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Everything but the Fall, pt.3


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MK****
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We meet before the city remembers itself.
9:30am -- that strange pocket of time after rush hour -- before lunch.
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When most people still out at this time are already late for something -- or pretending not to be. Perfect time to fall apart in plain sight.
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Corner table -- back wall, in a coffee shop that still believes in dignity. The air isn’t thick with the sugary steam of lattes, but sharp with the ghost of a thousand espresso shots pulled for the early crowd -- a lingering bitterness cut by the fresh, almost green scent of newly ground beans. The kind of place where hushed conversations feel amplified.
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Her sunglasses stay on indoors -- like they’re obsidian armor -- or confession. Large, dark, they reflect my own face back at me -- a distorted, anxious stranger trapped in her gaze.
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She doesn’t greet me. Just: “This is getting messy.” Her voice is calm, but her hand is strangling the coffee cup, knuckles white.
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I wonder, "Is it the sex?"
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"It’s not the sex,” she says. “It’s where it’s bleeding through.”
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“Bleeding through what?” I ask, thrown.
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She finally looks at me. Through the lenses. Through me. “It’s not the sex ... when he sleeps with someone else, I feel happy for him. When I do, he feels happy for me. That’s compersion…” She pauses for a second, then coldly states, “You wouldn’t know. You only care about yourself.”
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“So I’m selfish now?”
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"This isn’t ENM,” she says flatly.
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“What the fuck is ENM?” I ask defiantly.
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She exhales through her nose -- eye roll audible.
“Ethical non-monogamy.”
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“Then do ENM.”
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"You’re not letting me!” Her voice tightens. Not loud -- but sharp, tense. Her hands jerk slightly, like they’re trying to tear something invisible.
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“I haven’t ***d you to do anything.”
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“You make me do things … at the worst possible moments," she bites her lip, ***ly, but catches herself quickly. Hoping I didn't notice.
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I noticed ...
“No. I do things you already want to do. That’s the difference.”
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The difference ... Her words take me back, to a different kind of confinement.
The Restaurant Bathroom. Red dress -- slit too high; a decolletage low enough to humiliate restraint. Heels that say fuck me but whisper hurry.
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She’s seated across from Mark -- dark hair, gray beard, olive skin. He looks expensive; sharp suit, probably Tom Ford -- calm, composed, confident.
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Me? Burgundy button down, unbuttoned at the top. Gray Dockers. Light brown belt and shoes.
I look more like the waiter than the problem.
She doesn’t blink as I pass their table.
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“Excuse me,” I murmur.
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Interrupted, mid conversation, Mark slides in, just enough for me to get by. He seems to be highlighting a difference in her perfume.
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I don’t look back.
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She’s in the bathroom seconds later. She slams into me -- mouth first, then her warm pillowy breasts.
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"We don’t have long,” she pants, yanking my zipper. Her panties hit the tile like a confession.
I lift her. She wraps around me, in more ways than one.
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No teasing. No buildup. Just need -- raw, rage, heat. She bites my shoulder -- to keep from making a sound.
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I press her into the wall. The tiles are cool and slick against her bare back, cheap institutional white reflecting the harsh glare of fluorescent lights above. The air is thick with the cloying sweetness of air freshener trying to mask something foul -- a public space trying to deny its private filth.
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We fuck like vengeance.
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She clenches around me, sudden and sharp. Her body jerks -- then she’s gone.
Just her scent left: caramel, coffee, vanilla -- soaked in bourbon. Tobacco curled at the edges.
A scent designed to be worn when she wants to be devoured.
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It doesn’t linger politely -- it marks.
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Back at the coffee shop, her voice cuts through the memory.
“Do you know what’s worse than guilt?” she asks.
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“You think you crave it?”
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“No.” She looks up. “You do.”
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I smirk, “You’re the one who often initiates.”
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“You initiate too,” she says angrily. She leans forward -- eyes hidden but I can feel them cut. “You make everything feel like a dare. That’s your trick. You never ask. You just stand there, waiting, until I fall in.”
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“You jumped,” I say.
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She exhales hard. Like she’s trying to spit me out of her lungs.
“I don’t want this anymore.”
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“Then stop.”

Her mouth opens -- then closes. Her hands tighten on the cup like they’re squeezing the lie out of it.
“I mean it.”
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But her voice is shaking.
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And I can smell her -- that citrus top, familiar but lighter now. Softer -- not sweet, but composed. It reminds me of another instance when she tried to hide the edges of us.
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At the School Play.
“Alex is going to be a giant lemon in Scene Two,” she’d said casually that morning.
So I showed up.
Left side of the auditorium. Three rows down from where she was seated.
She was there -- mid-row -- she saw me. Looked away like it burned.
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Afterward, I caught her eye as she left. She was speaking loudly into her phone, not looking at me but clearly directing her frustration. I felt the familiar pull -- a sense that this was another one of her unspoken dares.
When she continued to rail, drawing attention, I made the decision. I caught her arm, my grip firm, and steered her away from the gawking parents, pulling her into the nearest empty classroom.
The fluorescent hum was loud here, and the stale air smelled of markers and forgotten lessons.
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“Why did you come?”
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"You told me.”
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"You weren’t supposed to.”
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She walked towards me and I fell back on a chair. She caressed my head with her finger tips, took a hold of both ear lobes, before laying herself over my lap. My left hand remembering her firm glutes, gliding along their curvature, sliding down and up her skirt. My middle finger and thumb took hold of her thong and traversed down, just far enough to feel her warm, slick, eager lips.
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She whimpers, but quickly covers her mouth. My right hand went from rubbing her back to grabbing a ruler from a nearby desk. My middle finger inside her feeling every furrow.
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She lost control and let out a small, strangled whine. I tapped her butt with the ruler. I leaned in, my voice low. "I will correct you every time you make a sound. Do not try me."
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She let out a whispered "Mister..." as quietly as she could manage while I applied more pressure to each furrow and puckered ridge inside her.
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"Today's lesson is to learn to stay silent," I asserted.
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She writhed on my lap, trembling, trying to suppress her whines. Her high-pitched gasp earned her another strike.
She groaned -- not loud enough to drown out the sharp, squishy sounds coming from inside her. Her butt vibrated against my hand.
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She tried letting out controlled, quiet exhales.
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"Your mouth gets louder than your pussy, that earns a strike," I promised.
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Her convulsions shook us both. Squishy sounds drowned out her quiet, breathy whines, groans, and moans. Until she completely let go and let out a strangled cry.
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I struck.
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"Yes," she ***d out, a raw, involuntary sound.
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I struck again.
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"Oh God... sshhh ... okay... okay ..." She paused for a moment before she erupted "oh my GOOOOOOODDDD," her body arching.
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"Good girl."
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The air in the classroom, thick with her scent and the lingering medicinal stench of ink, suddenly felt too small. This wasn't about a debt, or a dare. It was about something else entirely.
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"You don’t get to exist in both places.”
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“I didn’t ask to.”
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“But you do.”
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She came with her eyes squeezed shut, breath trembling like it hated her.
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Back at the coffee shop, her words pull me sharply back to the present.
“Do you remember where you were last Thursday?”
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I shake my head.
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“I was buying clothes. For Mark’s father’s wake.”
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My stomach turns.
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“I texted you. Just to talk. I didn’t think you’d come.”
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My mind drifted, to the last time I’d been near her on such a somber occasion.
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The Nordstrom Parking Lot. Pale blue dress. Shopping bag in one hand, keys in the other.
She freezes when she sees me. “Not today. This is a terrible time.” She gets in her Mercedes. Stares at the wheel -- hands on 10 and 2.
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I knock.
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She doesn’t move. Just signals with her head slightly to her right.
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I slide into the passenger seat.
There's a deep silence that hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken grief and something else -- something illicit.
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“We’re friends, too,” I say.
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She scoffs.
“We’re not friends. You’re my fucking pressure valve.”
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“Then stop opening it.”
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She turns to me, eyes raw.
“You love that it’s wrong, don’t you?”
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“Do you?”
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Her breathing quickens.
“You wanna fuck me … You want to fuck me? Then fuck me,” the annoyance in her voice growing.
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She climbs on top, unzips me.
She licks her fingertips, while pulling me out with her other hand, gliding her soft, warm, wet fingers around my head. Her forehead pressed against mine, her rage and touch increasing my heart rate.
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I quiver in her hand -- engorged.
Her breath shakes as her strokes create an arousal that pushes against her belly button -- faster than anticipated.
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No kiss.
Just friction.
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When she tries to slide me in, it's slow and stretching.
Her eyes clenched tight, her mouth gaping like it's letting out a yell. But she's silent.
She's engorged too -- enough that my cock feels like it's being reshaped.
Not ***ful, but tight -- firm.
I feel almost every ridge.
The internal walls grip reflexively, clenching and releasing, like a reluctant gate.
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Flesh trembles against me.
I am too wide, too solid and her pussy knows it. Every inch is a negotiation between tension and surrender.
I stretch the threshold. *** it to remember to get wetter.
Squishy sounds that resemble the cadence of flip flops, match her vocalization.
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She moves like she’s trying to grind the guilt out of herself.
Desperate.
Brutal.
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The scent rises as she moves.
This time it’s different.
Peony -- clean, soft -- a floral that tries to behave. Vanilla clings beneath it. A trace of citrus. Something faintly bitter -- almond, maybe.
It’s the kind of perfume meant to say “I’m good.”
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Meant for someone else.
Not for me.
Not worn for me.
But I’m inside her anyway.
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She moans through her teeth. Rides me like she’s trying to forget what she walked out of.
Before she starts convulsing.
Shaking not just me but the entire vehicle.
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"Okay ... okay ... okay," she whispers, her usually adorable self trying to soothe, trying to savor the moment a little longer.
She is not ready to cum yet -- she can't help it.
Every time she slides down, her whole pussy caves in.
Forcing her clit to rub against her own lips, while my head puts pressure just in front of her cervix.
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She lets out a long, desperate whine. Her face looks like she's about to cry.
"Oh my fucking god!" She yells, a raw, unbidden cry that escapes her.
Exhales as her hips gyrate on top of me, finally slowing.
All I hear is her breath calming down, the last ragged edges of her release fading.
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"You owe me new pants and a new shirt," I joke.
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She ignores me ... Then wipes herself with a napkin from her purse.
Starts the engine.
No goodbye.
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Back at the coffee shop:
She shifts.
The air between us moves.
And the scent hits me again, sharper now that I'm fully present.
Peony, vanilla, a trace of citrus, almost almond -- soft, polished ... safe.
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It was the scent of a beautiful, innocent lie.
A scent she never wore with me.
Too innocent for what we are.
“I didn’t want this to be real,” she says, voice flat.
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I don’t say anything.
Because it is.
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She finishes her coffee.
Stands.
Walks out.
We don’t say whether we’ll meet again.
We don’t have to.
The gravity is still pulling.
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