Jessica gets caught up with a new flame.
| Jessica savors the taste of him on her tongue. She has never considered herself a person driven by bodily needs but he has awakened something in her, a desire beyond any others in her life.
"I need more," she moans with him in her mouth. "I need you inside me."
He complies, giving her more. It's the sixth time. She is insatiable. Her honey tresses are damp with exertion, her hands are covered in his sticky sweetness. Her dazed green eyes glaze over in ecstasy, as she continues on her dedicated journey, over his manly curves.
Fortunately, he has more to give, and he is in her once more. She licks what is left of his taste on her lips. The white aftermath is crusting her lips, but she refuses to wipe it off. She wants to soak in every moist bit of him.
She tells herself, she must stop. Won't she die from his taking her all the way to ecstasy so many times? Will there be anything left of either of them when they are done with each other? Is there such a thing as being done in a situation such as this?
She is late for work. Her stethoscope and white coat lay forgotten in a pile by the door. She didn't even give herself time to settle in before she pounced on him. Her black pager is still buzzing on the counter, moving closer and closer to the edge. A feeling that is mutual.
The count rises and rises. She starts to feel sick inside--she's the worst kind of addict. But now, it is almost autopilot. She can't stop herself, even if she wants to. "More, more," she chants before she slams against him in pure lust. He's in her again. She doesn't want him to ever stop.
An hour passes. Twenty-four. Twenty-four times, he has entered her body and filled her with his sticky essence. But he is long gone, and she is lying on the floor, aghast at herself, curled into the fetal position. She is overcome with nausea. What has she become? Her pager buzzes again. Her cell phone starts to chime as well, next to her. She has 10 missed calls from work. 5 missed calls from family and friends. She has rejected life, rejected the world around her.
The only stimulus for propping herself off the floor is the sloshing in her stomach. She staggers to the bathroom holding her abdomen tightly. She purges everything there. It keeps coming and coming. She has never vomited this much, even when she drank herself to oblivion in college. But no one is there to hold her hair back. No one is there to see her secret shame.
She collapses back on the bath rug. The light pink fuzz is soft under her fingertips. Never again, she thinks to herself. But deep down, she knows it to be a lie.