Summary of this Story:
Sarah drives to Mike’s place on Elm Street, day after day, ignoring his breakup texts. She strips at his door, drops to her knees, and sucks him hard with that expert tongue ridge trick under the head. In his bedroom, she begs him to pull her pigtails, stuff her with his thick cock and the steel butt plug. Orgasms rip through her, double-stuffed and howling his name, even as he dumps her every time via encrypted app. Back home off Peachtree, she mourns the perfect sex, the lemon-clean air, his Keurig dark roast. Daughter’s with ex Tom in Orlando. She replaces phones shattered in grief, hits the gym for squats, smokes Camels outside his building. Loop tightens to day two hundred. Peace creeps in, maybe fatigue.
Here is your Story: She Keeps Getting Dumped but Returns for More
By day two hundred, Sarah had the routine nailed. She swung open the door to Mike’s place on Elm Street without knocking. Before he could shuffle out from the bedroom, she kicked off her red spike heels and peeled away the skintight dress. Black lace bra and thong stayed put. Tall, curvy, ripped from squats and deadlifts, she planted her feet, shoulders squared, heels digging into the carpet. Red lipstick smeared just a touch. Lashes clumped thick with mascara. Tits pushing past the bra’s lace trim. Long brown hair yanked into pigtails. Solid look.
Mike stepped from the bedroom right as her dress hit his spotless hardwood floor. He headed her way, managed a “hey!” before she pressed a finger to her lips and hushed him sharp. Down on her knees. Thirty seconds after the door clicked shut, her mouth wrapped his dick, kissing the tip, tongue sliding flat, sucking steady till he stiffened. She’d clocked it perfect. Hard now, she hit that one ridge under the head with her tongue’s edge while pulling him deep. He’d mutter “who showed you that move?” She’d keep sucking. Mouth stuffed. He dropped it.
Day Two Hundred Routine
Enough head, she headed to the bedroom, silent, and he trailed. He dropped onto the bed. She swung a leg over, meaty thighs bracketing his hips. His build still wrecked her every damn time. She’d freeze, eyes tracing him. Big guy, tall frame, muscles barely holding off the gut. She dug how he owned the gym and the fridge, made her five-nine ass feel small and girly. Cut lines in his biceps, traps. But those tree-trunk quads and calves? Wind knocked out. Loved their skin clash, his deep brown, hers pale, and the short buzz of hair on his scalp. Gaze done. She crushed her mouth to his, grinding her pussy through the damp lace onto his cock.
His eyebrows shot up, but he played it smooth, no more questions. Kissed back fierce. Hand cupped her skull. She breathed against his lips, “pull my hair.” He fisted a pigtail base while mashing mouths. Heat flooded her cunt. Wanted to plead for it harder, rougher, all of it. Broke the kiss, whispered “please please please.” He pulled back. “Please what?” Soft: “fuck me.” He nodded once, good to go.
Flipped her to hands and knees, snagged a condom from the nightstand drawer. Back in familiar territory, he rolled it on smooth. Fingered her clit from behind while lining up. But here’s her twist: she’d point to the steel butt plug on the nightstand. He’d pause, couldn’t recall spilling that detail, since Sarah never once mentioned ass play. Still, he’d grab it, squirt lube, ease it past her ring slow. Long groan ripped from her throat, gravelly. She chased that stretch-burn right before it seated, the heavy press inside.
Then he slid in deep. Double stuffed, pussy and ass, tipped her fast. Sure as shit, mid-thrusts from behind, hands clamped on her hips, long slow pumps with that thick cock, Sarah shattered. Palm grazed her clit, lazy circles. Yelled his name sharp, over and over, yeses and pleases tangled in, thank yous gasped out. Felt her walls clamp his dick, ass gripping the plug. Thighs quivered hard as jolts ripped through.
Mike kept pounding, blew past her climax, vise on her hips, burying balls-deep. Body went slack after. She begged him to wreck her. He ramped up. Yanked pigtails brutal, twisted the plug shallow. She howled louder. Begged to be his slut. New side of Sarah, but he leaned in, called her his perfect little slut while shoving her face into the comforter, railing her tight pussy raw.
His finish built, short jabs, brutal. She pleaded, “rip off the condom, fill me up.” Never did. Beg still spiked his load. Cumming, he yanked her back onto his cock, slammed home. Triggered her again. She faked feeling hot spurts inside. They crashed down tangled. Best nuts of the day. Dark roast he brewed after, sipping it in his arms on the couch, was top-shelf joe. Cuddles? Hadn’t mixed those up yet. Why bother. Plenty good straight.
Sarah figured the breakup text would hit later, perfect or not. She’d mostly made her peace. Still the best goddamn day, looped. Slipped out mid-morning. On the sidewalk by his building, she paused, fished a Camel from her purse, flicked her Bic. Leaned into the chill brick wall, smoked it to the nub before sliding into her Honda Civic. Though hell, maybe Sarah was tiring of it.
— Day One
First time Mike dumped her, that initial Sunday morning out of dozens, Sarah stayed mute. They’d set it up: she’d drive to his spot for Waffle House brunch. Days without a peep from him? Normal now. She woke, scrubbed her teeth, showered, twisted wet hair into a ponytail, yanked on a Nike sports bra and plain striped cotton panties. Added a faded Gray Tee, her go-to burnt-orange hoodie, Levi’s. Sipping first Folgers on her balcony off Peachtree when the phone buzzed.
“Hey, sorry, should’ve said sooner, but I mulled it over all week, and I’m just not pumped to see you anymore.”
Shock dropped her phone clean over the rail. Elevator down ten floors, bawling guts out, to a cracked screen in the asphalt lot. Laptop email? Nah, no clue what to type, or if he’d bite. Three months back, happy hour at the Draft House for techies, he’d sworn off email. No Facebook. Just this one encrypted app.
No reply didn’t mean she lacked words. Mostly pleas to rethink. She’d tumbled hard. His place erased her chaos, always sharp, lemon cleaner in the air. Big smile, perfect drip coffee from his Keurig. Finish that, quick rinse per his ask, then his tongue teased her till she begged. He’d mount up, she’d blow loud, neighbors gotta hear through the thin walls. But fuck, he filled her perfect.
First sex like this, pure fun, with a guy who wanted her curves. She’d trailed him like a lost dog. Things felt solid. Yeah, his spark dimmed some since date one. Float ideas, a spin on the Silver Comet Trail, karaoke at Rooster’s, got excuses, no bandwidth. Work crunch, she got it. Probe if okay? Convinced her all good, doubts vaporized. Then he’d rail her brains out, wipe the worry clean.
Rest of day one: tears, scrub the counters, tears, Publix run, tears. Evening gym, weak session, but mood lifted a hair. Laptop for a new iPhone order. Night, FaceTime with her six-year-old daughter at the Orlando resort, vacationing with Tom, Sarah’s ex, and Tom’s guy. Held it in, raved on the Ariel dress they scored, clicked off, sobbed fresh.
Bedtime, nerves jangling bad, she rummaged the cabinet for an old Xanax script. Knocked out thinking talk might’ve flipped him.
Morning after, phone whole, calendar blank on yesterday. Universe handed round two.
— Days Two Through Seven
Round two, teeth, shower, coffee indoors. Same text pinged. “Hey, sorry, should’ve said sooner, but I mulled it over all week, and I’m just not pumped to see you anymore.” Ready now. “This is dumb. Can I swing by and talk?”
Read receipt dots. Nada. Stared, tears hot on cheeks same as before. Finally: “Sorry.” Silence. She fired back. Unseen.
Days three to seven? Tweaks on two. Nudes, tricky angles, who knew. Pledges for any kink, uneasy on delivery. Flashback to first fuck, date three.
Hiked Kennesaw peak, sunset view. He kneaded her shoulders, kissed deep. Body lit up wild, craving raw. “Wanna fuck?” Nod. Condom from his pack, blanket down, he plowed her missionary. Orgasms before? Pfft. This wrecked. Post-glow thanks? He grinned easy.
Nothing stuck. “Sorry” some days. Or “Won’t change my mind.” Crickets. Skipped chores, knew reset. Gym evenings only, endorphin bump. Phone met doom there: stairwell drop. Box jumps, heel crunch. Weight plate smash nearby, crack echoing, spotter dude winced. No text those runs. Sleep, repeat.
— Day Eight
Phone chucked off balcony pre-outing. Downstairs Labradoodle guy barked; she flipped him off, ice in veins. Knew his script word-for-word, mouthed it sync. Missed it. Usual kit: Nike bra, stripes, Levi’s, orange hoodie. Wet ponytail. Drove to Mike’s, planless. I-85 stretch hatched one: beg for sex.
Door open, surprise on his face, first uninvited drop. “Sarah?” Quick, nerve steel: “Can we fuck?”
Beat. “Sure.” Stepped in, kissed her. She crushed back desperate. Make him taste the need, see he blew it, she was keeper stock. Hand low back, under hoodie. “Off.” She stripped it, folded neat on his leather sectional. Sports bra mashed her tits flat, job done.
Stomach hit her, stretch marks snaking hips, soft pouch. Kid scars. But his palms hit waist, slid to tits. No judgment. Just hunger. For her. Still jolts. Fingertips ghosted collarbones, breast swells light. Breath whooshed out. Thumbs circled nipples through thick spandex. Small noise escaped. He grinned sharp, smug. Knew her switches.
Ready, ass pat. “Shower.” Bathroom strip. Towels crisp white stacks. Grabbed edge one. Dial soap, no scent. Scalded under spray, soaped pits, belly, slit careful, not dwelling on prepping for him. Steam thick. Lingered extra. Just prefs. Everyone’s got ’em.
Out, he waited in bedroom. Waterproof sheet down, navy, slick sheen, crinkle under ass. Googled it post-first: real shit. Got it. Sat, felt the drag vs. cotton. Legs wide. Ceiling stare, loosen up. First ask, she’d balked. He waited patient, entitled. Caved. Loved it now. Precise work. Dialed what clicked.
Day Eight Breakthrough
Tom skipped this, never offered, she never pushed. Crystal now: red flag city. Park it. Not ex-husband hour. Climax hushed, palm clamped mouth, old divorce tic. He clocked it, all of it, head up, eyes on. Hand dropped. Dove back.
Condom on, doggy default. Slow deep drives. Fullness she’d chased blind her whole life. Dumb thought: this was it, always. Brain blanked. Yells free post-palm. Upstairs neighbor hearing every slap. Zero fucks.
Post, Keurig pour. No creamer, hates it, but primo brew. Sipped slow in his sheets, held tight. Solid arms, contained real. “Everything good?” “Yeah, work grind.” Temple kiss. Bought it hook.
Leaving, handed her panties off floor. Stepped in. Drove home midday, his Peloton spin. Evening gym, routine keeper. Hour lifts, pointless tomorrow. Home shower. Text mid-chop onions for chili. Same shit. Phone gripped long, shock-frozen, down easy on granite. Not pumped anymore.
Waterproof sheet flashed, tucked away. His towels. No smash. Bed.
— Interlude: The Phone
Early tries: left home. Rat sniffed once, gym return, plunged in john, mystery unsolved. Mattress hide. Balcony yeets till dog guy’s rant scripted. Mouthing sync. Blind to it.
Gym kills nixed most texts. Sleep straight. Early bugged her, text proved the loop. None? Wasted grind. Faded.
Day forty, counter ditch deliberate. No note chase. No words worth it. First intentional: keys out, glance back at it by the Keurig pod tray. Weight shed, backpack straps cut. Lighter. Locked the deadbolt click.
