When I wrote down the events of what happened to me this morning, it put some things into perspective for me. I’ve been acting and thinking like a victim. And I realize I don’t like that word. It makes me feel like I have no control over the narrative. I obviously carry baggage about the word because a victim, to me, is someone who can’t get out of the cycle.
I want to be a survivor.
No, a thriver. And I don’t even care if that’s a real word.
I’m going to fake it until I make it.
And I want to enjoy the feel of this man’s hands on my body because I’ve always enjoyed sex.
I wasn’t raped. I wasn’t sexually assaulted.
I was abused, yes.
He touched me without consent. He beat me.
And I’m incredibly fortunate my journey ended where it did.
It’s time to focus on that.
When I finished writing, I wrote fifty things I’m grateful for since I escaped in that lot. Shoes, because those stones had cut my feet when I ran. Coffee made how I like it, because who knows if I would ever have been given coffee again if I hadn’t escaped. It reframed so much for me. Every reason I was grateful for something, it was because I had enough agency to escape.
And that was perhaps the most empowering revelation of all.
After I shower, I use all the goodies I bought on my skin. Then I pull on the new underwear. It all helps, grounding me back in my body. I focus on the slide of my hands over my skin. I cup my own breasts, feeling their weight. I press my palm over my underwear and feel my own heat.
It’s a sensual experience just to soothe myself.
When the door slams, I jump but refocus on my goal. Saint is home, and I want to give him a welcome to remember.
“Briar,” he shouts from the hallway. “It’s me.”
“Like I wouldn’t know your voice,” I say and lean against the wall.
He looks up with a smile, then looks away but does a double take. “Holy shit, you look good.”
Dropping whatever was in his hands, he walks toward me. His gaze slides down my body and back up. “This all for me?” he asks.
I nod. “Welcome home.”
He shamelessly reaches for his cock and adjusts it in his denim. When he stands inches away from me, the energy between us is palpable. A hiss and fizz of tension. Anticipation. He slides a single finger beneath the shoulder strap of my bra, his knuckle scorching my skin. “You know, last night, there was a more pussy on hand than you can count. And usually, I’d partake. But ... you were on my mind, Bri. Couldn’t stop thinking about the way it felt when I sank into you. Couldn’t stop thinking about the way you felt against me. The way you smell. The way you smile.”
And I do just that—I smile at his words. “Well, because you were such a good boy ...” I reach for the zipper of his jeans and lower it slowly. When I reach inside and grip him through his boxer briefs, he grunts.
I slip to my knees and take off his boots and socks before lowering his jeans and boxer briefs. His cock is hard, standing proudly against his equally hard body. I lick my way down the V-shaped muscles to his groin. As I do so, Saint tugs off his cut and pulls his long-sleeved Henley over his head.
I lick along the thick vein on the underside, and his cock twitches in my hand. When I get to the head, running saliva over his slit, he thrusts his hand into my hair and grips it firmly. I love the sting of it. He’s thick, and I stretch my mouth wide to suck him inside.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he gasps and places his other palm on the wall behind him. His hips begin to move, not enough that he’s thrusting down my throat, although I do wonder what that will feel like. I’m about to take him deeper when he tugs my head away and grabs me beneath my arms. “Don’t want to come down your throat today. It’s been a really long ride, and I spent most of it thinking about your pussy.”
He grabs a condom from his wallet, then leads me to the sofa where he sits. “Kneel between my legs while I put this on,” he says, and I do as he says. I’m not submissive, but I used to love role-play and fantasy. I’m happy to give him the mood and visual he wants.
I stroke his cock up and down while he opens the condom packet, and I watch as he confidently rolls it on. “Now get up here and welcome me home,” he says.
I stand and slip the panties down my legs, but I leave my bra on because it makes my boobs look good. Saint places his hands on the back of the sofa, and I climb on to straddle his thighs. It’s early evening, but still light outside. I’m not a hundred percent certain that someone wouldn’t be able to see us from the street if they tried hard enough. But I don’t care about that.
I focus on the way I felt after I wrote my list. How I’m going to thrive. How I’m going to take this gift I’ve been given with Saint. I focus on the way his gaze makes me feel: Desired. Sexual.
He’s so hard, it takes less than a second to position him at my entrance, and then I lower myself, enveloping him with my warmth. I toss my head back and sigh at how good it feels. Saint’s hands grab my hips as he rocks me back and forth.
