‘Please.’ ‘I want to see.’ He pulled off the glove on her left hand, revealing a deep, scary scar running down the wrist. He flinched. It stil... looked raw, after more than four months. If the scar on her skin was still that vivid, he wondered what the scars on her mind were like. ‘Does it hurt?’ He asked, still holding her hand. She had stopped pulling but was looking down at the printed bedsheet. ‘Sometimes. Doesn’t matter, though.’ She looked up, her eyes sadder now. ‘I did it, remember?’. But I needed more, I needed a marathon session of fucking. Don't get me wrong; the way he made me feel was sensational but I needed a man to be quite literally balls deep in me, making me feel like I couldn't breathe from the pounding I was receiving. At the end of the day, if foreplay ceased to exist, I would survive, just as long as men continued to bend me over, slap my arse repeatedly and fuck me like the world might be ending.So, one night after my beautiful French lover had fallen asleep,. More

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