The stale air of the bedroom reeks of sex and sweat. I’m sprawled naked on crumpled sheets, two fingers thrusting into my soaked cunt so hard the bedframe creaks. My thighs glisten, part sweat, part desperation, as I fuck myself raw, chasing the ghost of his touch. The memory of his hands, his mouth, and his cock haunts me. It’s been weeks since he left, but my body still yearns for him like a junkie for a fix.

I shouldn’t want him. The memory hits me like a slap: last Tuesday, his shirt collar smudged with peach lipstick that wasn’t mine. The way he flinched when I grabbed his phone and saw the texts, texts, “Meet me in 10. Need your cock.” Sent an hour after he’d left me breathless in this same bed. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. The betrayal stung, but it didn’t stop me from craving him.

But my body doesn’t care. It remembers the way he used to make me cum, hard and relentless, like I was made for him alone. I curl my fingers upward, hitting that spot only he used to find. My hips jerk off the mattress. “Fuck… fuck,” I hiss, rubbing my clit in rough circles with my free hand. The ache is unbearable. I need him like I need oxygen, even though I know he’s probably inside her right now, making her scream the way he used to make me.

I recall the night two weeks ago when his hands pinned my wrists above my head as he drove into me, each thrust brutal and perfect. “You take me so fucking good,” he growled, sweat dripping onto my chest. I came three times that night, twice on his tongue, once on his cock, before he left smelling of my perfume. I should’ve known. I should’ve seen the signs. But I was too caught up in the way he made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

Now, my fingers plunge deeper, mimicking his rhythm. I imagine his voice, "You’re mine, you fucking slut,” and my cunt clenches hard around nothing. My orgasm coils low in my belly, threatening to snap. I hate him. I need him. My free hand twists my nipple sharply, pain mixing with pleasure. The room blurs. I’m close, so close, but it’s not him. It’ll never be him again.

I confronted him the next day. He didn’t deny it. Just smirked and said, “You’ll come crawling back. No one fucks you as I do.” He was right. No one else can make me cum so hard I see stars. No one else chokes me while they do it. I hate his guts. I hate that I’d still let him wreck me.

My fingers add a third, stretching my cunt wide. It burns, but I don’t stop. I need this. Need to cum so hard I forget his face, his hands, and the way he’d bite my neck as he came. My clit throbs under my frantic rubbing. The orgasm builds like a live wire in my veins.

Then it detonates.

My back arches violently off the bed. “JOHN!” I scream as pleasure erupts, my cunt gushing around my fingers. Wave after wave rocks me, harder than any climax he ever gave me. I writhe, sweaty hair sticking to my face until the spasms leave me limp and gasping.

But the emptiness returns faster this time. I pull my fingers out slowly, watching my slick glisten in the dim light. Bring them to my lips. His phantom taste mixes with mine: whisky and salt and regret. I’m pathetic. Yet my hand drifts back between my legs. My clit’s swollen and oversensitive, but I press harder.

“Just… one… more…” I pant, fucking myself again. I’m trapped in this cycle, needing him, hating him, craving him like a drug. He ruined me.

As I lie here, the room seems to darken around me. Shadows dance on the walls, mocking me with memories of him. I remember the way he’d whisper in my ear, the way his breath would tickle my skin, making me shiver. I recall the first time he took me, rough and unapologetic, like he owned me. And he did. He owned me in a way no one else ever has.

I think about the nights we spent together, the mornings we woke up tangled in each other’s arms. He’d kiss my forehead, whisper sweet nothings, and I’d believe him. 

I’d believe that I was the only one for him, that he’d never leave me. But he did. He left me for someone else, someone younger, prettier, maybe even better in bed. The thought stings, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting him.

It’s 3 a.m. when I finally collapse, raw and trembling. My fourth orgasm still wasn’t enough. I’ll do this again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Until he texts. Until he shows up at my door. Until I’m weak enough to let him split me open again.

The ache never stops. It’s a constant reminder of what I lost and what I still crave. I know I should move on and find someone else who can make me feel this way. But deep down, I know it’s futile. No one else can be him. No one else can make me ache like this.

I toss and turn, unable to sleep. My mind is a battlefield, a war between reason and desire. I know I should hate him, should despise him for what he did. But my body doesn’t care. It remembers the way he made me feel: alive, wanted, needed. And that’s what I crave. Not just his cock, not just his touch, but the way he made me feel like I was home.

As the night wears on, I find myself reaching for my phone. I scroll through our old messages, the ones where he’d tell me how much he needed me, how much he wanted me. I read them over and over, feeling a mix of pain and longing. I wonder if he’s doing the same with her, telling her the same lies, making her believe she’s the only one.

The thought makes me sick, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting him. I know I’m weak, pathetic even, but I just can’t help it. I’m trapped in this cycle of need and hate, unable to escape. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he wanted all along. Maybe he wanted to break me, to leave me so shattered that I’d never be whole again.

But even that thought doesn’t stop me. I’ll keep reaching for him and keep craving him until he’s back in my bed, making me scream his name. Until then, I’ll just have to keep fucking myself, chasing that high, that fleeting glimpse of heaven.

The sun starts to rise outside, casting a pale light over the room. I finally drift off to sleep, exhausted but still aching for him. Tomorrow will be the same: another day of masturbation, another day of longing. But for now, I just let myself sleep, dreaming of the moment he’ll be back, dreaming of the way he used to make me feel.