After the Last Goodbye
by Eric Ross
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Erotica Sex Story: For everyone who cooked the feast, smiled through the small talk, and held it together until the last car pulled away—this one’s for you. This is a story for the hosts who collapse into the quiet after everyone is gone, only to find a different kind of hunger waiting in the kitchen’s wreckage. You know who you are.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Vignettes Cream Pie Oral Sex Petting AI Generated .
The door shut with a tired click. Gravel spat under tires, then silence—thick, disorienting, almost warm.
She kept her hand on the knob, as if the night might rewind itself if she held on long enough. Her fingers felt numb, her jaw jammed, her whole face starched into the shape of someone polite.
He appeared behind her—no footsteps, just cotton easing against itself.
“Hey.”
One soft syllable at the base of her neck.
She opened her mouth. Nothing. Her throat was a hallway with all the doors locked. She felt strangely embarrassed by how little of herself she could locate.
His thumbs found the knots along her spine and pushed—slow, intentional, the way you knead a ball of dough that’s given up on rising. A small animal sound escaped her, ripped from someplace she’d forgotten had a voice.
“I’m wrecked,” she croaked.
“I noticed.”
She turned.
The kitchen light was merciless: plates abandoned like fallen shields, utensils scattered without dignity, a suicidal cranberry hanging halfway off the table.
He looked at her the way you look at a house you actually live in when the last guest leaves—relieved, but fond, ready to admit the walls need TLC.
“You’re doing that vanishing thing.”
“I’m out of nice. Completely bankrupt.”
“Then be bankrupt.”
His mouth found the soft place under her ear—open, hot, unapologetically wanting. Her knees buckled like cheap furniture; she clung to him, suddenly greedy for his weight.
Her fingers went to his buttons. They fought back. One surrendered and pinged off into enemy territory. She tasted the lie of the cabernet he’d choked down for his aunt. Something clattered to the floor—a fork, possibly ending its shift early.
He lifted her onto the table.
Her elbow landed in the cooled skin of gravy; the wood’s cold bite shocked a gasp out of her. The battlefield of dinner looked obscene beneath them—plates, crumbs, wine rings—and she felt the strangest surge of freedom bloom low in her abdomen.
His hand slid up her thigh.
She was already soaked—shamelessly, humiliatingly drenched.
He laughed into her kiss, a soft, astonished sound.
“Christ. You’ve been marinating.”
Heat flooded her face. She buried it in his shoulder, half-laughing at herself, half-hoping the floor might open and swallow the last hour.
Then his mouth was on her.
The world tipped.
Her body snapped awake, shedding its borrowed politeness. She came almost instantly—an ungraceful, convulsive release that lifted her right off the table for a heartbeat. A raw, torn sound burst out of her—too loud, too needy, too honest.
If the in-laws two miles away heard it, good.
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