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Surrogate

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I have a weakness; for sad eyes and good souls; for broken hearts and bitter tongues; for sullen words and the emptiness that accompanies all these. I have a weakness for men who hurt and ache, for stoics with bandages over the gaping holes in their chests; for suffering in all her forms.

I've been the wife, the girlfriend, the sister, the whore.

I'm the surrogate.

“You're so good to me, Sheva...”

Chris breaths so heavy, his whole chest moving with immense effort, great strides up and down. My hands are pressed right up against his heart, and my legs are straddling his own. He's made entirely of dense muscle, and the way he moves is like a predator, one that carries it's mass with surprising grace and efficiency.

His legs tighten when I ease myself on top of him, and I can see the way his thighs contract; I see how his body works, how it gives and takes and pushes into me, until I'm full.

He's stunning, he really is. The way the sun trickles in through the dusty window and highlights the peak of his jaw, the definition of his stomach, the cut of his hips where I sit now, willing my body to move against his.

He groans and moans and says all the right things to me, all the “so fucking beautiful's” and the “Oh, God's,” and it's all so terribly insincere that I want to tell him to just stop pretending. He needs it though, so I let him hold on to his insincerity.

So we move and grind and fuck each other, like we're desperate to be touched, because I know he is. And we kiss like we love each other, even though we don't. When I bring him to orgasm, he touches me so he can say that it was fair.

And when he falls asleep, his whispers the name, “Jill.”

Because, I'm the surrogate.