I tried something new today. Mom and I went to a little art studio downtown that lets you smash plates. You pay, they give you old dishes and a mallet, and you just... destroy. It's supposed to be therapeutic.

I thought I'd smash the guilt. The shame. The image of his face when he realized where he was. I swung that mallet so hard my shoulder ached. But when the ceramic shattered, all I saw was the way my hips arched up to meet his. The sound wasn't breaking plates; it was the wet, obscene slap of his balls against my ass, over and over.

My hands were shaking when I put the mallet down. Not from the impact. From the memory of his grip on my waist, holding me still so he could fuck me deeper. I got so wet thinking about it I had to excuse myself to the bathroom. I locked the stall, shoved my hand into my jeans, and rubbed my clit until I came in under a minute, silent and furious, my forehead pressed against the cold metal door.

The fucked-up part? It wasn't enough. Smashing things didn't purge it. Coming didn't sate it. I want him to ruin me like that again. Not an accident this time. On purpose. I want to look him in the eye while he pushes his cock into my tight little asshole and tells me I'm a good girl for taking it. I want to wear the bruises from his fingers like the only jewelry I own anymore.

We're supposed to be rebuilding from broken things. But all I want is to be broken by him, in every way that matters.