scarlet’s thoughts.

Below is a story from Scarlet's point of view, detailing how she met Marcus, her past experiences with women—particularly her intense connection with Lena—and .Scarlet Scarlet's Secret

I still remember the night I met Marcus. It was one of those sticky summer evenings, the kind where the air clings to your skin like a second layer. I'd gone to this dive bar on a whim—tall, blonde, and restless, my heels clicking against the cracked pavement. I wasn't looking for anything serious, just a drink and maybe a distraction. Then there he was, hunched over a beer at the counter, this average guy with a mop of dark hair and a shy smile. He wasn't my usual type—shorter than me, a little stocky, with that wild chest hair peeking out of his shirt—but something about him caught my eye. Maybe it was the way he fumbled his words when he offered to buy me a drink, or how his brown eyes lit up when I laughed at his awful joke about the bartender's mustache.

"Name's Marcus," he'd said, scratching his neck, his fingers brushing that hairy patch I'd later come to know so well. I liked his earnestness, the way he didn't try to puff himself up. We talked for hours that night, and by the end of it, I let him kiss me outside the bar. His lips were rough, his beard scratchy, and his hands hesitated before settling on my hips. It was sweet, different. I didn't plan on keeping him around, but Marcus has a way of growing on you—like moss on a rock, steady and unassuming.

That was three years ago. Now we're married, and he still doesn't know the half of who I am. He doesn't know that before him, my bed was warmed by women—soft, curvy, powerful women whose bodies I craved like a drug. I've always been bisexual, but Marcus thinks I'm straight as an arrow. It's not that I'm ashamed; it's just easier this way. He's traditional in his own quiet way, and I don't want to shake the life we've built. So I keep my past locked up, a secret I carry in the sway of my hips and the flicker of my gaze when a gorgeous woman walks by.

Back in the day, I couldn't get enough of women. Their skin, so smooth against mine, the way their breasts felt under my hands—full and heavy, yielding in a way men's bodies never do. I loved the taste of them, the way their thighs quivered when I went down on them, my tongue tracing every fold until they arched and moaned my name. I'd tangle my fingers in their hair, pull them close, feel their curves press into me as we moved together. Fucking a woman was like dancing—fluid, electric, a give-and-take that left me dripping and breathless.

And then there was Lena. God, Lena. She was the one I can't shake, even now, lying next to Marcus with his hairy arm slung over me. Lena was tall like me—six-foot-two, a redheaded amazon with a body that could stop traffic. Her tits were massive, round and firm, spilling out of every top she wore, and her ass was a masterpiece, thick and sculpted from hours at the gym. She was muscular, all lean power in her arms and thighs, but she never lost that feminine sway, that softness in her hips. Her green eyes could pin you to the wall, and her lips—fuck, those lips—were made for sin. Lena was a strict lesbian, no exceptions, and she fucked like she meant it.

We met at a gym downtown, both of us dripping sweat after a late-night session. I caught her staring at me in the locker room, her gaze lingering on my chest, my ass, as I peeled off my leggings. "You're trouble," she'd said, her voice low and smoky, and I grinned because she was right. That night, she took me back to her place, and I still get wet thinking about it. She pinned me to her bed, her strong hands gripping my wrists, her mouth on my neck, my tits, my clit. Her body moved like a storm—her muscular thighs straddling me, her big breasts swaying as she rode my face, her red hair spilling over her shoulders. I'd grab her ass, feel the power in it as she fucked me with her fingers, her tongue, sometimes a strap-on that left me screaming into the pillow. She'd make me come so hard I'd see stars, then flip me over and do it again, her sweaty, toned frame pressed against mine.

Lena loved my body too—my height, my curves, the way my blonde hair fanned out when I came. "You're built for this," she'd growl, her hands kneading my tits or slapping my ass, leaving red marks I'd admire later. We were together for six months, a wildfire of sex and fights, until she ended it. She wanted someone who'd commit to women only, and I couldn't give her that. I still wanted men sometimes, their roughness, their weight. Like Marcus.

Now, with him, it's different. His hairy chest scratches my skin when we fuck, his ass flexes under my hands as he thrusts into me, all eager and unpolished. I love him—the way he grunts my name, the way his cock fills me, thick and hot—but it's not the same as Lena's slick, knowing touch. I miss the softness, the curves, the way a woman's body melts into mine. Sometimes, when Marcus is asleep, I touch myself thinking of her—of Lena's muscular frame hovering over me, her big tits brushing my lips, her fingers curling inside me until I'm shaking. I bite my lip to keep quiet, my secret pulsing through me as my husband snores beside me.

Marcus doesn't suspect a thing. He thinks my wild days were just flings with guys like him—hairy, average, safe. I let him believe it. I love him too much to crack that illusion. But every now and then, when we're out and I catch a glimpse of a tall woman with a killer ass, my pulse quickens, and I wonder what he'd say if he knew. If he saw me the way Lena did—raw, unfiltered, hungry for more than he'll ever understand.