The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the ache.
Dull, deep, curling low in my hips and radiating down my thighs like the echo of something violent and intimate.
The kind of ache that didn't come from running or workouts or long shifts — it came from being taken. Thoroughly. Every inch of me felt used, stretched, bruised, tender.
And yet... I smiled. Softly. Just to myself.
The man beside me didn't stir. He lay on his stomach, dark hair tousled, one arm slung across the pillow where my head had just been.
The sheet hung low over his hips, baring the sculpted dip of his lower back and the faint shadow of muscle that disappeared beneath the fabric.
He looked like something from a dream — too sharp, too built, too effortlessly male to be real.
And yet I'd had him. All of him. Everywhere.
My thighs clenched, instinctive, and I winced a little. It wasn't just soreness. It was memory.
Of the way he'd moved — harder, rougher, after that first time.
No hesitation. No restraint. He'd fucked me like he knew I could take it, and I had, even when it felt like too much. The second time had been urgent, messy, with me on my knees and his voice ragged in my ear as he told me how good I felt.
The third time was slower, but deeper, relentless, until I was sobbing into the sheets. And after that, I couldn't even keep count. He'd flipped me over, pinned me down, whispered filth while his hand circled my clit like he knew it better than I did.
He made me come so hard my vision blurred, then did it again like it was nothing.
And now he was just... asleep. Peaceful. Like none of it had happened.
I sat up slowly, biting down a gasp as my thighs throbbed. My legs felt hollowed out. Even my breasts were sore — one marked with a faint, reddish bruise where his mouth had sucked too hard.
I ran my fingers along my hip, pausing at a crescent-shaped mark from where he'd gripped me.
He hadn't even taken my name. And I hadn't asked for his. Just two strangers in a hotel room, wrecking each other. And somehow, that made it feel even more intimate.
I slipped out of bed carefully and spotted my dress draped over a chair. My underwear was nowhere in sight. I didn't bother searching — I remembered the way he'd gripped the waistband in his teeth, muttering something about how I smelled.
Like him. Like sex. Like surrender.
I pulled the dress on, wincing as the fabric skimmed over sore skin. My reflection in the mirror caught me.
Hair tangled, skin flushed, mouth still swollen. Hickeys scattered across my chest. Red prints ghosting my thighs where his fingers had sunk in.
I looked back at him one last time.
The tram ride home was a blur. Cold seats, early risers, the ghost of his hands still clinging to my hips. The ache between my legs flared with every bump in the road.
But inside, I felt strangely... calm. Not just calm — full.
Like I'd just crossed some unseen threshold into myself.
Twenty-four. And finally, no longer a virgin.
Not because someone loved me. Not because it was time. Just because I wanted to. Because it felt right. Because he was beautiful, and I was alive, and for once, I didn't want to overthink it.
I'd expected to feel shame. Guilt. Regret, maybe. But none of it came. Only this warm, quiet satisfaction that hummed low in my chest. I'd made a decision. My decision. No one else's.
Back at my apartment, it was quiet.
My housemates were out, probably still at their boyfriends' places or sleeping off late nights. I dropped my shoes at the door and padded to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
The mirror caught my reflection again and this time, I didn't flinch.
I looked different. Not because my body had changed. But because I had. I undressed slowly, letting the dress fall to the floor, revealing my bare skin. My nipples were sensitive, already tightening at the air. There were red marks at my inner thighs. A few streaks along my ribs where his stubble had rubbed.
My whole body wore him like a signature.
The shower was hot and stinging, and I bit my lip as I ran the soap between my legs. Still tender. Still swollen.
But God, every flash came back too fast — the way his tongue had moved, the way his voice broke when he came, groaning into my skin. I leaned against the tile and let the water wash over me, whispering, "We have to clean it if we're gonna use it again." His words. His smirk. The towel in his hand as he cleaned me gently, without a trace of awkwardness. Like it was nothing.
I'd never felt so feminine. Not in the girly, flirty way. But real. Womanly. Powerful. Like I had done something sacred and wild and selfish — and no one got to judge me for it.
After drying off, I stood in front of the mirror again, towel wrapped around me, my hair wet. My skin glowed. My lips were still pink. And inside, something had changed. Something I didn't want to undo.
I didn't know if I'd see him again. Didn't even know if I wanted to.
Men like him — tall, thick-shouldered, sharp-jawed, with that barely-there accent that said he wasn't from here — didn't usually look at girls like me twice.
Let alone ruin them in a hotel room and then fall asleep beside them like they had nowhere else to be.
He was probably just passing through — work trip, weekend escape, something fleeting. And if I was being honest with myself, probably used to girls like me. Girls who got wide-eyed at his hands, his voice, the sheer weight of his body pinning them down.
I tried not to dwell on it. But the insecurity crept in anyway.
I'm not some nobody, I reminded myself. I'm not just some girl.
I don't want to be a nurse forever. It's respectable, sure. It pays the bills. It's the ultimate immigrant safety net. But I didn't come this far just to play it safe. I want more.
Acting. Art. Fame, even. I want the spotlight. I want to live boldly.
And if I'm being honest, I'm better than half the girls out there trying to make it. At least I've got a degree. At least I'm not slinging drinks or selling myself for rent.
This wasn't just some random hookup.
It was proof.
Proof that I was desirable. That I could follow instinct and still land on my feet. That I could take a risk and come out of it feeling more like myself than ever before.
And yeah, I lost my virginity to a stranger. But not just any stranger.
A man who looked like a god and touched me like he'd invented sex. A high-value man, by every definition. And somehow, for one night, he was mine.
That mattered.
Not because it meant anything about him. But because it meant something about me.
I closed my eyes, still reflecting.
It wasn't the kind of night you forget. Not because of the story. Not even because of the sex. But because of what it woke up in me — the quiet knowing that I could want, and be wanted, without shame.