Chelsea
Copyright© 2020 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 5: The Morning After
True Sex Story: Chapter 5: The Morning After - The Year is 2001. This was a one-night stand. Bob was sowing his wild oats, and she was just one of the many to receive them.
Caution: This True Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual True Story Anal Sex Cream Pie Oral Sex BBW
The first thing Chelsea felt was warmth—deep, enveloping warmth that came from more than just the thin motel comforter pulled over them. It came from the solid chest she was curled against, from the strong arm draped protectively across her waist, from the steady heartbeat under her cheek. She didn’t open her eyes right away. She wanted to stay suspended in this half-dream state where everything that had happened last night was still real and nothing had changed yet.
But the light filtering through the cheap curtains was pale and gray—early morning, maybe just after dawn. The room smelled faintly of sex, lotion, and sandalwood from his skin. The radio had long since clicked off. All she could hear was his breathing, slow and even, and the occasional hum of a truck passing on the highway outside.
She shifted slightly, and immediately felt the ache—her ass tender and hot against the sheets, a deep, delicious reminder of every spank, every moment of surrender. The soreness brought tears pricking at her eyes again, not from pain but from the overwhelming memory of how completely she had let go. And how completely he had held her.
Bob stirred at her movement. His arm tightened reflexively, pulling her closer, as if even in sleep he didn’t want to let her drift too far. She felt his lips brush her hair, a sleepy, unconscious gesture that made her chest ache.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice gravelly and soft. His hand moved slowly up her back, fingers tracing her spine in gentle patterns.
“Morning,” she whispered back, throat tight.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were heavy-lidded with sleep, hair tousled, beard scruffy—but the way he searched her face was wide awake and careful.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. Not casual. Not small talk. A real question.
She took a shaky breath. The tears that had threatened spilled over.
“Like I’m still falling,” she said honestly. “And scared that when I open my eyes wider, the ground will be gone.”
His expression softened in a way that broke her heart a little. He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumb.
“The ground’s still here,” he said quietly. “I’m still here.”
He shifted them carefully so she was on her back and he was propped on one elbow beside her, the comforter pooled at their waists. The cool air kissed her bare skin; his gaze followed it, tender and possessive at once. He traced a fingertip lightly over the faint pink remnants on her breasts and thighs, then down to the curve where hip met belly.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, voice low.
“A little,” she admitted. “But the good kind. The kind that makes me remember I was brave.”
He leaned down and pressed the softest kiss to the tender skin of her ass, then another, and another—slow, reverent presses of lips that felt like worship. When he looked up again, his own eyes were glassy.
“You were more than brave,” he said. “You were ... everything.”
Silence settled, full and comfortable. Outside, a bird called. Inside, they just breathed together.
Eventually he asked, “Do you need anything? Water? Pain reliever? More lotion?”
She shook her head. “Just this. Just you holding me.”
He pulled her back into his chest without hesitation, tucking her head under his chin, one hand splayed warmly across her sore bottom—not sexual, just connecting, grounding.
They stayed like that for a long time.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was small.