RoastedBeans

she didnt negotiate with it she was done negotiating she pulled the sheet down and got herself arranged face down hips up and reached for the bottle in the dark without turning the light on and left it on the sheet where hed find it

this is what i want

not her pussy not the expected offer this hunger that lived in her below the part of her that had a name and a job and a face for other people

he stirred and his hand came down flat on her lower back and she felt it move lower and stop

he understood

he used his fingers slow and she pressed back into it and made a sound that came from somewhere without a return address a sound that belonged to no version of her that anyone else knew and she didnt swallow it she let it come

more she said

and he gave more and she pushed back onto his fingers taking them deeper needing the weight of being opened there being known there in the place that required trust to access and she had given him that trust years ago and he had never wasted it

when he got his cock against her ass and pressed in slow she exhaled completely

every bit of air

gone

she gripped the pillow and went still and felt herself stretch around him the fullness of his cock seated deep in her ass the slight wrongness that was the most right she knew how to ask for and she had asked and he was here and this was it

this was the hunger she carried through every ordinary hour of every ordinary day

he stayed still inside her waiting and she felt his hand flat on her lower back holding her exactly where she was and she thought: yes. there. dont move yet just stay

then she pushed back

and he moved

and she took all of it and asked for more with her hips and he gave it without making her say it twice because he knew her he actually knew her and that was the other half of what this was

she came hard into the pillow her whole body clenching around his cock her hands destroying the pillowcase and a sound coming out of her that was beyond embarrassment beyond performance beyond the edited version of herself she handed to the world

just her

just this

he followed and collapsed against her back and they lay breathing in the dark and she could still feel the deep ache of him and she pressed back into it and held it

dont move she said

he didnt

outside the world was doing whatever it did at three in the morning

in here there was just his weight and her breath and the slow return to the surface from wherever shed been

she thought: i asked for what i wanted and i got it

she thought: that should always be this simple

it wasnt always this simple

Not strangers in bars. Not Instagram thirst traps. Real people. I fuck...

Like her.

Garden center. Saturday mid-morning. She's in worn baggy shorts and an old tank top, the kind with paint stains and one fraying strap. Her sports bra flattens more than it lifts, but it doesn't matter. Her figure still shows through.

Not because she's showing off. Because she can't help it.

Everything about her says busy. She's not here to browse. She's on a mission. Loading plants, dragging soil, probably building something in her head while she moves.

And that body?

Yeah, she probably hits yoga a couple times a week. Maybe the gym. But even if she didn't, she's built from motion. From hauling bags of mulch and rearranging patio furniture and lugging groceries in one trip because she refuses to go back to the car.

She's strong because she lives that way. You can see it in her shoulders when she lifts, in the line of her back when she turns the cart.

And I watch her. Not like a creep, not to undress her. To imagine what it feels like to be near someone that sure of themselves. That real.

I wonder how her skin tastes when it's sun-warmed and salty. I wonder what sound she makes when she exhales, stretched out and spent after a long day. I wonder if she talks while she fucks, or if she just grips tight and lets her body speak.

And then I think. Fuck. It can't just be me.

Do we all do this? Do we all fuck each other in our heads? Quietly. Respectfully. In line at the hardware store, in the elevator, at the dog park.

Does she? Is she two carts back wondering about the guy who keeps watching her load soil in the Saturday heat? Does she slow down just enough to find out?

That guy with the calloused hands and the faded wedding ring. He's probably imagined bending someone over the bed of his truck. The woman at the café counter in bike shorts and a hoodie. She's probably wondered what it'd feel like to let someone push her up against the door before she even sets the coffee down. The barista. The neighbor. The woman from yoga. You. Me. All of us.

Walking around with full shopping lists and hard-ons no one knows about. Fucking each other silently in our minds.

Not out of loneliness. Not even out of desperation.

Just because it's human. Because something about watching someone exist in their own little world, focused, unaware, alive, is the filthiest, most beautiful thing imaginable.

And sometimes I think she knows. That when she looked back once, just to check, and found me still there, something passed between us that neither of us will ever say out loud.

-🍒