[Sex]
You're in a rich hotel room, your skirt around your thighs and a man buried so deep inside you that you know you'll be sore as anything come morning. He's not particularly nice, the man riding your ass like you should be grateful for each thrust, but you weren't expecting any better when you met up with him, and so you can't go hating him for it now. It would bother you more if he whispered sweet nothings, because this wasn't about that. That's for someone else, even if it's hopeless. So you let him pound you until you bleed, and you wash up after and let him feel better by cuddling you after.
You leave before the sun rises, and it's your choice, not his. Playing house is about the person you play it with, and this isn't the man whose breakfast you want to cook up while he's still snoring.
You walk, despite every step feeling like knives along the back of your thighs, and you consider heading somewhere other than home. What could it hurt? You could slip inside, and slip into his bed, and you're sure he wouldn't kick you to the floor. But you're wise enough to realize it might only make the hurting worse when he found himself a pretty girl eventually. You've never wanted to be a girl, but you want a pussy something fierce just then.
You go home instead, to your nightmares and your empty bed, and you just manage to resist acting like a teenager and calling him for no reason at all. Doesn't mean you don't want to, though. Doesn't mean you don't want to.