It’s been a week since the first time, and I still can’t make sense of what’s happening. At work, my colleague is the same guy I’ve known for years, funny, kind, the one everyone trusts. But when we’re alone? He becomes someone else entirely. Brutal. Dominant. And here’s the thing: I’m the one who keeps pushing him to go further. I don’t know why. Maybe I don’t want to know.

This morning, I sent him a message. I don’t know what I was thinking. “I went to the salon yesterday. Smooth, waxed, and ready for you.” I felt a thrill when his reply came: “Stop. You have a boyfriend. This isn’t right.” But I didn’t stop. I pushed harder. “Use me. Don’t respect me. Treat me like your dog. I’ll swallow everything.”

On the subway to his apartment, I stared at my reflection in the window. I pulled out my makeup bag, darkened my eyeliner, and chose the boldest red lipstick I owned. I wanted to look perfect. Sexy. Even though I hated myself for it. My phone buzzed, and guilt twisted my stomach when I saw my boyfriend’s name. “What time are you coming home?” I lied, of course. “I’m finishing up some work at the office, then grabbing drinks with colleagues.” My hands shook as I sent it, but I couldn’t stop.

When I got to his place, he opened the door without saying a word. His eyes were cold, and I already knew what was coming. The moment the door shut, he grabbed me, rough and impatient. He didn’t care that my shirt tore as he pulled it off. I didn’t care either. I wanted him to do it.

He shoved me to the floor, my face pressed against the carpet, my ass in the air. I could feel his eyes on me, roaming over my body. "You begged for this," he growled, and when he thrust into me, it was brutal. No hesitation. No mercy. I’m not proud to admit it, but I loved it. I came fast, but he didn’t stop.

Then he pulled out and pressed against my ass. With my boyfriend, it’s always easy, effortless. But with him? It felt impossible. His cock felt huge, stretching me to the point of pain. I cried out, but he covered my mouth, his voice in my ear. "Shut up. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Now take it."

I wish I could tell you I hated it. That I regretted every second. But I didn’t. I felt ashamed, humiliated, but also more alive than ever.

When he finished, he pulled me to my knees, forcing me to take him in my mouth. He came violently, and I swallowed everything, his cum dripping onto my face and hair. I should’ve felt disgusted. Instead, I stuck my tongue out to show him I’d done it. That I was good.

And then he laughed. A low, cruel laugh. "Stay like that," he said, pulling out his phone. I froze as he snapped a picture. "Perfect," he muttered, and then his eyes met mine. "Maybe I’ll send this to my friends. You wouldn’t mind, would you, little slut?"

I can’t explain why I said it, but I whispered, "No, I wouldn’t mind." My face burned with shame, but I didn’t stop him. I let him see just how far I’d fallen.

Afterward, I dressed outside, cum still drying in my hair. On the subway home, I kept my head down, hiding my face. I felt everyone’s eyes on me, and I wondered if they could tell. If they knew.

When I got home, I didn’t even say hello to my boyfriend. I ran straight to the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. My makeup was ruined, streaks of dried cum clung to my face, and his scent was still on me. I should’ve felt disgusted. And I did. But deep down, I knew I’d go back. Because no matter how degrading, no matter how humiliating, it’s what I wanted.

And that’s what scares me most..