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🌒 “Hold Still”

Maeve POV

The first thing I feel is the ache in my knees.

Not sharp. Not sudden.

Just there. Always there—like furniture I’ve learned not to bump into. I stretch one leg out beneath the sheets, wincing when the joint pops. He’s still asleep beside me—chest rising and falling, mouth slightly open.

Peaceful.

God, I envy that.

He stirred me twice in the night. Once with his fingers. Once with his mouth. I was half-asleep, maybe dreaming. He didn’t ask. He never does when I sigh like that. It’s become our language.

My breath.

His hands.

I rise carefully. Cold floorboards press against the soles of my feet, and pain blooms in my lower back. I don’t cry out. That’s a luxury I gave up a long time ago. The bathroom mirror greets me with indifference. I stare at my reflection like I’m sizing up a stranger. There are finger-marks on my hips. A faint bruise beneath my collarbone. Part of me feels flattered. A bigger part wonders if he was thinking of someone else.

And then I see it—

Just for a second.

A flicker in the eyes. Not mine.

Not hazel, not honey-gold.

Icy blue. Sage green.

A shade I haven’t seen in twelve years.

It passes, but the echo stays. Recognition sharp enough to make me flinch. Someone I’d rather forget. Someone I never can.

I shower in silence, letting the water run too hot. My skin prickles, but I welcome the sting. At least it’s something that cuts through the dull throb in my body. Pain has become a kind of background noise. Pleasure is the only thing loud enough to drown it out.

Downstairs, I pour two mugs of coffee. One with sugar. One black. He takes it black when he wants to feel strong. Today is one of those days. He steps into the doorway, towel slung low on his hips, chest still damp from the shower, and for a second—just a second—I forget how tired I am.

God, he’s beautiful. Not in that loud, gym-bro way. He’s the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you. Soft arms that hide the tension underneath. Veins that pulse just beneath the skin when he lifts things like they weigh nothing. That quiet kind of strength—the kind that doesn’t beg to be noticed, but makes it impossible not to look.

His hair is still wet—mousy brown, messy waves that fall across his forehead in that careless way I’ve always loved. That color suits him. Muted. Honest. But it’s his eyes that undo me every time. Piercing ocean blue. Cold, sharp, and too perceptive. They cut straight through me like they know things I’ve never said out loud.

I let myself look.

Really look.

I trace every drop of water sliding down his collarbone, follow it along the dip of his chest, down to the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath the towel. My thighs clench before I can stop them. I want to taste him. I want to mark him.

“You wore me out last night,” he says, grinning—smug and soft and devastating. I lean back against the counter, a smirk tugging at my lips. “We needed it.” My voice sounds smooth. Controlled.

But I’m eye-fucking him so hard, I know he sees it. I want him to. I need him to. It’s the only time I feel like I might be enough.

He walks over and kisses my shoulder, right on the fading bruise. I don’t flinch, not anymore. I’m good at this part—being wanted. It’s everything that comes after that I haven’t figured out yet.

Later, when he’s gone to work, I curl up on the couch in his t-shirt. Legs tucked under me. Blanket pulled tight. The room smells like sweat, and coffee, and old pain. I reach for the drawer beneath the end table and pull out a plain, unmarked notebook.

This is where I live.

Not in the kitchen. Not in our bed.

Not in the kisses or the orgasms or even in his arms.

No. The truth lives here...

15/5/25

Two rounds. Nonstop orgasms. Fingered, fucked raw, held down and told to take it.

One of the most erotic nights I’ve ever had.

Being high helps for round two—it smooths the edges of the fatigue. Chronically ill, but nothing is going to stop me chasing this high.

Every orgasm hits like a drug. Every ounce of pain disappears. My brain clears. I feel light as a feather.

Pleasure takes me somewhere else entirely.

The look in his eyes…

When he gets inside my head and draws out every dark, twisted fantasy— It’s like he lights a fire I didn’t know I had. He stokes it with words, holds me down, fucks it into life. It’s not just my body he touches—it’s everything.

I honestly don’t think he knows.

This man has unlocked the secret to a woman’s pleasure.

And he’s mine.

Don’t get me wrong— I want to share. But he belongs to me. My natural alpha in bed. The assault of mental and physical stimulation is overwhelming in the best way.

I’m addicted, I know I am.

There’s no denying it anymore.

I can’t sleep without an orgasm. But solo play? It’s nothing. Nothing like what he does to me. And when it’s over—when I’m sore, when I can’t sit down— That’s when I feel at peace.

Completely and utterly.

Then I wait. It doesn’t last long. She comes.

She always does.

And this time, before the words even leave her mouth— I see them. Those eyes. Not mine.

Too pale. Too cruel.

That icy green-blue I’ve spent twelve years trying to forget. Frozen and sharp. They find me in the silence and hold me there.

And that’s when she speaks.

“What right do you have, feeling like that?”

“Feeling triumphant? Proud of yourself?”

“Look at you—plump, wide, aging. Scarred.”

“Having an appetite you don’t have the body to fulfill.”

“You think you give as good as you get?”

“You think he wants to share you because someone else might actually want you?”

“He’s tired of pretending to enjoy you.”

“You repulse him.”

And just like that— She leaves. Slams the door behind her like she owns the place. Gone as if she was never really there.

But she was.

Just long enough to remind me what I am.

And I’m shattered.

Nothing but doubts.

Nothing but disgust.

Nothing but silence.

I slip the notebook back into the drawer and shut it with the quiet precision of someone hiding a weapon.

Out of sight. Out of mind. Even mine, if I can help it.

The house is silent except for the occasional tick of the clock and the low hum of the fridge. My body still aches—fibro flare soft but insistent—but I pull myself to my feet anyway.

It’s Wednesday. That means I’ll be expected at the market by noon.

Expected.

Not invited.

There’s a difference.

I dress slow, each layer a performance. Sports bra to flatten, black leggings to smooth, hoodie to hide. A little concealer, a touch of blush, just enough mascara to look “alive.” The mirror gives me nothing. That’s fine. I’ve stopped asking.

I know what I look like.

I’m the girl who grew into too much—

Too much ass, too much thigh, too much curve for the clothes that used to fit. Not in that glossy, Instagram way. Real. Soft. Heavy where men stare and women whisper. My hair’s blonde, but I leave the roots dark—truths always grow back in. There’s a pink peek-a-boo streak I keep tucked beneath the layers, like a secret only worth showing to people who look long enough.

My eyes?

Hazel, mostly. Muddy. The color of wet leaves and tired days. But when I’m turned on—when I’m aching, begging, gone—they burn honey-gold. I’ve seen the way men freeze when it happens. Like I’ve become something more than flesh. Like I’m dangerous. Afterward, when I’m full and fucked and spent, they darken. Deep forest green. Like moss in shade. Like I’ve sunk somewhere even light can’t reach.

I wasn’t always like this.

Before my twenties, I was underweight. Not delicate, not doll-like—just sickly. Anemic. Pale. Exhausted. The kind of thin that made teachers pull you aside and whisper about eating disorders. The kind that made other girls laugh behind your back, calling you “the skeleton” or “crackhead chic.”

I ate in front of people just to prove a point. Shoved down sandwiches I didn’t want, just to stop the rumors. Didn’t matter. No one saw effort. Just bones. My lips looked too big for my face. My eyes too wide—doe-like, but not in the pretty way.

I looked like I was dying. And they made sure I knew it.

Now? I’ve gone to the other extreme.

Too much. Too thick. Too round in all the ways they used to say I was lacking. But somehow, it still isn’t enough. I’ve lived on both sides of the mirror and I hated the girl in each one.

I know it’s in my head. I’m not stupid.

I can quote you every psychological reason why I see myself the way I do. I know the voice that tells me I’m disgusting isn’t mine. It sounds like her—even now.

But knowing doesn’t stop it.

It doesn’t erase the years of being broken down before I ever had the chance to build myself. You grow up with someone picking you apart, and eventually, you start handing them the knife. She made sure I saw myself through her eyes—always lacking, always wrong, never quite enough for love but always too much for comfort. Even now, after all this time, I still don’t know how to see myself any other way.

And I will never forgive her for that. Not even on my best days.

I slide on the hoodie and tie my hair up, tucking the pink streaks under layers of blonde like it’s something shameful.

Market day.

I hate Wednesdays.

People smile at me like they know me, like I haven’t been dying inside since I woke up. I smile back, because it’s easier than explaining why I feel like I’m about to crack open. An old man compliments my figure. I laugh like it doesn’t make my stomach twist. A woman glares at my ass in passing. I pretend not to notice. Pain shoots through my calves on the walk home. I bite my lip and keep going.

The sun stings my eyes as I step off the curb. My legs are already screaming—hips stiff, thighs heavy. Each step feels like wading through treacle, thick and slow and unforgiving.

Every movement is a fight. Every breath, a small rebellion.

I’m out of breath. Not because I’m lazy. Not because I’m unfit. But I know what people see.

A bigger girl, walking slow, panting through her hoodie. It has to be her weight, right?

They don’t see the war happening under my skin. They don’t feel the pain curled into every joint like a curse I never asked for.

They just see someone who looks like she gave up.

But this is a battle. A never-ending one. The kind that no one else can fight, and no one else ever sees.

The idea of burdening someone else with it—Telling them what I’m really going through— It makes my skin crawl. Not metaphorically. Not figuratively.

It feels like a thousand insects crawling under my skin, chewing through muscle and bone, trying to escape through my throat. That’s what vulnerability feels like to me.

Rot.

And exposure.

And shame stitched into every nerve.

So I don’t speak. I keep walking. And I let them think whatever the fuck they want. Even though I know what it’s doing— Every step, every breath, is giving her voice more power. Feeding her words. Proving her right.

Funny, isn’t it?

She spent seventeen years feeding me lies—

And the only time the truth finally leaves her mouth…

is when it’s my brain pulling her strings.

A breeze rushes past, catching the fabric of my hoodie—and with it, the faintest trace of him. That mix of skin, sweat, and that cologne he only wears when he knows he’s going to ruin me.

It hits me like a truck.

In my mind, I’m already on my knees. The pavement turns to stone. Cold. Wet. I’m outside, late at night, under a flickering streetlamp.

He’s standing over me, eyes blazing that same sharp ocean blue Shirtless, zipper undone, cock heavy in his hand.

“You want it here?”

“Like this?”

“Say it.”

My breath catches. I want to say yes but I’m gagged—mouth full, throat raw. I’m dripping. Cuffed. Knees bruised. He tilts my chin up with two fingers, firm but gentle.

“You’re so fucking filthy like this.”

“Pretty little CumSlut. You love being used.”

I moan. I can’t stop. I feel it in my stomach, the ache, the need to be taken until I don’t exist.

“Do you remember what you begged for last time?” he growled, the last time we fucked. “Beg again. Right now.”

He has me pinned to the bed by the wrist—just one. It’s all he needs. My other hand is wrapped around his cock, slow, tight strokes that match the rhythm of his fingers thrusting deep between my legs. I’m rocking against his hand, panting, soaked, begging under my breath. His voice is right against my neck, low and sharp like a blade laced with sugar.

“You’re dripping.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

My thighs are trembling, muscles aching, body already too sore to play like this— But I don’t care.

“Tell me who you want to fuck.” His grip on my wrist tightens.

Just enough to hold me still. Just enough to make me feel it later.

He’s sucking on my nipples now—hot, wet, a little too rough. It makes me cry out, makes my back arch off the mattress. I’m not even touching myself anymore. I’m riding his hand like it’s a cock.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs. “I know you want it.”

“I see the way you squirm when they look at you.”

“You want them to want you, don’t you?”

“You want to spread those legs for a stranger. Make me watch.”

His mouth moves down again. I’m writhing. Losing it. The slick squelch of his fingers drives me wild.

And in my mind— she’s there. The girl I become.

She’s in an alley, bent over a car, tits out, eyes glazed. Her mouth is open and begging for cock. She doesn’t care whose. She just wants to be fucked. And it’s not him fucking her. It’s someone else.

A man she doesn’t know.

A stranger who didn’t ask, who just took—because she let him. Because I let him.

“You’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

“You’d let him bend you over and use you.”

“Film it. Show me.”

I moan so loud I don’t even recognize my own voice.

“Yes—fuck—please—”

His fingers press deeper. Harder. Circling that spot that makes my vision go white. I’m squeezing him in my fist, tighter, faster.

“You like that?” he growls.

“Thinking about them ruining you?”

“You’d beg them to cum inside, wouldn’t you?”

“Say it.”

And I do.

“Yes.”

“I want it—I want you to watch me cheat—please, please—”

I’m not me anymore.

I’m her. The filthy little thing I swore I’d never become. The one with honey-gold eyes and no shame. And he’s still holding me by the wrist like he owns every inch of me.

Because he does.

Because even when I cheat in my head—

he still makes me his.

In real life, I nearly trip over the cracked sidewalk. My thighs are clenching. Panties soaked. Mouth dry.

I press my lips together and keep walking, as if I wasn’t just mentally bent over a car with his hand wrapped around my throat.

People pass me like nothing’s wrong.

I grip the strap of my bag tighter, like that can keep me grounded.

He’s got me bent forward now, one arm twisted behind my back, his fingers rubbing me in slow, devastating circles.

“You’re not cumming yet.”

“You don’t get to cum until I say.”

His breath is hot against my ear, his voice dragging me open from the inside out. I can’t stop squirming. I want to scream.

Reality again:

The light turns green. I cross the street. I don’t look anyone in the eye. I want to say it’s over. That I’ve shaken it. But my pulse is still pounding between my legs, and my mind is still trapped under his boot.

And I love it.

And I hate myself for loving it.

I finally reach the corner shop and duck inside, air con blasting against my flushed face. The cold does nothing to cool the heat between my legs, or the blush still riding high on my cheeks. I grab milk. Bread. Something to make it look like this trip had purpose.

The ache in my thighs is sharper now. Every step reminds me what I’ve done—and what I didn’t. I turn toward the counter, ready to pay—

And stop.

There’s a man outside.

Leaning against the lamppost across the street.

Just standing there. Watching.

He’s not on his phone. Not smoking. Not talking to anyone.

Just... watching.

Not in a creepy way. Not overt.

But his eyes are on me like he’s waiting for something.

Like he knows.

I blink.

Look away.

Look back.

He’s gone.

A shiver traces up my spine, and not the good kind. I pay, step outside, and glance up and down the street.

Nothing. No one.

Still—

I walk faster. Just in case.

The walk home is longer than I remember. Maybe it’s the sun. Maybe it’s the heat trapped beneath my hoodie. Maybe it’s the way my body still clenches when I think about the look on that man’s face. Or maybe I just imagined it. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Just a look. Just a guy. Just a coincidence. I’ve always been dramatic. Always had an overactive imagination.

My therapist—back when I still bothered—called it “hypervigilance.” I call it knowing better. Still, I check behind me twice. Still, I cross the street sooner than I have to. When I reach our front door, I pause. Keys in one hand. Groceries in the other.

Heart thudding like I’m still being watched.

I let out a slow breath. Shake it off. It was nothing.

I repeat it like a prayer.

Like if I say it enough times, it’ll start to feel true.

Inside, the house is cool and still. I put the groceries away, one by one, hands steady, body anything but. There’s a text from him waiting.

“Thinking about you.”

“Need to see that face later. Need to taste it.”

I smile. Not because it feels good—because it’s reflex. I send a heart back. Nothing else. If I type too much, I’ll crack.

I curl up on the couch again. Same blanket. Same position. Same silence. But something’s different. I don’t open the drawer. I don’t touch myself. I don’t fantasize.

I just sit there. Still. Small.

Waiting for the feeling to pass.

It doesn’t.

End of Chapter One here…