Oh, This Mad Passion

How... How fucking hard it is to walk on these stilts, especially when the whole body is aching from... fuck, I don’t even want to think about the fact that I’m basically sore from how hard I fucked that girl last night — so hard her legs, or rather mine now, feel like they’re filled with lead and at the same time shaking like strings pulled to the limit. Like every move is a fight for balance between pain and the memory of how her fingers dug into the sheets and her voice shattered against the ceiling. Lila... Yeah, that’s her name. Lila, who’s now — me. Or not? Shit, maybe that’s not even her real name? She didn’t even leave her ID, just this cursed tight top cutting into my shoulders, those shorts, and the fucking heels that make me feel like I’m about to eat the floor.

It’s a little better now, though, but when I woke up a few hours ago, under the blanket, of course naked and alone, I was upset at first that Lila was gone. I thought maybe she was in the shower or went out to get me some surprise. The passion was so wild — I’d even say I fell in love with her over that week, ever since we met on Tinder, and with every day of messaging, waiting to meet her in person got more and more unbearable. And it was mutual. At least I thought so, flying across the damn country, to another city, not just for a hookup — no, I really wanted to be with her. I was crazy about her.

When I arrived, we stood there looking into each other’s eyes for just a few seconds, but the moment our palms touched we both knew — there was no way we were going for a walk. We were consumed by passion. Mad, vivid, all-consuming. So much so that I carried her through the lobby in my arms while she kissed me, and I kissed her back, not caring about the looks from other guests or the receptionist’s smile. We barely made it to the room — and that was the best, wildest, and brightest night of my life.

And then I woke up, and she was gone... Of course, I felt down immediately. But still, I couldn't believe that all that passion, all that sincere, gentle, and incredibly deep connection — between two people who seemed so similar and liked each other so insanely much — wasn’t real. Yeah, I thought she went to get me a surprise. But as soon as I lifted the blanket a little, I felt something I was never supposed to feel in my life.

In the chest area, something... something was totally off. I first thought the blanket was bunched up, pressing me at a weird angle — but no. I sat up a bit more and realized it was... weight. Two heavy mounds, barely covered by the sheet, were lying on my chest, and when I sat up, they shifted, pulling at the skin — and the nipples, God, the nipples! they reacted like someone had touched them with an ice cube.

Without even thinking, I grabbed my chest — my fingers squeezed — and God, what a strange, wrong sensation it was: tender, firm, and soft flesh, full of warmth. Not muscle, not pecs I used to be proud of. This was soft, warm... like someone had shoved little instinct-filled memory pouches into me, with the fucking echo of pleasure. And the worst part — I felt it not just with my hand, but with my body! It was my flesh, my skin, my... tits!

I gasped sharply and jumped off the bed, but it didn’t help. The breasts — no, the nipples — just reacted more, like the air was colder for them, and the boobs bounced, and I almost lost my balance. I caught sight of myself in the mirror — and saw her. Me. No, her. The hair, loose, dark, messy, touching the shoulders, the whole body naked. Cheeks slightly flushed, lips still swollen, like I — I mean she — hadn’t cooled down after the night yet. Lila stood in the mirror, looking at me with eyes that silently said, “Well, that’s it, honey.”

Then I started to move slowly, noticing how my head was beginning to pound with a hangover, drowning out the still too-bright sensations from how my thighs rubbed together too tightly, especially between the legs — like reminding me that there was no dick there now, just a slit and emptiness. I felt hot — and not from shame, but from this stupid physical reaction, like the body was still living through what happened last night. It wasn’t just tiredness — it was aftertaste, a wave of sensations that, apparently, stay in a woman’s body after she’s been really well fucked. And I, God fucking damn it — I knew, knew exactly HOW it was — because I was the one who did it to her.

My fingers reached down toward the thigh, or more accurately, to my... no, I can’t say it. I didn’t even want to look there, just lightly ran my hand down, already knowing there was nothing. Nothing at all. I knew it. I felt the air between my legs. Felt it too damn well. I never thought that the absence of something between your legs could be felt so... sharply.

I flinched and looked around. On the floor — the green top, the gray shorts, and next to them, a pair of high heels. That’s it. Nothing else. No trace of my clothes, my documents, not even my phone. I tore through the entire hotel room. Those things were the only ones she left me. And now, after several hours of thinking, suppressing anxiety, fears, and brushing away thoughts of all kinds of shit, I finally decided to leave the room — taking the key card with me and hoping they’d let me back in, because I did pay for three nights. And at least during that time, I could try to figure out the truth... at least find out who Lila is — or, more accurately now, who I am...