I'm honestly still going over in my head what happened. I'm a little shocked and admittedly still in a haze over this. I felt a rush, initially, to get my feelings down so I wouldn't forget, but now I'm feeling a little shy about sharing as I haven't fully processed everything. It didn't feel like me. But it definitely was me. There definitely isn't any regret, but I'm also still a little confused, maybe? I'm still trying to put words around it like a classic over thinker.

That night, though, there wasn't much preamble to speak of.

We were at his going away party, both tipsy after indulging in champagne after an intense workout. And then we were on the street, loud and raucous. And then a moment passed between us. The moment felt like a surging wave against a buckling dam. A month's worth of tension. A month's worth of supposed antagonism. Butterflies in my stomach. And then the dam broke.

I fucking hated this guy. I fucking loathed him and how he made me feel about myself. And then we were kissing in an alley. Then at his door. And then in his apartment, filled with moving boxes.

Kissing is a charitable description. His mouth devoured mine. I've never felt so physically inconsequential standing in someone's presence. He loomed over me. From where I usually sweat in our class, I never really noticed how solid he was. How large. How every part of his body felt like steel cables. I'm not a small girl. 5'8" in heels. And I felt like Faye Wray being grasped by King Kong.

And I was so turned on. Lovemaking has always held an ethereal, soft place in my life. It was something done by two-people in love. All gauzy, sweet expressions of mutual love and respect. This was hungry. Animalistic. This was Irish Lad, but as a sport, a workout, a fucking competition. And it filled me with newfound clarity . . . a sense of self that was in the moment and nothing beyond. I wanted to fuck this Jackass Gymbro so badly, I was sopping wet in anticipation.

He made short work of his shirt. Weird details flit back into my memory. His broad and muscled chest was hairless. The Twit, The Ex had hairy chests that felt like thin blankets. When I put my hands on Gymbro's chest, it felt like a brick wall. Solid. Immovable.

And then my tank top was ripped up and his mouth devoured my nipple. He sucked on one while his other muscular hand kneaded the other, just having his way with it. Pinching, mauling, squeezing it like I was his plaything. Even now, as a recollection, I remembered feeling like a passenger in this. That my agency wasn't exactly my own, even though I wanted this. His mouth on my breasts. The hunger he was exhibiting, the steely joy he was displaying, just made me weak, made me even more turned on. I don't want to say that I felt helpless, but his size, his strength, his need wasn't going to be stopped. I was bent over backwards as his mouth enveloped my breast, devouring it as if he was starving. I was flattered. I felt loved, even though we most definitely were not in love. I felt desired. I was so fucking turned on, I was going to let him do anything to me as long as it was more of this and as long as he approached it with the same gusto.

And his voice. His deep gravelly voice, literally like Vin Diesel on steroids, telling me bluntly what he wanted to do to me. Telling me he how badly he wanted to fuck me. How badly he wanted to fill me with his cock. He was no Baudelaire, but my face burns red even now at the thought of his words. The stark, direct filthy things he was saying . . . were so raw, visceral. They were demands, not suggestions. And it fucked with my mind . . . I wanted him to do these things to me. It aroused me to no end that he wanted me that badly. Up until recently, I thought he hated me. Loathed me. Worse yet, didn't even know I existed. I've never been talked to like that before . . . it was definitely a vibe.

I couldn't bring myself to talk back though. It was . . . awkward. I couldn't form the words, perhaps because my wires were so crossed up. This sort of passion was too new to me so new neural pathways were forming. And honestly, I was too overwhelmed by what was happening to me. What was being done to me.

His fingers snaked into my leggings, entering me roughly, possessively and if it were possible I remember blushing even deeper. Jackass Gymbro had just discovered how wet I was for this. How much I wanted this. I moaned in disappointment when he pulled his fingers out to show me my own wetness. His fucking smirk speaking volumes about his little victory. I fucking hated him. HATED. HIM.

But I wanted him to fuck me now.

And then my mind did absolute somersaults when he picked me up. Like I was nothing. Like I was one of his barbells. I was lifted like I was nothing and dropped on his bed, and he quite literally had his way with me. I remember squealing when I hit the bed, but then he was on me. On top of me. Pushing my legs apart with ease. I've never felt so small with a man before and it scared me a little. He was too strong. His grip on me . . . his hands holding me down . . . his weight on my body . . . his body just enveloped me. Make no mistake, I was not fighting for him to stop, but I wanted to regain some sort of control. Regain some semblance of . . . . dignity? It felt like I should be an equal participant. Like I owed it to all women to be more equal in this. A partner. Like we should be dancing a symbiotic dance together. But we weren't. And then I felt his the head of his cock brush up against my wet pussy, just enough to push me open slightly and all was lost after that. I pleaded for him to fuck me and like the jackass that he was he asked me to repeat myself. I groaned with frustration and tried in vain to reach for his cock to no avail. Every urge in me to just get up and leave was simply overwhelmed by how much I wanted him inside me. So I begged him to fuck me.

And he did.

I was momentarily stunned silent when he pushed his cock into me with one quick thrust. His cock wasn't any bigger than I had before (all three of them now), but it was the whole package. I fell almost into a trance, reveling in the sweet friction . . . like I didn't need to do anything but just take it and let the pleasure swallow me. Accept his thrusting. His constant thrusting. It hurt when he entered me initially, but when I took the length of him . . . not just the tip of his cock . . . I felt full. Complete. And I just took it. As his cock, his enormous form, his strong hands just . . . HAD me. All I could do was moan, then scream, then just grunt, then just whimper.

Then over the course of the evening, he basically threw me around the bed. He moved me into whatever position he wanted me in. I've never been fucked like that before. Every part of his body that I touched felt so . . . Solid. Not even real. Like he was a solid metal robot. His arms were like iron bars. His hands were thick and strong. His hands, his arms . . . he just grabbed me and held me where he wanted me to be. He spread my legs wide as if I was a gymnast (which I am NOT), my legs straining, my muscles pulling. I remember the feeling of his chest, sweaty, so well defined, like I was pushing against a wall, slick, but unyielding. And me being unable to do anything but match his thrusts with my hips.

Then my legs were over his shoulders. Then he raised me up on my shoulders pinning me down with every thrust. I could do nothing, but take it. I was just a doll for his pleasure and it made me so fucking hot. And then I was on my side with just one leg over his shoulder. And then I was on all fours, feeling his hips beat a pattern on my back side. The slap slap slap of fucking, my moans and his primal grunts danced together in my ears. And then I was on my stomach, feeling his full weight on me, our sweat mingling. He was in me so deep, as he straddled my thighs and thrust into me. Again, I was helpless under his weight, but I had lost count how many times I had cum. I loved something about this position, feeling just enveloped by his bulk, like I was only there only for his pleasure. I felt so overwhelmed by his passion, I wanted to give it back, I wanted to please him so much, and if he wanted me a certain way, I'd be in that way to help him get off. It felt odd, but it felt right at the same time. It really turned me on that he wanted me so badly and I just wanted to help him. I wanted to do anything to facilitate his pleasure. All I could do was raise my ass up and hunch along with his thrusts as he drilled me into the bed. I felt his sweat dripping onto my back as my face wrapped into his blankets, muffling my own grunts and my hands grasping at the sheets as if gripping them for dear life would extend the pleasure that was exploding inside me. I could hear my own voice . . . almost hoarse from the sounds I was making.

This was nothing like sex with The Ex. The Twit. Or even Irish Lad. This was FUCKING. Raw, carnal. And I was just a passenger. Honestly, it felt so good to just shut off. To fall into a puddle of wetness. To let the pleasure of his full scale assault on my senses envelope me. To just lay back and TAKE IT. To not have to think about him. To not have to think about what my next move was going to be. To not have to think what he was thinking of me. He obviously wanted me. He was fucking me silly. It felt invigorating that I didn't have to be 10 steps ahead all of the time. This was happening to me. I just had to sit back and enjoy it . . . .

Finally, I remember hearing him groan and then feel a momentary sense of loss when he pulled his cock from me. I felt his cum splash on my back, on my ass. I almost felt empty when his thrusting stopped, but I was suddenly exhausted.

I was sore, still a little drunk, but not sure if it was from the alcohol or having just been in a sexual stupor for the last hour or so. Being twisted, pulled, spread, held, gripped by this fucking Jackass Gymbro. I was drenched with sweat. And I felt elated. It brought me such relief to not have to THINK so much. He wanted what he wanted and I all I had to do was just be there. Be a source of pleasure for him. And he just took what he wanted. I wasn't an English Major with an MBA working in corporate finance. I was simply there for his pleasure. I liked the simplicity of this transaction. I could be in the moment and I could enjoy it.

We lay in his bed for a moment, a tangle of sweaty limbs, just breathing heavy. And then we laughed. And laughed. I told him honestly that I felt like he was my personal trainer and he just put me through one of his toughest workouts. He stared at me unphased and told me that wasn't even the hardest level. I honestly felt butterflies.