Prison Daddy
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 7: The Fallout
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 7: The Fallout - Rafael raped his sister Carmen. Esme is their daughter—a child of incest. For fifteen years, Carmen stays silent, believing it will protect her. Rosa believes her imprisoned son deserves family. She arranges the connection. Carmen tried to shield Esme by telling her nothing. Rosa filled the silence with access to Rafael. Rafael filled Esme's void with stories. And Esme filled her womb with his children.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Heterosexual Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Pregnancy Voyeurism Size AI Generated
The bus smelled like old vinyl and other people’s perfume and something underneath—stale sweat and recycled air.
I sat by the window. Abuela beside me. Her rosary beads working through her fingers, one at a time. Her lips moving silently.
She hadn’t looked at me once since we boarded.
Not that she could see me. But I’d gotten used to the way she oriented toward me when we talked. The way her face turned in my direction even though her eyes saw nothing.
Now she faced forward. Toward the seat back. Her hands working the beads. Praying.
Outside, the landscape blurred. Trees. Highway. Exit signs I didn’t read.
My jeans rubbed against my inner thighs with every shift. The denim stiff in places. Rough. Catching on skin.
I could smell it faintly even under the perfume and vinyl and exhaust. Something sour-sweet. Organic. Bleach-like mixed with something musky.
Him.
Still on me.
Between my legs, the dampness continued. The panty liner—the last one from the pack Abuela had brought—had soaked through somewhere around hour two. Now the wetness pressed directly against my underwear. Against the seam of my jeans. Cold and tacky against my skin.
I didn’t move. Didn’t adjust. Just sat there feeling it slowly spread.
The tattoo burned. Not sharp pain anymore. Just a constant sting. The fabric of my underwear rubbing against the swollen tissue with every breath. Every shift. Every bump in the road.
R and E.
I could feel them without looking. The raised skin. The heat. The ache.
Permanent.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I didn’t check it.
Knew who it was.
The woman across the aisle was doing a crossword puzzle. Pencil tapping against her teeth. Normal. Focused.
Normal person. Normal Sunday. Normal life.
Not sitting on a bus with her uncle’s cum soaking through her underwear.
Not marked. Not changed. Not—
The bus hit a pothole. My body jolted. Something shifted deep inside. Released.
More warmth flooded out.
Sudden. Thick.
I pressed my thighs together. Felt it coat my inner labia. Seep into the already-saturated fabric. The wetness spreading toward the outer seam of my jeans now.
His cum.
Still coming out.
Still leaving me.
How much had he put inside?
Saturday evening. Before the tattoo. He’d finished inside me. Pushed deep. Held it there.
Then again. One more time before Abuela came back from the chapel.
All of it trapped inside. Deep. In places gravity couldn’t reach until I stood. Until I sat. Until it slowly made its way down.
My stomach turned.
I pressed my hand against my mouth. Swallowed hard.
The nausea passed but left a sour taste.
Abuela’s beads kept clicking. Her prayers a constant whisper beside me.
Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia...
Praying for what?
Forgiveness?
Or that no one would find out what she’d let happen?
The bus pulled into the station at 3:47 PM.
People stood. Grabbed bags from the overhead compartments. Stretched. Talked. Laughed.
I stayed in my seat until almost everyone had filed off.
My legs felt stiff. Heavy. The wetness between them had cooled. Tacky now. The jeans sticking slightly to my inner thighs.
Abuela stood slowly. Gathered her purse. Her small bag. Her cane.
“I need to stop at the bodega,” she said. Not turning toward me. Her voice flat. Empty. “Get things for dinner.”
“I’ll just go home.”
She nodded. Used her cane to navigate down the aisle. Tapping. Counting steps under her breath. The bodega was only two blocks from the apartment. She knew the route by heart. Had been walking it for thirty years.
I watched her go. Watched her back disappear into the crowd at the front of the bus.
Then I stood.
Grabbed my overnight bag.
Each step made me aware of it. The dampness. The stiffness spreading down my inner thighs. The way my legs stuck together slightly when I moved.
Outside, the air was hot. Thick. Late afternoon sun beating down. The smell of exhaust and hotdogs from a cart and garbage baking in steel bins.
I turned toward home. Started walking.
Three blocks. Then up three flights of stairs.
Each step making the wetness shift. Making my jeans rub. Making the tattoo sting with the friction.
By the second flight, I could feel sweat mixing with everything else. The heat making it worse. Making me more aware of the smell rising from my own body.
I unlocked the apartment door. Stepped inside.
Empty. Mom at work.
Silence.
I dropped my bag by the door. Walked straight to the bathroom.
Locked the door even though no one was home.
Stood there for a moment. Just breathing.
The mirror showed me. Same face. Same eyes. Same dark hair falling around my shoulders.
But the girl looking back felt like a stranger.
I unbuttoned my jeans. Unzipped them slowly. Peeled them down my thighs.
They caught. The inner thighs stiff where the fabric had absorbed the wetness. Stuck to my skin.
I had to work them down. Pull. Peel the denim away from my legs.
When they finally came off, I held them up.
Turned them inside out.
The inner thighs were streaked. Yellow-white. Crusty in some places where it had dried. Still damp in others. The stains spread from the crotch down both legs. Maybe six inches on each side. Maybe more.
I could see the texture. Thick. Dried into the weave of the denim. The pale streaks stark against the blue fabric.
I dropped them on the floor.
Looked at my underwear.
The panty liner was destroyed. Translucent. Completely saturated. The white fabric turned clear in the center where the wetness had soaked through completely.
And the underwear beneath—the light blue cotton—soaked through. A spreading stain across the entire crotch. Darkening the fabric to navy. Almost black in the center.
I could smell it now. Strong. Sour-sweet. Bleach and something else underneath. Something organic. Musky.
That’s what cum smelled like after hours in your underwear.
After leaking out slowly all morning.
After mixing with your own wetness and sweat and heat.
I peeled everything off. The fabric sticking slightly before releasing.
Sat on the toilet.
Immediately felt the release.
My body just—gave it up.
Thick warmth sliding out. I didn’t have to push. Didn’t have to do anything. Just sat there and felt it pour out of me.
I looked down.
White ropes dripping into the water. Some thick and gel-like. Clinging to my inner labia before finally dropping. Some more liquid. Thinner. Mixing with the water immediately.
It kept coming.
The water turned cloudy. Milky white.
I just sat there. Watching it. Watching my body expel what he’d left inside me.
How was there still so much?
Saturday evening. Before the tattoo. He’d finished inside me. Then stayed there. Holding it in.
Then pulled out. Made me clean up.
Then did it again. One more time. “For good measure,” he’d said.
All of it pushed deep. Some of it still trapped inside. In pockets my fingers couldn’t reach. Places gravity worked slowly.
Until now.
I reached for toilet paper. Wiped.
The paper came away streaked. White and clear. Thick. Viscous.
I wiped again. More.
Again. Still not clean.
Again.
The roll was half gone by the time the paper came away mostly clear. Just faint streaks. Translucent.
I stood. Looked at the toilet bowl.
Cloudy white. Thick globs at the bottom where it hadn’t mixed completely. Floating in the water like—
I flushed. Watched it swirl away.
Turned on the shower. Hot as it would go.
Stepped in before the water fully warmed.
Cold spray hit my face. My hair. My shoulders.
It heated up. Steam filled the small bathroom.
And that’s when I felt it.
The tattoo.
The hot water hitting the swollen tissue. Stinging. Burning.
I looked down.
Had to spread my legs slightly to see.
There. On my inner labia. Red. Swollen. Angry.
R on the right.
E on the left.
Black ink stark against pink flesh. The skin around the letters raised. Hot. Tender.
I touched it gently. Just one finger. Barely pressing.
Pain shot through me.
I pulled my hand back.
His mark.
Permanent.
I spread myself slightly with one hand. Looked at what he’d done.
The letters were small. Maybe half an inch tall. Crude. The lines uneven in places where the homemade gun had stuttered.
But readable.
Undeniable.
R and E.
When my labia were closed—when I was just standing or walking—the letters would touch. Together.
But when I spread myself. Or when someone else spread me. When he was inside me—
They’d separate.
Pull apart.
I let go. Let my hand drop.
My inner lips protruded now. Visible even without spreading. Dark pink. Swollen. They’d been tucked inside before. Hidden.
Now they hung down slightly. Changed.
And the opening itself had a slight gap. Not closed completely anymore.
I grabbed the soap. Lathered my hands.
Washed between my legs. Scrubbed carefully around the tattoo.
The soap stung. Everything was sensitive. Raw.
But I kept washing. Trying to get clean. Trying to wash him away.
The water started running cold.
I turned it off. Stepped out.
Grabbed a towel. Dried carefully. Patting instead of rubbing.
The towel came away with faint streaks. White. Translucent.
Still leaking.
Even after everything that had poured out.
I wrapped the towel around myself. Stood at the sink.
Looked in the mirror.
Steam still fogging the edges.
Same face. Same brown eyes.
But my neck had faint marks. Red. Small. Scattered along one side.
From his mouth.
I touched one. Pressed slightly.
Winced.
Still tender.
I left the bathroom. Went to my room.
Pulled on fresh underwear. It felt strange. Too tight. The elastic pressing against swollen tissue. Against the tattoo.
I adjusted it. Tried to find a position that didn’t sting.
Couldn’t.
Soft pajama pants. Old t-shirt. Loose. Comfortable.
Sat on my bed.
Between my legs, I felt another trickle. Warm. Soaking into the fresh fabric already.
My hand pressed against my lower stomach.
Flat. Normal.
But inside—
He’d said it Saturday evening. Right before putting my legs on his shoulders. Before pushing deeper than he’d ever been.
“Your body might be fertile right now. Middle of the month, right? That’s usually when it happens.”
He’d been guessing. Or had he?
Had Abuela told him when my last period was?
The thought made my hands go cold.
I lay back. Stared at the ceiling.
At that water stain I’d memorized years ago. The one that looked like a bird if you tilted your head right.
My body felt foreign. Heavy. Like it belonged to someone else now.
Changed.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I reached for it. Unlocked it.
Seven missed calls. All from the number saved as “Maya (school).”
Rafael.
And texts. So many texts.
Rafael: Are you on the bus?
Rafael: Text me when you get this
Rafael: Esme?
Rafael: I’m starting to worry
Rafael: Please just let me know you got home safe
Rafael: Baby, please
Rafael: I miss you already
I stared at the screen.
Baby.
He’d called me that in the trailer too. When he was inside me. When his hands were gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of it.”
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
I shouldn’t respond. Should block him. Delete everything.
But I typed anyway.
Me: yeah
The response came immediately.
Rafael: Thank God. You had me worried.
Rafael: How are you feeling?
Destroyed. Changed. Terrified. Marked. Used. Confused.
Me: tired
Rafael: I miss you already. This weekend was perfect. You were perfect.
Perfect.
The word glowed on the screen.
I didn’t know how to respond to that.
Rafael: Are you okay? You seem distant.
Me: just tired. need to sleep
Rafael: Okay. Rest. But Esme?
Me: what
Rafael: I love you. I hope you know that. Everything we did—it was because I love you. Because you’re special. Because we’re connected in a way most people will never understand.
I stared at the words.
Love.
Was that what love felt like?
Rafael: Don’t let anyone make you doubt that. What we have is real.
I turned off my phone. Put it face-down on the nightstand.
Pulled my knees to my chest.
Between my legs, another slow leak. Warm. Thick.
Still leaving me.
Still marking the fresh underwear.
Still his.
I stayed in my room until I smelled food.
Arroz con pollo. Abuela’s cooking.
The smell made my stomach turn slightly but I couldn’t hide in here forever.
I pulled on jeans. Clean ones. The denim felt rough against my inner thighs. Against the swollen tissue. Against the tattoo.
Each step toward the kitchen made me aware of it. The slight gape. The way I could feel air reaching places it shouldn’t. The sting when fabric shifted.
Abuela was at the stove. Stirring rice. Her movements mechanical. Automatic.
Her back to me.
She didn’t turn when I entered. Didn’t acknowledge me at all.
Just kept stirring. The wooden spoon scraping against the pot. Rhythmic. Constant.
“Set the table, mija,” she said finally. Her voice flat. Empty.
I pulled plates from the cabinet. Three of them.
My hands were shaking slightly.
The plates rattled when I set them down.
Abuela’s spoon kept scraping. She still hadn’t turned around.
Neither of us spoke.
The silence was heavy. Suffocating.
Keys rattled in the door.
Mom.
“God, it smells amazing in here.” Her voice bright. Tired but trying. “Mami, you’re a saint. I’m starving.”
She appeared in the kitchen doorway. Still in her scrubs—blue with cartoon teddy bears. Hair falling out of her ponytail. Mascara smudged under one eye. A coffee stain on her chest.
Twelve-hour shift written all over her.
But when she saw the table set, she smiled.
“Perfect timing.” She crossed to Abuela. Kissed her cheek. Then came to me. Kissed my forehead. Her lips warm. “How are my girls?”
“Bien,” Abuela said. Not turning from the stove.
“Fine,” I echoed.
Mom washed her hands at the sink. Dried them. Sat down at the table.
Started serving herself. Rice. Chicken. Beans.
“I don’t want to talk about work,” she said. Cutting into her chicken. “I want to hear about the retreat.”
She looked at me. Expectant. Smiling.
Genuinely interested.
“How was it? Tell me everything.”
“It was fine.”
“Fine?” She took a bite. Chewed. “That’s all I get? You were gone three whole days. What did you guys do?”
I picked up my fork. Pushed rice around my plate.
Couldn’t look at her.
“Just church stuff. Worship. Bible study.”
“What was the Bible study about?”
The question was casual. Innocent.
But it landed wrong. Too specific.
I tried to remember what retreats actually did. What Bible studies covered.
“Um. Different things. Faith. Trusting God. Prayer.”
Mom’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “That’s pretty vague.”
I took a bite. Chewed. The food tasted like nothing. Like cardboard.
“Were there a lot of kids?” Mom asked.
“Maybe twenty.”
“And where did you sleep?”
The question was innocent.
But my face burned anyway.
Because I could feel the bed. The sheets. His weight pressing me into the mattress. His body curved behind mine. His cock still inside me while I tried to sleep.
“The basement,” I said. My voice coming out too quick. “Sleeping bags on the floor.”
The lie smooth. Practiced.
Mom took another bite. “That doesn’t sound very comfortable.”
“It was okay.”
She turned to Abuela. “Was it organized well? The church ran it?”
“Sí,” Abuela said. Her voice careful. Measured. “Very organized.”
She finally brought the pot to the table. Sat down. Served herself. Her hands shaking slightly as she navigated by memory and sound.
“Good.” Mom turned back to me. Started cutting another piece of chicken. “So? Did you make friends? Talk to anyone?”
“A few people. Just small talk.”
“Any boys?”
She was grinning now. Teasing. Eyes bright with curiosity and motherly interest.
My face went hot.
“Mom.”
“What? You’re fifteen. It’s normal to notice boys.” She pointed her fork at me. Playful. “I remember my first retreat. There was this boy, Miguel. We held hands during the prayer circle and I thought I was going to die from excitement.”
Abuela’s fork scraped against her plate. Loud. Sharp.
A warning.
But Mom didn’t notice.
“Did you hold hands with anyone?” she asked.
I thought about his hand guiding mine down his stomach. Lower. Lower. My fingers wrapping around him. The heat of it. The thickness. The way he’d groaned when I squeezed.
“Show me how you want it.”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Really?” Mom was smiling. Almost disappointed. “No cute boys at all?”
“I didn’t really pay attention.”
“Esme.” Mom laughed. Set down her fork. Leaned forward. “You’re a terrible liar. You’re blushing.”
I could feel it. My face burning. My neck hot.
“I’m not—”
“You are. There was someone.” Her eyes lit up. “What was his name? Was he cute?”
“There wasn’t anyone, Mom.”
“Then why are you blushing?”
“I’m not—can we talk about something else?”
“Oh my God, there was definitely someone.” She looked at Abuela. Grinning. Excited. “Mami, did you see—” She stopped herself. Laughed. “I mean, did you notice if Esme talked to any boys?”
Abuela set down her fork. Slowly. Deliberately.
Her face oriented toward me. Not quite looking at me. But in my direction.
Guilt written in every line.
“There were boys at the retreat,” she said. Her voice careful. Each word chosen. “Esme is a pretty girl. I’m sure some noticed her.”
“See?” Mom pointed at me again. Fork waving. “So? What happened? Did you talk? Did you exchange numbers?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Did you dance? There was dancing, right? There’s always dancing at these things.”
I thought about straddling him. His hands gripping my hips. Bruising hard. Guiding the rhythm. Showing me how to move.
“Lift up. Drop down. That’s it. Use me.”
The wet sounds. The slap of skin. My breasts bouncing. His eyes locked on them.
“There was dancing. Saturday.”
“And?” Mom was leaning forward now. Fully invested. “Did you dance with anyone?”
“Just—a little. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“With the boy?”
“What boy?”
“The one you’re blushing about.”
“Mom, I’m not—”
“Did he try to kiss you?”
I thought about his tongue forcing past my lips. His fist in my hair. Holding me there. Controlling the kiss. The taste of him. Coffee and something else. Something male.
The way he’d pulled back. Looked at me. Smiled.
“You taste so good.”
“No. We just talked. That’s it.”
Mom sat back. Visibly disappointed. “Well. Maybe next time.” She picked up her fork again. “You’re still young. No rush.”
“Sí,” Abuela said quietly. Staring at her plate. “Plenty of time.”
The way she said it made my stomach turn.
Like she knew there would be a next time.
Like she knew this wasn’t over.
Mom took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Reached for her water.
“I’m really glad you went,” she said. Her voice soft now. Sincere. “Being part of a church community—it’s important. Especially now.”
“Why especially now?”
“Because you’re at that age. Becoming a young woman.” She reached across the table. Squeezed my hand. Her palm warm. Callused from work. “And I’m so grateful Abuela was there with you. Knowing Mami was with you the whole time—that makes me feel so much better.”
I looked at Abuela.
She was still staring at her plate. Fork in hand. Not moving.
Not eating.
The woman who’d packed panty liners in my bag. Who’d unpacked them and put them in the trailer bathroom cabinet without a word.
Who’d stood outside that bedroom door listening to the bed creak. Listening to me cry out. Listening to him groan.
Who’d left the trailer Saturday evening to go to the chapel. Leaving us alone. Knowing exactly what would happen.
“What did you think, Mami?” Mom asked. “Good for Esme to experience?”
Abuela was quiet for a long moment.
Her fingers gripped her fork. Knuckles white.
Then: “It was good for her to spend time with family.” Her voice measured. Deliberate. “To understand what it means to support each other.”
The words landed heavy.
Support.
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or throw my plate against the wall.
“Exactly,” Mom said. Smiling. Oblivious. “Family is everything. We take care of each other. Always.”
I pushed my plate away. “I’m not hungry.”
Mom’s smile faded. “You barely touched your food.”
“Just tired. From the retreat.”
She studied my face. Eyes narrowing slightly. Assessing. Nurse mode activating.
“You okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine. Just want to sleep.”
“You’re sure? You don’t feel sick?”
“No. Just tired.”
She hesitated. Still studying me. Then nodded. “Okay. Go rest.”
I stood. Chair scraping against linoleum.
Loud in the sudden silence.
“Esme?”
I stopped. Turned.
Mom was smiling again. Soft. Tender. Eyes warm.
“I’m really proud of you. You’re growing up.” She tilted her head. “My baby’s not a baby anymore.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
Not a baby anymore.
I could still feel him deep inside. Could feel the slow leak even now. Could feel the tattoo burning between my legs.
She had no idea how grown up I’d become.
How much I’d changed in three days.
“And thank you, Mami,” Mom said to Abuela. “For taking her. I know traveling isn’t easy for you. But I’m so grateful. Really.”
“No es nada,” Abuela said. Her voice hollow. “Anything for family.”
I left before either of them could see my face.
Before the tears came.
Before I said something I couldn’t take back.
In my room, I closed the door. Leaned against it.
Heard them talking through the wall. The voices muffled but clear enough.
Mom: “She seems different. Quiet.”
Abuela: “She’s just tired. It was a long weekend.”
Mom: “Something feels off. She barely ate.”
Pause.
Abuela: “She’s fifteen, Carmen. Everything feels like the end of the world at fifteen.”
Mom’s laugh. Soft. Accepting.
“You’re right. I’m probably just being paranoid. Too many years in the ER seeing the worst.”
I slid down the door. Sat on the floor.
Pressed my hands over my face.
She didn’t know.
Had no idea.
Trusted that I’d been at a church retreat. That Abuela had protected me.
That her baby was still her baby.
Innocent. Untouched. Safe.
Week One
Monday
I woke to my alarm.
Body stiff. Sore in places that had no names.
Between my legs felt swollen still. Tender. The tattoo a constant low sting.
The leaking had mostly stopped. Just clear discharge now. Maybe slightly more than usual. But not the thick white ropes from yesterday.
I got dressed slowly. Jeans. Hoodie. Grabbed my backpack.
The apartment was empty. Mom already gone. Early shift.
Abuela’s door closed.
I left without breakfast.
The subway was crowded. Monday morning rush. Bodies pressed together. The smell of coffee and cologne and morning breath.
I held the pole. Stared at the floor. At feet. At nothing.
At school, everything looked the same.
Same brick building. Same chain-link fence. Same crowd of students hanging outside smoking and vaping where teachers couldn’t see.
Same hallways. Same lockers. Same fluorescent lights flickering.
But I was different.
Did I walk different?
Move different?
Could they tell just by looking?
I kept my eyes down. Moved through the crowd.
Someone bumped my shoulder. Hard.
I flinched. Whole body jerking away.
The movement making the tattoo sting. Making awareness flood between my legs.
They didn’t notice. Just kept walking. Laughing with their friends.
At my locker, I fumbled with the combination. Hands shaking.
Dropped my lock. Had to pick it up. Try again.
“Hey!”
Maya’s voice.
I turned.
She was smiling. Bright yellow backpack slung over one shoulder. Hair in a high ponytail with a scrunchie. Mascara perfect.
Normal. Happy. Unchanged.
“How was it? The retreat?”
“It was okay.”
“Just okay?” She leaned against the locker next to mine. “Come on. Give me details. Was it boring? Fun? Meet anyone cool?”
“Just boring stuff.”
Her smile faded slightly. “You okay? You look really pale.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You sure? You look like you haven’t slept.”
The bell rang.
Loud. Shrill. Cutting through the hallway noise.
“Yeah. I’m fine. I’ll see you at lunch?”
“Yeah. Definitely.” She squeezed my arm. “We need to catch up. I missed you.”
She walked away.
I watched her go. Watched her join a group of girls by the water fountain. Watched them laugh about something.
Normal. Easy. Light.
I didn’t feel light.
I felt heavy. Weighed down. Like I was carrying something no one else could see.
First period: English.
I sat in the back. Pulled out my notebook. Stared at the blank page.
Ms. Chen was talking. Something about symbolism. About The Scarlet Letter. About how Hester’s A marked her forever. How everyone who looked at her knew what she’d done.
I shifted in my seat.
The tattoo stung with the movement.
R and E.
My own mark. Hidden where no one could see.
But I knew it was there.
And he knew.
The bell rang.
I gathered my things. Moved to the next class.
History. Mr. Walsh talking about World War II. About invasion. About occupation.
About how some people collaborated with the enemy. How they justified it to themselves.
I heard none of it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. Under the desk. Angled away from Mr. Walsh.
Rafael: Good morning, beautiful. I hope you slept well.
My chest tightened.
Rafael: I couldn’t stop thinking about you last night. About how you felt. How you looked. How perfect we are together.
I glanced at Mr. Walsh. Still writing on the board.
Rafael: Are you at school right now?
How did he know?
Then I remembered. Those first visits. When I’d told him everything. My schedule. My classes. What time school started.
When I’d thought he was just being interested. Caring.
Me: yeah
Rafael: I bet you’re sitting in class right now. Trying to focus. But thinking about me instead.
My face burned.
Rafael: Are you?
I shouldn’t respond. Should put my phone away.
But my thumbs moved.
Me: sometimes
Rafael: What are you thinking about?
I could lie. Should lie.
Me: the weekend
Rafael: Me too. I can’t stop thinking about you. About how tight you were. How you bled for me. How you took everything I gave you.
My breath caught.
Someone coughed behind me. I jumped. Locked my phone. Shoved it in my pocket.
Looked up.
Mr. Walsh was still at the board. No one looking at me.
But my heart was racing. Face burning. Between my legs, a pulse of heat.
The phone buzzed again.
I didn’t check it until after class.
Rafael: I miss you so much it hurts. Physical pain. Like part of me is missing.
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