This comedown is worse than after a drug-fuelled night. My mind finds it impossible to adjust to a new, normal day. The bright morning sun breaking through the blinds is unbearable to my eyes and to my soul, that desperately wants to crawl back to that other dark, parallel universe, where time stood still, thoughts and responsibilities seized to exist and the only purpose of my being was to feed the appetite of those ravenous creatures of the night.

My autopilot signals for coffee, but I ignore it a bit longer.

My body aches with that gratifying muscle pain, you have after your favourite kind of exercise or a night of carnal sex. And sometimes it’s one and the same. I feel raw and used, but again, it is a welcome sensation; not so much as pain, but a vivid reminder of all the positions I was to endure and how my body was pushed to its absolute limits, a stark reminder of how things can sometimes get slightly out of hand; the thin line between pleasure and pain having been overstepped a few times, because the adrenaline pulsing through my veins didn’t allow me to halt them in their rampage, to warn them that they are tearing me apart. They were beyond the point where simply taking me would have quenched their thirst; they needed to hurt me. And I enjoyed being their prey.

It’s not my physical body that refuses to start the day. It's my mind, clinging dearly to the memories of that other world, the flashbacks of feeling so full and complete, crushed between their hot, naked bodies. Not unlike a bad case of hungover, my head is still spinning, full of the heady, intoxicating things they said, the echoes of their altered tones still ringing in my ear.

It is addiction of a different kind.

That sudden thought startles me and I force myself to finally get up. I stretch, I cover my otherwise naked body pulling down the old t-shirt that I’ve found on the floor last night and decided to double it as a nightie. I adjust my ponytail, that’s still disheveled for being used both as leverage and reins.

I notice that the fan is still on since last night. It has been incredibly hot, apparently it was the third hottest day on record. And these brick walls radiate heat like a furnace. But I don’t remember the heat. Not that kind of heat anyway.  

The man of the house is already up and he joins me in the kitchen, where we normally converge to discuss filth, as we do. He watches me as I turn the kettle on with a pained grunt, - yes, I swear, even my fingers hurt - as if battling the mother of all hangovers, all the while wearing a million dollar smirk.

And he just stands there basking in my apparent ‘after threesome glow’.

“Have you enjoyed last night? “ he asks with a smile as crooked as the person behind it. As if he didn’t know the answer. We have re-lived and analysed – as we sometimes do - every bit of last night’s romp during a second, more intimate session; one that belongs only to the two of us; a sweet lovemaking in missionary where I’m exclusively his and he kisses me, touches me all places, where all the others are forbidden.

“Of course I did,“ I purr as he nibbles the nape of my neck.

“I still have his scent on me," I warn and attempt to arouse at the same time. “I don’t know how, as I’ve showered straight after,“ I continue on a dreamy voice. “And it’s such a familiar perfume with the talcum-powdery vanilla undertones, but I cannot for the life of me put a name to it.”

He sniffs the side of my neck, his nose tickling the soft skin on my hairline. “It’s the scent of sin, baby. “ he whispers with a lustful sigh and a barely-there smile.

I grin ear to ear. Well put.

“Are we going to see him again?” I ask. It wasn’t the first time but I still haven’t asked for his name. I stopped caring about names years ago. But maybe with this one, it’s time I did; now that I can even connect a scent to the face and body.

“If you want to.”

Well, maybe next time I ask for his name and what perfume he wears otherwise it will bother me for life.