The rain was steady against the windows. One of those slow, Northern spring nights that never got completely dark. We had eaten late, cleaned up slow, and poured the last of the wine without speaking.

Anna sat with one foot tucked under her thigh, her hair damp from a shower, her skin still warm from the bath. No makeup. No performance. Just her. The way I liked her most.

She looked at me differently that night. Not flirtatious. Not even affectionate. Just still.

Then she said, “Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?”

I nodded before I thought.

She didn’t look away. “You won’t like it.”

“Tell me anyway.”

She hesitated, rolled the wine glass between her fingers. Then: “This was ten years ago. Maybe more. I’d taken a long weekend. A solo trip. Just a break. Small fishing town on the coast. It rained almost the whole time. I didn’t know anyone.”

I nodded, trying not to ask questions yet. She went on.

“There was this bar. Small. Just locals. I sat by the wall, had a couple drinks. I was wearing that grey wool dress I used to have. The short one.”

I remembered the dress. I remembered how she’d stopped wearing it.

She smiled a little. “He was older. Maybe fifty. Big hands. Didn’t talk much. He just… watched me. I liked it.”

My stomach tensed.

“He asked if I wanted to come back to his place,” she said. “I said yes.”

Silence. I waited. She let the quiet stretch.

“We didn’t use a condom,” she said.

The sentence hit like cold water.

“I didn’t even think to ask. He didn’t offer. He just pushed up my dress, pulled down my tights, and… that was it. It was fast. Messy. I came. I think he did too. He didn’t say.”

I blinked slowly. “You stayed the night?”

“I did.” She sipped her wine. “Woke up with his come still inside me. I went straight to the pharmacy.”

A beat.

“It was closed.”

I stared.

“It was a Sunday,” she said. “Small town. Nothing was open.”

She looked at me then, not guilty, not ashamed.

“I had to take the train to the next town to get the pill. Sat there the whole ride trying not to think. Legs crossed. My panties soaked. Just hoping I wasn’t too late.”

My throat was tight. She didn’t add anything else. I couldn’t stop the picture in my mind — her on a half-empty train, hair damp, thighs sticky, seat warm beneath her. The man gone. Her body still holding the memory of him.

And I felt it then. Low. Sick. Hard.

I should’ve said something. Anything. I just sat there, staring at her, wine untouched in my hand.

“You’re angry,” she said.

“No,” I said too quickly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Disgusted?”

I shook my head, too slow this time. “No.”

“What then?”

I looked at her mouth. Her lips were soft, flushed. The same lips that had kissed him after, maybe. Or said nothing. Maybe she hadn’t said a word.

“Did you regret it?”

She paused.

“No,” she said.

I swallowed. “Did you… want him to come in you?”

A flicker passed through her eyes. “I didn’t stop him.”

That sat between us like a lit fuse. My cock throbbed. Humiliation crept up my spine like a cold draft. I shifted in my seat, tried to adjust, but I couldn’t hide it.

She noticed. Of course she did. Her voice went soft. Almost kind.

“Are you hard right now?”

I didn’t answer.

“You are,” she said, setting her wineglass down. “You’re hard because I told you how I let someone fuck me raw and walk away.”

“It’s not that,” I lied.

She stood. Moved to me. Sat on the coffee table, just inches away, her bare knee brushing mine.

“No?” she said. “Then what is it?”

I looked at her thighs. The smooth skin. The little freckle high on the left. I pictured them parted in a stranger’s bed, years ago, glistening, open, dripping.

“I keep picturing you on the train,” I said. “Your legs closed. Hoping it wouldn’t take.”

She leaned in, whispered: “It might have. It was that time of month.”

My breath left my body. She watched me come apart.

Then stood again. “I’m going to bed.”

And she left me there, hard and humiliated, drowning in the image of my wife—ten years younger, filled with another man’s come, taking the train out of town like a girl escaping a fire she set herself.

And wanting, more than anything, to go back and watch it happen.

The next night, I couldn’t sleep.

Anna had gone to bed before me. I’d heard the door shut, the covers shift. I stayed in the living room, lights low, staring at the same wine glass I hadn’t touched the night before.

Her story circled in my head like a storm drain. The pub. The man. The back room. The train.

I couldn’t stop picturing her in that dress — wool clinging to her hips, tights bunched at her knees, legs shaking as he pushed into her. I imagined her not resisting. Not saying a word.

I was hard again. The shame didn’t slow it.

Eventually, I went to the bedroom. The room was dark except for the faint orange glow from the streetlight outside. She was lying on her side, facing the window, one shoulder bare where the blanket had slipped.

I stood there a long time, then whispered: “Will you tell me again?”

She didn’t answer at first. I thought she was asleep. Then she rolled over, slowly. Her eyes found mine in the dark.

“Which part?”

“All of it,” I said. My voice was raw.

She studied me. Then pulled the blanket down from her chest. She wasn’t wearing anything.

“Come here.”

I lay beside her, unsure, buzzing with heat and dread. She placed her hand on my chest, warm and steady.

“He smelled like diesel and beer,” she began softly. “The kind of man who doesn’t ask twice.”

I shut my eyes. Her voice wrapped around me like fog.

“I let him bend me over a mop sink. My tights were still around my ankles. He didn’t even unbuckle his belt — just pulled it aside and pushed in.”

I felt her hand slide down my stomach. Find me. I was already hard.

“I was so wet it made a sound,” she said. “And I didn’t care. I wanted to be used.”

I groaned — a quiet, broken thing. She gripped me tighter.

“I came first,” she whispered. “He didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care.”

She kissed my neck, slow and open-mouthed.

“When he finished, he stayed inside me. Just breathed. Then pulled out and left me open. Dripping.”

I moaned into her shoulder.

“And the next morning, I could still feel it,” she said. “His come. In me. All the way on that train. Every bump on the track.”

She climbed on top of me. Took me in, slowly. Still telling the story.

“I kept my thighs tight the whole ride. Tried to stop it from leaking.”

I grabbed her hips, helpless.

She leaned down and whispered into my ear:

“But I was already carrying him.”

I came inside her, shaking. She didn’t stop.

A week passed.

We didn’t talk about it in the daylight. We cooked. Walked. Worked. Fucked.

But every night she told it again.

Sometimes softer. Sometimes sharper. Always different. Always the same.
The man changed a little. Older. Rougher. Sometimes silent. Sometimes cruel.
But the scene stayed the same: she let him come in her, and she left filled.

One night, after, I lay beside her in the dark, her body pressed against mine, her skin still flushed from orgasm.

“I keep thinking about it,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

I hesitated.

She didn’t push.

Then, quietly: “What if you hadn’t taken the pill?”

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “I thought about it.”

I turned my head to her in the dark. “Seriously?”

“I waited at the station,” she said. “The train was late. I kept looking at the doors, wondering if I should go back instead.”

“And?”

“I didn’t.”

“But you could have.”

“Yes.”

My heart was thudding. “Did you want to be pregnant?”

“I wanted to feel what it would mean.”

I didn’t know what to say. My cock was already hard again, twitching with every word.

She reached under the blanket and wrapped her hand around it.

“You want to say it, don’t you?” she whispered.

“Say what?”

“What you really want.”

She stroked me once. Twice. Slow.

I swallowed.

“Say it.”

“I want…” My voice cracked.

“Say it,” she repeated, lips close to my ear.

“I want you to get pregnant,” I said. “Not by me.”

She sighed — not shocked. Not angry. Just warm, like she’d been waiting for it.

Then she whispered: “What if I already am?”

I came again, in her hand, without another word.

She didn’t say anything when she came home that night.

It was raining again. Her coat was wet, hair curled at the edges. She dropped her bag by the hallway bench, kicked off her boots like she always did. No greeting. No kiss.

I watched her from the kitchen, something tight in my chest.

She walked past me, straight to the bedroom.

When I followed, the light was already on.

Her clothes were folded on the chair. Her thighs were flushed. Damp.

On the nightstand: a white pharmacy bag. Unsealed.
Inside, sitting upright like a dare: a morning-after pill in its blister pack. Still intact.
Next to it — a folded train ticket. One-way. Coastal route. Late afternoon departure.

She turned to me slowly, naked, eyes calm.

Her voice was quiet:

“It was closed again.”

She didn’t explain. She didn’t need to.

She lay down on the bed. Not inviting. Not rejecting. Just waiting.

And I stood there in the doorway, hard and hollow, knowing exactly what I’d asked for.

And not at all sure what would come next.