#stan was never known for his plans

Lost in the After

So ten minutes. Just dwelling in it, thoughts adrift, finding herself irrelevant to tenses. Then her sensations kicked back in, the cloy of the sheet against her sweat-pricked skin, the heavy musk of their fucking groping at her nose, the sound of the bath thundering down the hall like continuous thunder. 

She rolled onto her side and up onto her feet. Toes tingled, and she stumbled, steadying herself against the windowsill. A smile meandered across her face, and she closed her eyes.

Rope around her ankles, the length of it creaking as he had pulled it tighter, and she’d felt the stretch in her muscles, just short of comfortable. They had started to ache after a while, but by that point she was hardly thinking about that particular sensation. She was more focused on the thickness of him inside her. 

She walked slowly to the doorway, the sound of the bath louder now. She wanted to see him, wanted to stare at that face and figure out how he could be so happy and relaxed, so downright jovial. He always was. Two steps into the hallway and the sensations kept making themselves known, like warning lights blinking on and off on a dashboard. Her bum burned. 

Still tied down, still ever so slightly uncomfortable. And then he’d started with his hands, softly at first, but still with enough force to leave a sting, let it wash away into a burn and a throb. But hte power had increased, slowly at first, and then faster, until she was yelping and crying out into the pillow. He’d only stopped when she’d felt tears threaten to jump down the sheer cliffs of her cheeks. 

She could hear him humming now, the cheery bastard. It made her smile, Fingertips trailing down the side of the corridor, skipping over the frames of the pictures, old band posters he’d no doubt hung up with great care at one point or another. His legs were visible, lancing up straight and powerful into the air before his hands came into view, sponge in hand. She bit her lip, watching the veins stand out over his knuckles. 

The backhand had come as a surprise, but she’d deserved it. A grumbled quip at the wrong time, shattering the sanctity of the scene for a moment. It was misjudged, what would another time have been harmless fun suddenly misplaced and distasteful. The pain had been different, hard and sore all at the same time. Four tough points against the line of her cheek. 

It still ached. She stepped into the bathroom, curled up next to the tub, and stared up at him. Either he didn’t notice her or he didn’t choose to, eyes closed, focus on cleaning himself as he hummed the tune to ‘Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover’. She giggled, and his eyes opened. 

He smiled and looked down at her.

“Just get yourself free.”