Her Married Mouth

He knew he shouldn’t answer when she called at 2 a.m.
Her name flashing on his cracked phone screen was a sin by itself — her husband’s friend, his boss’s wife, the woman with the gold ring she never took off, except maybe when her lips were busy with secrets.

He opened the gate for her himself — barefoot, boxers hanging low, half hoping she’d turn back when the streetlight caught her face. She didn’t. She brushed past him like she’d done this before, her perfume staining the stale hallway air.

“Don’t turn on the light,” she whispered, pushing him against the wall before he could find a lie to stop her.

Her mouth tasted like gin and a promise he was too weak to keep. He could feel her wedding band scraping his jaw as her hands cupped his face, demanding more, demanding everything.

He should’ve stopped her. Should’ve told her to go back to the car idling on the street. Should’ve reminded her that he liked his job — that he liked not being dead when her husband found out.

But her mouth was warm and wet and hungry, and his self-control was always weakest where her tongue was strongest.

She pulled him toward the bedroom, her heels clacking soft threats on the tiles. He caught her wrist, tried to speak, but she kissed him again, deeper this time, like she needed him to breathe for her.

On his bed, she straddled him, skirt riding high, thighs soft and dangerous against his hips. She leaned down, whispering filth into his ear like prayers.

“Do you think about me when you’re alone?” she asked. He could barely nod, her nails already dragging lines down his chest.

“Tell me.”

“I do,” he rasped, every word a confession.

“Tell me where,” she teased, her hand slipping inside his boxers, wrapping around the reason he’d never say no.

“Your mouth,” he groaned, head thrown back when she laughed — a soft, wicked sound that made him harder than fear ever could.

She slid down between his legs, gold band glinting under the streetlight leaking through the window. When her lips closed around him, he bit his fist, praying the walls wouldn’t gossip. Her mouth worked him slow, steady — like she had all night, all year, all the lies they’d keep telling.

When he finally came, shuddering, she swallowed him like she’d swallow every secret between them. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, slipped her ring back in place, and kissed his lips like an oath.

No lights. No photos. Just her married mouth — and the truth neither of them would ever speak.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

✍️ "Weak in the Knees"

 He had me against the wall before I could say his name — fingers digging into my hips like he’d paid for the right to bruise me. He kissed me like he was angry, tongue sliding against mine until I gasped — that sound he loved, the one that made his grip tighten. By the time he slid his hand between my thighs, my knees were gone — soft, trembling, useless. I whispered don’t stop but I didn’t need to. He wasn’t going anywhere. He knelt right there, lips on my inner thigh, mouth making promises my body already believed. And when his tongue finally found me — hot, slow, devastating — my back hit the wall and I heard him laugh into my skin. “Weak in the knees for me, baby?” All I could do was moan — and give him everything he’d come for.
Read more

✍️ Somebody’s Shoulder Is About to Give Up

 Somebody’s shoulder is tired. Not from lifting weights — but from carrying everyone else’s silence. She smiles like she’s fine, but she’s tired of being the strong one. The listener. The fixer. The one who holds everyone together — even while she’s falling apart. She answers texts when she’s the one who needs comfort. She claps for others even when no one claps for her. She gives. She bends. But she’s starting to break. You’d never notice. Because she hides it like a pro. But if you look closely, her eyes say: “I need someone to carry me now.” Somebody’s shoulder is about to give up. And the saddest part? She’ll still ask you if you’re okay — while she's quietly drowning.
Read more

I get jealous over someone who isn’t even mine.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. Feeling jealous over someone who hasn’t promised me anything. Someone who owes me nothing. Someone who might not even like me back the way I like them. But here I am — getting irritated when I see their name pop up with someone else, getting quiet when they don’t text back on time, overthinking when they post something that doesn’t include me. I act unbothered. I pretend I’m cool. I respond with “lol” and emojis like my heart isn’t acting stupid. But inside? I’m burning. Not because they’re mine but because I wish they were. I know it’s foolish. I know I have no right. But feelings don’t wait for permission. They attach themselves quietly, softly, and then violently — especially when you try to ignore them. Jealousy without entitlement is the worst kind. Because you suffer silently, pretending you don’t care, while hoping one day they’ll choose you so you can finally stop lying to yourself.
Read more