Being Real.

In a filtered artificial world, where we try and hide our real, flawed selves, his fingertips traced my scars under the light of the bright lamps dotted around the hotel bedroom.

“You’re beautiful,” he sighed, stroking my soft stomach.

I’d been shy and awkward about my body for the longest time, but he made me feel good and so I relaxed into his eager arms.

He kissed me until I forgot my name, played with me, toyed with me, edging me on until I could have cried.

Then he fucked me, softly, sweetly.

Then he fucked me hard, deeply, completely.

Unsplash: Alexander Krivitskiy

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