(L) – This story contains strong language.
After reading the fictional story Hot Mess (July 24, 2025), several readers had questions. Part One of the two-part response, Her Smile (February 14, 2026), was published last week. This is part two, a retelling of the original Hot Mess story, from a new angle. The cultural traditions described in Hot Mess, and referenced again here, are the author’s creations.
Because of the nature of my husband’s work, we could not reveal his identity and work to others. Combined with his long absences, my family and friends didn’t know I was married.
The night of the Halloween Masquerade Ball, a man they’d never met wanted me to join him on an errand. My sister guessed my errand was to make love to him. She was only half wrong. I revealed I had not had sex with him, but had given him a hand job and collected his semen in a handkerchief. He’d put the still-wet cloth on the table in front of my sister. It was all part of a wedding tradition I had discovered when studying abroad. After revealing he was my husband, I told my sister I wouldn’t be returning home that night. Instead, I joined my husband in his hotel room.
We fucked each other like it was our second honeymoon.
At the annual Christmas ball, I received an invitation to another “errand.”
**** Friday evening *****
Sueliami rang the doorbell and held my arm while I cautiously stepped through the door, unable to see due to the blindfold. But I trusted Su—my husband did, and that was reason enough for me too as well.
I took several steps inside and stopped. Su released my arm to return to his limo, shutting the door behind him.
There were a few moments of silence where I stood in uncertainty, then a voice cut through the darkness.
“Remove the blindfold.”
Most of my vision remained dark, except for a red light that made a small circle on the floor.
“Walk over to the circle and stand there.”
I cautiously shuffled to the illuminated spot. The light went out, leaving me in a black, silent place.
Then I felt hot breath on my neck.
“W-who are you?” I whispered—knowing, and yet still carrying the slightest, most exhilarating sliver of uncertainty.
Hands pulled on my hips. Something hard pressed into the small of my back—unmistakably an erection. I felt its heat.
“You have a small birthmark just below the hairline behind your left ear,” he whispered, beginning to tell me things that only one man would know.
He kissed me behind each ear.
“You’re very sensitive to touch at the back of your neck.”
He dragged his tongue up the nape of my neck—slowly, teasingly—and then did it again and again as I melted further into his arms each time.
“Touch is a very important part of foreplay for you.”
His right hand slid between the front of my blue jeans and my skin.
“You love for me to play with you.”
I creamed, willing the hand to dip further.
“You are quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I remarked.
“Very sure. You once wrote: ‘I am your toy. Use my body to satisfy your sexual hunger.’”
***** Lightning *****
Memories flooded my consciousness.
. . . He had shoved me down upon the bed—not bothering to kiss me or uncover my breasts, not even to lift my dress to reveal the glory between my legs—he simply burrowed his head under my slip. As a farm girl, I had once watched in innocent fascination when a bull licked at a cow’s cunt. Now, I shivered while my bull tasted me. His tongue probing through my lips transported me to another world.
. . . A favorite blanket spread over freshly mown grass. Cooling breezes after a hot day. His tongue was feasting upon my clitoris, a meal to sate his hedonistic hunger. The friction of his tongue dragging across me built up the charge he would need to blast his love into me later. My hand closed over his swelling anticipation. Yearning tension. A spring wound tight, waiting for release. Tonguing. Tonguing. Friction. Random sparks of my legs jerking. Thunderous moans. The promise of a refreshing shower.
. . . The breezes stilled. Hot, sticky air in a dim bedroom. Calm, growing into crackling tension. A charged tongue sliding over an equally but oppositely charged clit. Another lick. An arc jumped the gap. Lightning plunged deeply, a surge of energy ripping through my being, discharging the opposing charges between earth and heaven, between clit and tongue, between lovers. Tossed across the bed by pleasure, I lay like a limp ragdoll, spent, sprawled across the sheets.
. . . I watched—my mind almost detached from my body—while his groin hammered the lips of my vulva, his penis repeatedly nailing the depths of my womanliness. The one-legged dancer frolicked in my pussy. It was fucking me.
My wedding dress, torn from my body, lay on the floor, abandoned.
Another crack of thunder. This time with a male-sounding voice. The shower of his love flooded the passageways of my vagina.
I had been his toy, alright.
Especially that night.
***** Play *****
Returning from the flurry of memories, I pulled his penis out through his pants. It wasn’t as hard as I had expected. I brought it to my mouth.
Dry.
The penis fell from my fingers.
Hadn’t all his groping at my boobs, all his pulling and sucking of my tits—hadn’t that been enough foreplay?
I needed to breathe life into a dry bone—the bone I craved—the one I wished would once again fuck me into oblivion.
I closed my fingers back around his cock and dragged the head against my lips. Finally, pre-cum dripped onto my tongue. I felt able to breathe again. I inhaled deeply before taking him into my mouth.
His legs stiffened. His back arched, thrusting his cock deeply. An anguished sound dripped from his throat. Desperate—but failing—to ejaculate.
I stood up. Somehow in the darkness, our lips found each other while I fumbled with loosening his belt and dropping his trousers. I drew myself up straight, presenting my back and ass to him.
“Fuck me, soldier,” I demanded.
Hands fell away from my tits reluctantly—but the reluctance seemed deeper.
Loss of ability was one thing. Lack of desire? This was worse than I thought. A different tactic came to mind—a distraction, perhaps.
Reaching behind me, I took hold of his right wrist and pulled his arm down. A middle finger plunged headlong into my cunt until my knees gave out. He held me close until I was steady on my feet again. His penis, lubricated with my saliva, responded to my fingers closing over it. Both of his hands continued to roam over my body, then rested on my ass cheeks—the command to submit to fucking.
“Do it. Fuck me,” I snapped. “Pound your nail into my cunt. Now!”
He maneuvered me and bent me over something soft—maybe a low bed? I didn’t care what it was as long as it got me in the right position to be fucked like I needed.
He steadied himself with one hand on my ass. With the other, he inserted himself and slowly traversed my love tunnel. He pulled back just as slowly, repeating the slide in and slide out multiple times.
He pulled on my hips to bury his penis and held me tightly. The quiet stillness, coupled with my senses deprived of sight, freed my brain to focus on his swollen cock head exploring me.
I felt him twitch, and I waited for his approaching climax.
I could hear his heavy breathing.
And his . . . sobbing?
He fell out.
I got up and held him tightly, sitting on the bed and letting him collapse into me, pulling his face comfortingly between my breasts.
“I can’t . . .” he whispered. “I can’t fuck you like this. Last week . . . My squad—we . . . We were too late. She . . . It was very bad.”
His mumbling was barely coherent, but I comprehended he was sparing me the horrible details of his work.
He stepped away from me to find a light switch, and in the dim light, I found that we were in a bedroom I didn’t recognize.
I thought I heard a soft knock on the door—I was almost certain, but he didn’t react.
He stood at the light switch after flipping it on, seemingly without the will to do anything more.
I went to him, turned him around, closed my hands over his waning penis, led my lover to the waiting bed, walking backwards before him. I pushed him down on the bed and clamped his wrists under my hands. I hovered above him, brushing my nipples across his face.
When his mouth searched for one to suck on, I knew he was returning from whatever dark world had tried to claim him. His sword recovered. I possessed it, twisting my body forward and back and sideways on it. I rose up on my knees, refusing to give in to defeat. I fell violently upon him, chambering his bullet. I would not accept a misfire. I trapped his cock head within the walls of my vagina. He screamed. I tried to imagine with what he wrestled.
Another knock.
Yes, I’d heard it right.
Was this . . . ?
Years earlier, when I had lived in Sueliami’s village during my studies, I’d discovered his culture practiced several rituals that were new to me. That included ceremonies related to weddings. The man roared out his joy of his first penetration. The shout was a signal to the waiting community. They would rush through the door into the bridal chamber and celebrate the couple’s coming together. The man fucked his bride while the others danced.
Ted’s scream was indeed one of joy and pleasure, but there was pain in it too. It was the cry of a lover seeing release, and also the cry of a tortured soul seeking healing.
Was he calling someone in?
Part of me was shocked and terrified, but then again . . . perhaps community could be a means of healing for him.
Sueliami and his wife entered our sanctuary, becoming witnesses to our Holy Communion. But unlike the traditional wedding-goers, they were not celebrating, they were solemn—hushed, heads bowed.
My husband and I both froze for several moments.
Then I felt his hands on my ass, pushing me up and off. I landed on my back.
Had something gone wrong? Had I failed? Was this strange interruption not what I thought it was?
I looked to my husband’s eyes.
No, nothing was wrong—his eyes were brimming with desire. This was exactly what he needed.
As I kept my eyes locked on his, he watched my legs spreading to welcome his still-hungry erection. He grabbed at my ankles, pulling me to him.
“Pull at your tits,” he demanded, and I eagerly complied.
His penis—his manhood, throbbing with renewed life—crossed the threshold of my cunt, and began thrusting earnestly.
With our bodies intertwining, we cried out both to God and to each other, a prayer of thanksgiving and a declaration of love.
This was the bread of sexual union to give life to broken bodies and souls.
The choral response of lovers’ yearnings.
The serving of the wine.
The drinking of the wine together.
A hymn of joyous celebration.
Mourning turned into joy.
I welcomed the familiar guttural noises falling upon my ears—the sound of a man desperate in his striving to cum. His head fell back. His eyelids closed. He came. I knew in that moment I was not merely a receptacle for his pleasure. His ejaculate was a physical expression of his love for me.
Having vanquished the demons that plagued him, my husband pulled out and bathed me with the rest of his release, fulfilling my longing to experience his love. When he collapsed upon me, I pillowed his head between my breasts and stroked his arms and back.
I noticed Su, seated on a couch across the room, preparing to serve wine to his own wife as well.
Afterwards, they joined us in the singing of the doxology.
***** Later *****
I’ve returned to my home. No more visits from the nausea demons. The stirrings of life in my abdomen remind me of the night of the Halloween Masquerade Ball. The sun smiles, its light streaming through the window and into my bedroom.
I return the greeting with a warm smile.
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