The Morning After

POV: First Person.

Stumbling back into my small, cramped dorm room in the dead of night, a massive wave of relief washed over my exhausted body. I leaned heavily against the closed wooden door, my lungs burning as I gasped for air in the suffocating darkness. The heavy rain from the street outside had soaked through the edges of the expensive cashmere coat I clutched around my shivering frame. I scanned the tiny space. Chloe's bed was empty. My loathsome roommate was nowhere to be seen. Driven by a frantic, adrenaline-fueled frenzy, I immediately threw open my closet. The hinges squeaked in the quiet room. I grabbed my canvas duffel bags and began packing my meager belongings with trembling hands. I shoved my heavy law textbooks, my worn, faded sweaters, and my few pairs of cheap jeans into the bags. I had to flee the premises before she could return. If Chloe found me here, she would unleash her malicious taunts regarding my disappearance at the club. She would take one look at my bruised lips and the smeared makeup on my face and know exactly what had happened. I zipped the bags shut, slung the heavy straps over my aching shoulder, and left the room without a single backward glance.

By nine in the morning, I sat exhausted in a local, run-down diner situated on the edge of the university town. I nursed my second cup of bitter black coffee. The diner smelled intensely of stale grease, burnt toast, and cheap bleach. With every slight movement on the squeaky, cracked vinyl booth, I battled the intense, lingering soreness between my inner thighs. The dull, pulsing ache radiating from my swollen vagina was a constant, physical reminder of my destroyed innocence. I could still feel the phantom sensation of his thick, rigid cock stretching my tight walls, tearing into my untouched flesh with ruthless precision. The pain was still sharp, but beneath the stinging soreness, a wild, undeniable, and deeply pathological longing for Caspar consumed my thoughts. He was the terrifying man from the Behemoth Brawl Club who had ruthlessly claimed my body last night.

Martha, the diner's middle-aged server, noticed my pale, distressed face. She wore her faded pink candy-striped outfit, a towering blonde bouffant, and a stained white apron tied around her thick waist. Walking over with the glass coffee pot, she leaned over the scratched Formica table.

"Whatcha lookin’ for, hon?" she asked sympathetically, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

I gripped my warm ceramic coffee mug with both hands, meeting her kind eyes desperately. "I want to move out of the room in the hostel. I can't go back there. Can you help me find a place? Anything?"

Martha set the coffee pot on the table. She reached deep into her apron pocket, pulled out a small notepad, and scribbled down a phone number with a chewed pen.

"A couple of girls were here the other day. They mentioned they needed a roommate who can manage the cooking. Decent sorts, from the university. Not like some of the flashy brats you see causing trouble around here."

I took the slip of paper. Within minutes of making the call from the diner's grimy payphone, I miraculously secured my escape.

By the afternoon, I hauled my heavy bags into a spacious, beautifully decorated apartment located off-campus. The living room featured plush velvet sofas, modern abstract art, and tall glass windows letting in the pale afternoon sun. I moved in with Sasha and Harper Quinn-Hayes. They were two incredibly wealthy, bubbly girls who couldn't cook to save their lives. Sasha wore designer silk loungewear, and Harper had a carefree, confident stride that spoke of old money. The arrangement was a perfect, peaceful sanctuary during the vacation weeks. It saved me from the humiliating, dreadful fate of crawling back to Annabel's run-down trailer. I refused to return to the tiny, cramped house where my abusive aunt lived.

Sasha gave me a quick tour, pointing out the stainless steel kitchen gadgets they never bothered to use. Harper showed me to my designated space. It was a tiny, sunlit spare room tucked away at the very end of the hallway. I dropped my canvas bags on the hardwood floor and collapsed onto the soft mattress. I was finally safe.

Yet, safe in my tiny, sunlit spare room, my traitorous mind remained irrevocably tethered to that momentous, violent night. Lying awake for hours in the dark, my fingers obsessively stroked the expensive fabric of the cashmere jacket. Caspar had callously flung the garment at me to cover my nakedness before I fled his office. The heavy material still smelled intensely of his dark, spicy cologne, tobacco, and raw, predatory masculinity. I buried my face in the soft collar, inhaling the scent deep into my lungs. I was unable to shut out the haunting image of his dark, scarred face and his searing, predatory grey-blue eyes.

I slid my hand under the cotton covers. The friction of the sheets against my hypersensitive skin made my breath catch in my throat. I touched my own sore, slick center in the dark. My fingers brushed against my swollen clitoris, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight down my spine. My breathing turned shallow. I parted my wet, fleshy vaginal lips, pressing two fingers inside my tight, aching canal. The slick wetness coated my hand instantly. I pumped my fingers in and out of my sore vagina, mimicking the brutal, unforgiving thrusts of his massive cock.

"Caspar." I shamelessly whispered his name into the silent room.

I desperately tried to mitigate the agonizing hunger burning in my belly. I rubbed my clitoris faster, pressing hard against the swollen nub until my hips involuntarily bucked off the mattress. I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing his large, calloused hands pinning my wrists down, taking whatever he wanted from my yielding body. I needed to scale those unbelievable, ecstatic heights again all by myself. A ragged moan ripped from my throat as I climaxed. My vaginal muscles clenched tightly around my thrusting fingers, a hot gush of wetness soaking the bedsheets beneath me. When the intense spasms finally subsided, the empty ache in my chest only grew hollower. I curled into a tight ball, clutching his coat against my bare chest, crying silent tears into the dark.

Weeks slowly bled into the beginning of the new university semester. The vibrant autumn leaves coated the campus pathways in shades of red and gold. I attended my law classes listlessly. I sat in the back rows of the massive lecture halls, staring blankly at the chalkboard, taking notes with zero focus. I successfully managed to avoid running into Chloe on campus, darting down alternate hallways and ducking behind pillars whenever I spotted her bleached blonde hair in the crowd. But internally, I was endlessly pining for a dangerous stranger I would likely never see again. The memory of his rough hands mapping my curves consumed my waking hours.

At night in the apartment, sleep became an impossible luxury. Through the thin drywall, I listened to the muffled, rhythmic sounds of Sasha's loud, uninhibited lovemaking with her rugby boyfriends. The relentless creaking of the wooden headboard and her breathless, high-pitched moans heavily fueled my own passion-filled insomnia. I thrashed in my tangled sheets, my body slick with sweat. My hand instinctively found its way between my thighs again and again, chasing a ghost. I moaned softly with longing into my pillow, constantly dreaming of Him. I dreamed of his cruel mouth, his heavy, dominant weight, and the terrifying way he commanded my submission.

One bright morning, I stood at the gas stove whisking Sasha a fluffy cheese omelet before my early class. The rich smell of melting butter and sharp cheddar filled the modern kitchen. Sasha sat at the marble kitchen island, staring at me intently over her steaming coffee mug. She wore a short silk robe, her hair a messy halo from last night's vigorous activities.

"Y'know, I just noticed; you look kind of different, Ginger," she said, tilting her head to the side.

I kept my eyes focused on the frying pan, scraping the edges of the beaten eggs with a silicone spatula. "What do you mean, Sasha?"

"Dalt pointed it out... he said you look like Sleeping Beauty come awake."

We both dissolved into loud giggles at her hulking boyfriend's clumsy, poetic attempt at a compliment. I plated the hot omelet, slid the ceramic dish across the counter to her, and grabbed my old, worn coat from the back of the wooden chair.

Sasha hopped off her tall stool and hugged me tightly, nearly spilling her dark coffee over the marble island.

"It's true, Ginger. There's an energy around you now. Like men notice you. It's this aura of sexual something you carried around without being aware of it before. But now it's out in the open, blazing for everyone to see."

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I forced a nervous laugh to hide my spiking panic. I bolted for the front door, slipping my arms into my coat sleeves with clumsy, shaking hands.

"I have to go! I'm going to be late for my lecture!" I made panicked excuses, twisting the brass doorknob and yanking the door open.

Her teasing voice followed me down the long, carpeted hall.

"Seriously, Goldie Angel, you look like you’re flashing all the green signals now!"

My cheeks burned with deep, furious embarrassment as I hurried down the street to catch my bus to the University. The crisp morning air hit my hot face, doing nothing to cool the flush spreading across my skin. I gripped my heavy law books tight against my chest, dodging pedestrians on the crowded, noisy sidewalk. I knew exactly what she meant.

That Man, with his massive hands and cruel mouth, had fundamentally turned my entire life upside down. He had taken my innocence on that office floor and awakened a dormant, ravenous beast inside me. I was no longer the invisible, quiet girl hiding in the shadows. He had left his dirty, indelible mark on my soul.

And as I rushed along the crowded sidewalk, it was the explicit, dirty thought of Caspar claiming me again that made me blush so fiercely.