Charlotte: The Ex-Girlfriend Series Chapter 4: The First Stranger
Two nights after I gave her permission. The hotel room is booked under her name: City Centre, and on the top floor. I drop her off at the entrance, but I don’t drive away angry or aching with silent jealousy. I kiss her deep in the car, hand sliding up her thigh under the short dress, feeling how soaked she already is.
“Be safe,” I whisper against her lips. “But don’t hold back.”
She looks at me, eyes wide and wet with something between terror and gratitude.
“I love you,” she says, voice breaking just a little. Then she’s gone, her heels clicking across the lobby, blonde bob swaying, glasses glinting under the chandeliers. I go home. Walk our dog. Cook nothing. Sit on the couch with the phone in my hand.
9:47 p.m.
First message: a selfie in the lift mirror showing her dress riding high, with her nipples hard through the fabric. Caption: “He’s already here. Room 812.”
10:12 p.m.
Photo: her on the hotel bed, dress gone, on all fours, the stranger behind her gripping her hips. His hand is wrapped in her hair, pulling her head back. Face blurred, but you can see his size, the roughness. Caption: “No condom. He asked. I said yes.”
10:31 p.m.
Voice note: Lasting 30 seconds. All I hear is the bed creaking hard, skin slapping, her moans climbing into screams. His low growl: “Take it, slut.” She gasps my name once, then corrects to “Sir,” and dissolves into broken sobs of pleasure.
11:08 p.m.
Video: Just 15 seconds, her phone propped on the nightstand. He’s got her pinned face down, ass up, pounding mercilessly. Her glasses are crooked, mascara running, mouth open in a silent scream as she cums again. You hear him grunt, bury deep, stay there. Filling her. I watch it on loop, hand down my trousers, but I don’t cum yet, I wait, like she asked.
2:14 a.m.
Text: “Come get me. I can’t walk straight.”
I'm there in fifteen minutes. Charlotte stumbles out of the lobby on shaky legs, her hair wild, makeup wrecked, dress barely covering the fresh bruises on her thighs and hips. Neck marked dark. She collapses into the passenger seat, smells like sweat, cum, and hotel soap.
We drive in silence at first. She finally speaks, voice hoarse.
“He was… exactly what I needed. Rough. Didn’t care about my feelings. Used every hole. Twice.” She reaches for your hand, squeezes.
“I kept thinking of you the whole time. How you let me do this.”
I carry her inside, her legs too weak. Run Charlotte a bath. Undress her slowly, kissing every bruise, every bite. She winces when I touch between her legs, very swollen, leaking him still. I wash her gently, reverently.
In bed after, she curls into me, small and trembling.
“I feel disgusting,” she whispers. “And so fucking alive.”
You hold her tight.
“You’re perfect. You’re mine. Even when you’re full of someone else.”
She cries quietly against your chest.
“Thank you for not making me choose.”
She wakes sore, marked, glowing in a way I haven’t seen in months. Charlotte checks her phone and sees the new messages already. Another stranger with a rougher profile. She shows me, hesitantly.
I kiss her forehead.
“Go when you’re ready. I’ll be here when you come back.”
The addiction has its leash now. And I'm the one holding it.
We are both walking deeper into the fire hand in hand. |
