Fuck Me Like You Mean It

Chapter 1: Something Broken In Me

GLORIA'S POV

I lie still in bed, one bare leg tangled in the sheet, my nightgown twisted at my waist. The room is silent save for the obnoxious snore of my husband sprawled beside me, mouth half-open, lips fluttering with each guttural breath. My eyes fix on the ceiling, the slow spin of the fan blurring into nothing. I blink. My chest aches—not from pain, not exactly—but from a gnawing emptiness that pulses through my ribs like something wounded and wet.

There’s something broken in me. Something wired all wrong.

I don’t know how to help myself anymore. I don’t know if I ever could.

I wish I had a better excuse than just I want. But that’s what it comes down to. This fucked-up craving that's lived in me since I was little—before I even knew what it meant to be wanted. I remember that hollow pit in my stomach at eight years old when no one looked. When I wasn’t chosen. When eyes slid past me like I was invisible.

That part of me never grew up. It just grew louder. Hungrier. And now it’s wrapped around my spine, curled like something serpentine and venomous. This need to be seen, to be touched, to be craved, to be owned—it runs so deep inside me I don’t know where it ends and I begin.

And right now, lying next to the man who was supposed to fix all of it, I feel lonelier than I ever have.

David's snore breaks in the middle and catches in his throat like a choke. I glance over at him. He doesn’t stir. Still dressed in his pajama pants, one hand limp on his chest, his wedding band glinting in the dark like an accusation. I almost feel bad.

Almost.

But my body is aching. Not just aroused—burning. Every nerve buzzes under my skin like I'm plugged into something too strong, and I can’t turn it off. My thighs are slick and clenched, my nipples so hard under the silk of my nightgown they sting.

I can’t breathe through this anymore.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand, sliding the screen up with a slow, trembling swipe. The familiar icons flicker to life. I pause—thumb hovering—before tapping into the browser. Porn.

Not even bothering to turn down the volume, I scroll past thumbnails until I find one. Two men. One woman. She's on her knees, mascara running down her cheeks as she gags on one cock, fingers buried in herself while the other slaps her ass. Something inside me clenches violently.

I press play.

The moans hit me first, raw and shameless, and I let them wash over me. One hand creeps down past the hem of my nightgown. My fingers slide over soft cotton, past it, beneath it, finding the wet heat waiting like it’s been screaming for me all night.

I bite my lip as I touch myself, softly at first—just gentle circles over my clit, my legs parting instinctively. My breath stutters. My back arches. I imagine it’s me on that screen, caught between them, not even pretending to resist. Wanting it. Taking it. Begging for more.

I whisper something that isn’t even a word.

David snores again. Louder this time. I jerk my head toward him, rage and shame and lust tangled in a single breath. I don’t even pause. My fingers speed up, slipping lower, wet and hungry. My eyes roll back.

“Yes,” I whisper, hips jerking, wrist straining. “Fuck... yes...”

The woman on screen is crying now, moaning around the man in her mouth, and I mirror her, something in my chest cracking open as the heat explodes through me. My body convulses with a sob. Not from pain. From need. From relief.

My orgasm tears out of me in a thick, gasping cry. I arch off the mattress, legs trembling, fingers still working as I ride it through with ragged, bitten-off whimpers. My heart is racing, my breath sharp, skin slick with sweat.

And then it’s gone. The crash.

I fall back against the pillow like something thrown.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Not from sadness. From the silence. From how fast I went from something alive and bright and aching to this hollowed-out husk staring up at a ceiling fan.

I reach for a tissue, wipe my fingers slowly, breathing deep, trying to calm the frantic thud of my pulse. My thighs are still shaking.

I look at David.

Still asleep. Still snoring. Still so fucking unaware.

“Useless,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

It’s not that I don’t love him. It’s that I don’t think I even exist to him anymore.

He used to look at me like I was the only woman in the room. Now? I could be naked on the kitchen counter and he’d ask where the salt is.

I scoff and sit up, tugging the gown down, trying not to let the guilt in. I’m so tired of feeling like a monster. Of whispering apologies into the dark, as if that makes it better.

There’s something inside me that wants. And wants. And won’t stop wanting. And maybe there’s no fixing it.

Maybe it doesn’t need to be fixed.

My phone buzzes beside me again. I frown. It’s past two in the morning—only spam comes in at this hour.

But this… this isn’t spam.

The notification shows nothing but a padlock. I click it anyway.

The screen shifts.

Encrypted message.

My stomach knots.

I swipe again. The message opens in stark white text against black. The font is simple. There’s no name. No signature. No explanation.

You are being watched.

Come tonight.

Below it is a single street address.

And when I read it—when I really see it—I freeze.

My mouth goes dry.

No.

No, it can’t be.

But it is.

I know that address.

Everyone in the city does.

It’s the location of Club Hollow. The most exclusive, most whispered-about den of sin in the whole metropolitan underground. No signs. No phones. No cameras. Just whispered invitations and black-gloved bouncers who turn away even billionaires if their names aren’t on the list.

It’s where everything illegal and delicious pulses under neon and shadows.

I’ve never been. I’ve never dared.

Only the shameless go.

Only the dangerous.

Only the damned.

I reread the message.

You are being watched.

A shiver shoots down my spine like someone’s just dragged a knife down my back.

I glance again at my husband.

Still asleep.

Still not seeing me.

Still unaware of the mess of sweat and climax curled beside him.

I don’t even realize I’m breathing hard until I taste salt. I’m shaking. I clutch the phone tighter, staring at that address like it’s a death sentence.

Or an invitation.

My heart thunders as I sit frozen, paralyzed, at the edge of a choice.

One I know I’ll make.

Even now.

Especially now.

Because something inside me whispers—

You’ve already said yes.