline, composed. She cradled the dildo in one hand and leaned toward Barry with lazy grace, her body still glowing with arousal. Without a word, she reached out — and dragged the soaked, glossy head of the dildo across his cheek.
Barry’s breath caught.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull back.
He just trembled beneath the weight of it — his wife smearing her cum across his face with the same cock he’d handed her moments before. The toy he thought was a prop. A game. A scene. But it had become something else.
Zoe’s voice dropped into a syrupy whisper, honeyed and cruel. “You see that shine?” she murmured, her eyes burning into his. “That’s what it looks like when a real cock makes me cum.”
Barry whimpered.
Not a protest.
Not confusion.
Just helpless, awestruck need.
His face flushed as the humiliation bloomed in his chest — not jagged or cruel, but warm, seductive, and deeply addictive. Zoe could read it in him like scripture: the parting of his lips, the dazed glisten in his eyes, the twitch of his spent cock despite being emptied moments before. He was unraveling. He was owned. And he loved it.
She turned to glance at the TV one last time. The porn had ended, its final shot burned into her mind — the wife on her knees, mouth open, as her husband cleaned the cum-slick cock that had just destroyed her. A wicked glint sparked in Zoe’s eye, something sharp and hungry and deeply amused.
She raised the dildo again — still glistening, still warm from her body — and spread her thighs just slightly, letting him see where it had been. Her voice, when it came, was soft velvet, dark at the edges.
“Crawl to me.”
Barry blinked, like a man waking from a dream. “What—?”
“Come. Here.” Her tone didn’t rise, didn’t shift. Just commanded.
He obeyed.
Still naked. Still slick. Still dazed. He crawled across the carpet to her with slow, trembling hands and knees — not as a husband now, but something else. Something smaller. Eager. Tamed.
Zoe waited, watching him approach, every movement precise and predatory. When he reached the edge of the bed, she lowered the dildo to her inner thigh, dragging the wet head slowly across her skin, letting him see the sheen of her release glistening in the lamplight.
“Look at it,” she said. “Look at how soaked I am. How much I came.”
Barry’s breath trembled.
She leaned forward and tapped the tip against his lips, gently. Like an offering. Like a command.
“I did all of this for you,” she whispered. “The least you can do ... is taste it.”
She pressed again. “Open.”
He hesitated for the barest second. Then parted his lips and took the thick head into his mouth.
Zoe moaned — low and rich, her thighs parting further in lazy satisfaction.
“Mmmm ... there’s my good little husband. Tastes good, doesn’t it?”
Barry’s hum was muffled, a soft, choked moan of compliance, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucked. His eyes fluttered closed, his body swaying slightly with the shame of it — and the ache for more.
Zoe stroked his hair slowly, her fingers curling gently, affectionately. But her voice stayed laced with dark control.
“You look so pretty with that cock in your mouth, sweetheart.”
Barry opened his eyes, unsure. Wondering if she was serious. If they were still playing. But then Zoe winked — slow, knowing, devastating.
She let him work for another beat. Another breath. Until she felt the shift — the crest of power in the room — and then slowly pulled the toy from his lips with a wet, obscene pop. A long, silvery string of spit and slick clung from the head to his chin. His tongue flicked out to chase it, instinctive.
Zoe’s smile turned feral. Her voice dropped again — silk-wrapped steel.
“Good boy.”
She reclined back against the pillows like a queen in court, stretching out slowly, deliberately. Her skin shimmered under the light, flushed and damp, every inch of her reeking of orgasm and ownership. Not his. Hers. Her thighs glistened. Her chest rose and fell. Her cunt still twitched faintly, pulsing with the ghost of a cock far thicker, far heavier, far more real than the toy still cradled at her side.
Barry finally spoke, his voice small, reverent, breathless. “That was ... so hot. You’re so fucking sexy, babe.”
Zoe turned her head, slowly, her eyes still molten with hunger. But it wasn’t lust anymore.
It was transformation.
“Careful, dear,” she said, voice purring and poisonous. “I might start getting used to a bigger, better cock.”
She let the silence wrap around it — let him feel every jagged edge — and then added, sweet and cruel as sugar on a razor:
“You don’t want me turning into a proper size queen ... do you?”
Barry laughed softly — high, shaky, awed. But beneath it, she heard it. The fear. The surrender. The helpless, addictive ache that now lived in him permanently.
Zoe stretched again, arms overhead, her breasts lifting, her torso long and sleek and marked with afterglow. The sheets clung between her thighs. Her skin still flushed. Her cunt still aching.
It was never the fantasy. It was the rehearsal.
And she was done pretending.
She was ready for the real thing.
The house had gone still again, that deep kind of hush that only settles once the lights are off, once the dishes are done, once everyone has stopped pretending. Barry was already asleep — curled toward the far edge of the bed, one hand under the pillow, his breath soft and rhythmic, just shy of a snore. She could still smell herself faintly on his cheek where she’d kissed him goodnight. Not soap. Not perfume. Her. Her sex. Her sweat. A trace of the woman who had moaned another man’s name in her head while taking a cock he could never match.
Zoe lay beside him — still, eyes open, her body long beneath the covers, but nowhere near relaxed. Her limbs were warm. Her pulse was quiet. But her mind was screaming. Her pussy still needy. Her nipples scraped against the inside of her cotton nightshirt, painfully stiff, sensitised from friction and memory. She could feel the sheets clinging faintly between her thighs — a ghost of her slick still there, stubborn, taunting. She’d cleaned up, dutifully. Scrubbed the toy. Rinsed her skin. Even brushed her hair. She looked like a wife again. She’d played the part. But inside?
She was still on her knees. Still spread. Still dripping. Still full.
Every thrust of the dildo still lived in her hips, her pelvis, her fucking throat. Not because of what it was — but because of who she’d imagined. Not silicone. Not pretend.
Nate.
And this time, she hadn’t hidden it. She’d said it out loud.
Said that maybe she was getting used to something bigger. Something better. That she might be turning into a proper size queen. And Barry ... had laughed.
But she wasn’t laughing now.
She was lying there, awake in the dark, skin prickling with residual heat, the aftermath still coiled tight between her ribs. The ache of want hadn’t passed. It had deepened — settled. And now it burned low and deep and undeniable.
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