I still wake up some nights with the memory of his hand clamped over my mouth, the weight of him pinning me to the kitchen table while the rest of the house slept. It started as an ordinary visit. My daughter had gone to bed early with a headache, leaving me and her husband, Mark, to clean up after dinner. He was twenty-eight, broad-shouldered from construction work, and I was forty-six, still carrying the softness of middle age. We had always been polite with each other, nothing more.
That night the politeness cracked. He poured us both another glass of wine and stood too close while I loaded the dishwasher. His breath was warm on my neck when he said, Youve been teasing me for months, havent you? I laughed it off at first, told him hed had too much to drink. Then his hand slid under my skirt and gripped my thigh hard enough to bruise.
I told him to stop. I told him my daughter was upstairs. He didnt listen. He spun me around, bent me over the table, and yanked my panties down in one rough motion. I struggled, but he was stronger. One arm locked across my back while the other worked his cock free. He pushed inside me without warning, thick and insistent, forcing my body to take every inch. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The table edge dug into my hips with each thrust.
He didnt speak much after that. Just low, filthy grunts and the wet sound of him using me. My body betrayed me after a while; the friction turned slick, and an unwanted heat coiled low in my belly. I hated how my hips tilted back to meet him.
When he finished, he stayed buried deep, flooding me until it leaked down my thighs. Only then did he let me up. He wiped his cock on my skirt and walked away like nothing had happened.
I never told anyone. Not then, and not the times it happened again.
