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Sleeping with the Ghost of You

by Isla Chiu 4 months ago in fiction

I know it’s not your fault that you can’t kiss me like you used to…

Sleeping with the Ghost of You
Photo by Maru Lombardo on Unsplash

Kiss me like you used to. With passion and hot desire, like you will absolutely fucking die if you don’t get a taste of me right now.

That’s how it was.

When my lover unzips my dress now, I try to not let the guilt consume me.

Darling, I know it’s not your fault that you can’t kiss me like you used to, that you can’t fuck me like you used to. It’s not your fault that the cancer ate away at your brain, your sanity, your smile.

As he slips a hand into my panties, I get the absurd urge to call you and tell you, I love you. If I really loved you, would I be breaking my vows right now? But I do still love you. If I didn’t love you, would my heart break every time I see you, a shadow of who you used to be, a shadow confined to your bed?

A moan escapes my lips as he touches my clit. He actually reminds me of you when we first met. Like you, he has hazel eyes, golden hair, a panty-dropping smile. If I squint, I can pretend that I’m sleeping with the ghost of you, the you of years ago.

His finger goes inside my sex, and I moan shamelessly even as a little voice in my head whispers, I’m sorry, darling.

I’m a greedy, selfish woman. I want your love to be enough for me, but it’s not. God, it’s fucking not. For a while, I used a vibrator, and for a while, that was enough. But eventually, it wasn’t. I need to be touched, kissed, fucked by a man.

And I know it’s not your fault that you can’t give me what I need, but is it my fault that I need what I fucking-oh-so-desperately need?

He pulls down my panties, baring my wet pussy. His head goes down between my legs. Cries escape my lips as he kisses and sucks on my swollen nub.

Darling, do you remember when you used to go down on me? I do, and the memories fill me with both joy and grief.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against my thigh.

You used to tell me that every single day.

I close my eyes when he wraps his arms around me. I pretend he’s you, the you of the past, the you who couldn’t go a day without worshipping my pussy, the you who used to fill our house with laughter.

When he slides his cock into me, I scream his name, but in my mind, I’m screaming yours.

I arch my back, letting him go deep inside me. Christ, I miss the days when my cunt was filled with your cock, when you would make me cry out your name, when you would exhaust me with an abundance of orgasms.

He squeezes my ass, thrusting into me like the apocalypse will come if he doesn’t make me come right fucking now.

“Am I a better fuck than your husband?” he asks, cupping my tits.

I’m tempted to slap him. How dare you talk about my husband like that! I want to scream. But he doesn’t know about your sickness. He just assumes you’re a neglectful husband, and I haven’t corrected him. Let him assume I’m merely a bored housewife who’s tired of her husband’s lackluster bedroom skills. It makes it easier.

“Oh yes, you fuck me so much better,” I say, even as I think, You’re nothing compared to the man my husband used to be.

And he really is nothing compared to the old you, darling.

My disloyal pussy grips his erection. I groan with him. I’m close, so close.

I think of the first night of our honeymoon. You were a fucking animal. You tore my white lace panties to shreds.

When I remember how you claimed my sex and marked it with your cum, the orgasm slams into me, and I turn a little hoarse with my screams of pleasure.

My lover comes with me, filling my pussy with his seed.

I catch my breath. As he holds me, I close my eyes, a single tear falling down my cheek.

I’m sorry, my darling.

fiction

Isla Chiu

Author of romance and smut. Also an amateur foodie.

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Isla Chiu
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