When I leave work on Friday the sun is setting, and I walk to the train station gingerly on still-numb legs. I will never forget the way they buckled and gave out beneath me during my second orgasm. You held me up then, you kept me from collapsing, your hands firm and strong upon my hips.

But your ramrod-straight erection was firmer and stronger still. I'm convinced you could have kept me up with that alone, the long and powerful member with which you drove me to such helplessness in the first place.

I stumble through the winter streets with toes that tingle, with legs which tremble, with shaky step after shaky step, whilst to the west the light of the departing sun illuminates the sky in an afterglow almost as intense as my own. At first, the sunset is bright orange, matching perfectly the ginger curls that cascade down my back. But as I walk slowly on it changes, becomes deeper, until the last rays peeking out over the horizon are as deep and ruby red as the blood which lingers in my cheeks.

It's turned my fair skin the colour of roses, a passionate flush which deepens as I recall the energy and vigour of the act which put it there. The same colour as the blood which rushed in you, which raised that majestic cock high and proud when you took me and made me yours.

At the station, I sink gratefully into a seat, and my sigh sends steam billowing through the cold air. The faces around me are red too, raw with winter's touch. I wonder if it's obvious that what colours my face is not the cold but a healthy post-orgasmic glow.

The night may be cold but I am warm inside. Sticky, too, in need of a shower. I was covered in sweat by the end, and I can feel it in my long, curly hair, between my tingling toes in their black silk stockings, turning my white shirt translucent so that the bra which holds my D-cup breasts shows through. I wear my coat buttoned up to hide my dishevelment.

I did what I could to make myself presentable, afterwards, but your sex made an utter mess of me. It destroyed not only my sharp and professional outfit but my icy and dominant persona as well. I'd ridden your ass all week on the job, every inch the bossy alpha female. I suppose I deserved to be ridden twice as hard in retaliation when you proved every inch an alpha male.

As I board the train I see a teenage boy's reflection in the window, staring obsessively at my ass. So many men stare at me. I think what first brought you to my attention was that you didn't. I didn't want your desire, I told myself back then. I had no plans to sleep with any of the overgrown boys that fantasise over my tall, curvaceous figure. It's the power my attractiveness gives me that I care about, the power to wrap men like you around my fingers. So I went out of my way to tempt you, to goad you, to validate myself. To make you lose your cool.

Now, look at me.

Between my legs there comes a growing sensation of sticky warmth; I slip into the toilet to find out why. There beneath my tube skirt, inside my black silk knickers, is the proof of your conquest.

Just look at my pussy, the mess you've made of it. Look at how the once-neat lips gape so openly, how your cum oozes out between my rose-soft petals. Your load was unleashed so deep inside, your cock buried so deep and erupting so forcefully, that my womb will be painted white for days. I remember your ejaculation with a breathy little giggle, like a schoolgirl with a crush. You fired off inside me without a moment's hesitation. So reckless. So impulsive.

So manly.

Your load puddles in my panties, creamy white standing out against silk as black as the now fallen night. That thick cum marks me as your conquest; it is my white flag of surrender to your embrace. As I pull my knickers back up and leave to get a seat, I blush to think that as I sit, as countless people watch me, my body overflows with your seed.

Just as it oozes from between my lower lips, so I want it coating my upper lips. I want you to cum in my mouth. I want to go down on you, service you, reward you. To worship your cock. The sharp tongue which once lashed you with harsh words will tease your throbbing head, and my full, plump lips will suck and suck until your endless load is mine.

I will gladly swallow your big, swinging balls and I will take every inch of your manhood if I can, but a cock like that might be more than my mouth can handle. Perhaps the cleavage of my milk-pale breasts will pick up the slack? Maybe you can paint them even whiter.

And that is only the start of what I would do for you.

By Monday morning, I’ll be my old self again. Over the weekend I will recover. For now, I will dream of submitting to you, I will blush like a crushing virgin as I recall what passed between us, and I will bask in the afterglow of your love. And when I walk into my lonely apartment, before I peel off my clothes and retreat to a lovely bath I will write all of this down, so that I will remember how sweet submission feels.

Tomorrow I will cringe at having felt this way; by Sunday I will deny it. When the new week begins I will stride into work as confident, as biting, as arrogant and superior as I was before you took me.

So I can enjoy being taken once again.