Too Curvy To Be A Side Piece

Isla's pov I braced my soft, full hands against the cold wall of the bathroom counter, the mirror fogged at the edges from the heat of our bodies. Three years. Three years of marriage, and Rhys still f****d me like he was trying to brand himself into every soft, plump part of me. “Yes… f**k me… baby…” I murmured, the words spilling out between broken breaths as he pounded into me from behind. His hands gripped my wide hips hard enough to leave marks I would find later, sinking into the soft give of my flesh, and every thrust dragged a low, helpless sound from my throat. His c**k filled me so completely it still felt like the first time, rearranging me from the inside out until I couldn’t think past the sharp, perfect ache. “Take this c**k like the fat b***h you are,” he growled against the back of my neck, voice rough and dark. I turned my head, trying to catch his eyes in the mirror. “Babe… uhn… I told you not to call me that—” He didn’t let me finish. One hand came up, firm against my cheek, turning my face forward again so I could only see my own flushed reflection. My lips were parted, eyes glassy, hair sticking to my temples. The soft curves of my body—full breasts pressed against the cold counter, the gentle swell of my belly, the thick thighs that trembled under his grip—were on full display. Then he f****d me harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the small tiled space. The party outside was a distant blur of laughter and clinking glasses, but in here there was only the sound of him taking me apart. “I’m almost—” he groaned, hips snapping faster. His hand slid up and closed around my throat, pressure perfect, just enough to make my vision spark at the edges. “Yes… choke me…” I moaned, pushing back to meet every thrust, the soft flesh of my ass jiggling with the force. The first pulse of his release hit hot across my ass a second later, thick and messy, and I came with him, shaking, clenching, a broken cry trapped behind his fingers. He stepped back and the sudden emptiness made my legs tremble. I stayed bent over the counter for a few more ragged breaths, listening to both of us trying to remember how to breathe normally. “That was so good,” I whispered, turning to face him. I reached up, wanting the soft press of his mouth, the quiet after that usually followed when we were alone at home. My fingers brushed his jaw. He caught my wrist and pushed my hand—and my mouth—away like the contact itself repelled him. The rejection landed colder than the tiles under my palms. I blinked, still catching my breath, still sticky with him. That was how it had been for a while now. He would f**k me until I couldn’t stand, finish, and then something in his eyes would shutter. Distance would settle over him like a second skin. I told myself it was stress, or the pressure of trying to keep us afloat when everything felt so hard. “We’ve got to get back,” he said, already turning toward the sink. He washed his hands, then cleaned himself with efficient movements. “My friends will start suspecting something’s up.” I straightened slowly, thick thighs still trembling, and reached for the tissues myself. “I don’t care about your friends,” I said quietly. “Or the way they look at me like they’re disgusted just to see me standing next to you.” “Nobody looks at you like that.” He didn’t meet my eyes in the mirror. “You’re in your head. After all, I’m also broke like you. No one looks at me like that either.” The words should have soothed me. They always used to. We were in this together—two people scraping by, building something real out of nothing. But tonight the reassurance felt thin. “You just don’t get it,” I murmured, wiping the last of his c*m from my soft skin and straightening my dress with shaky fingers. The fabric clung to the full curves of my body. I could still feel the pressure of his hand on my throat. He finally glanced at me, expression unreadable. “I do get it. Wait a few minutes before you come out.” Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the residual heat and the low throb between my legs. I stayed there longer than I should have, staring at my reflection. My cheeks were still pink and my lipstick was gone. My plump body looked thoroughly f****d and thoroughly dismissed—soft belly, full breasts, the generous hips he had gripped so hard. Three years. I had given him three years of loyalty, of making do with cheap groceries and secondhand furniture, of believing every soft promise he made. I told myself the distance was temporary, that once things got better— The bathroom door opened again. A group of women spilled in on a wave, three of them, all polished and perfect, the kind of women who belonged at parties like this the way I never would. They didn’t notice me at first. One of them checked her lipstick in the mirror while another reapplied perfume. “Oh my God,” the tallest one said, voice low and viciously amused. “Rhys’s such a d**k. Why the hell would he be with a fat pig like her?” My head snapped up. I stepped out from the far side of the counter before I could think better of it. “Rhys loves me,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “That’s not something you can relate to.” They froze. For a second genuine surprise flickered across their faces. Then one of them—dark hair, red lips, eyes that missed nothing—smiled slowly. “You really believe that, don’t you?” “I f*****g do.” The words came out sharper than I intended. I pushed past them, heart slamming against my ribs, and stepped out into the corridor before any of them could answer. My legs were shaky. The hallway felt too bright, too long. Music and conversation drifted from the main room, but it all sounded distant, underwater. I had never felt so completely out of place in my life. Coming tonight had been a mistake. These people would never accept me no matter how carefully I dressed or how much I smiled. Rhys’s friends looked at me the way people look at something that doesn’t belong, curious, faintly disgusted, already bored. I turned a corner, needing a second to pull myself together— “—honestly though, I never thought you’d play this dare this long.” The voice was male and he sounded amused. Coming from just ahead, near the alcove that led back to the living room. I stopped. “I know, right?” Rhys’s voice drifted casually, like he was laughing. “Three f*****g years. She still thinks I’m broke.” My hand found the wall. The other man chuckled. “Appearance, man. How do you even keep it up with her?” “Appearance?” Rhys’s tone was pure mockery now. “All I do is f**k her p***y until it’s sore. What do you mean appearance? I stayed perfectly still, breathing shallow, listening to the two of them move farther down the hall. Their voices faded into the general noise of the party, but the words stayed. I stood there in the corridor with my back against the wall, the taste of his d**k still on my tongue, the marks of his hands still warm on my soft skin, and for the first time in three years I wondered whether the man I had married had ever existed at all.