Obsessed with Sean

I’m walking home through Dublin after a tough week at St. James’s Hospital. The air is thick and unusually hot for the city—sticky, heavy, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes every step feel slower. As a pharmaceutical technician the days have been long: endless prescriptions, stock checks, the constant pressure of getting everything exactly right. By the time I reach my flat I’m damp with sweat and exhausted.
I close the door behind me, drop my bag, and strip out of my clothes without ceremony. The cooler air of the flat feels like a relief against my bare skin. I leave everything in a heap and walk to the kitchen in just my knickers. The bottle of prosecco has been waiting in the fridge all week. I twist the wire, ease the cork out with a soft pop, and pour a tall glass. The first sip is cold and sharp and perfect.
I carry the glass to the sofa, curl up, and unlock my phone. Scrolling feels automatic at first—messages, news, nothing that holds my attention. Then I stop.
Sean has posted from his holidays.
The photos are bright and sun-drenched. He’s on a balcony, bare-chested, a towel hanging low on his hips, smiling that easy, open smile he always has. Another shows him in the sea, water running down his chest and stomach. A third is a close-up of him laughing, eyes bright, looking relaxed and happy in a way that makes something twist low in my belly.
He’s always been lovely. Kind. The sort of man who hugs like he means it, who remembers small things, who makes everyone around him feel steady. For years that was all it was. But for the last couple of years something has changed in me, quiet at first and then impossible to ignore. Every time he pulls me into one of those warm, lingering hugs I press a little closer. I’ve started squashing my small breasts against his chest on purpose. The last few times I’ve let my thigh grind softly against the front of his jeans, feeling the long, soft shape of him there. It leaves me restless for hours afterwards.
Now, looking at him on a sunny balcony far away, the wanting surges harder than usual.
I take another slow sip of prosecco and keep staring at the photos. My free hand drifts down almost without thinking, sliding over my stomach and into my knickers. I’m already slick. I circle my clit with two fingers while I zoom in on the line of his shoulders, the water on his skin, the way the towel sits so low. In my head it isn’t a screen anymore. It’s Sean standing in front of me, still warm from the sun, looking at me the way I’ve wanted him to look at me for so long.
I push my fingers inside myself and let the fantasy take over completely. He’s here. He takes the glass from my hand and sets it aside. His mouth finds mine, unhurried at first and then deeper. Those strong arms pull me in the way they always do, only this time there’s nothing polite about the way he holds me. He lifts me, carries me to the bed, and strips the last of my clothes away. When he pushes inside me it’s slow and thick and exactly as I’ve imagined every time I’ve felt him against my thigh. He fucks me with the same steady care he shows in everything else, only now it’s all for me—deep strokes that fill me completely, his chest pressed to my small breasts, his voice low against my ear telling me how good I feel.
I come on my fingers with the phone still open on his smiling face, the taste of prosecco still on my tongue, the Dublin heat lingering on my skin.
It doesn’t take long for the urge to come back.
The prosecco is only half-finished and the heat of the evening is still thick in the flat when the wanting hits harder than before. My cunt is still slick from the first orgasm, aching and empty, and every time I glance at Sean’s holiday photos the need spikes again. I need to be filled. Properly. Filthily. Like it’s him.
I get up naked and go to the kitchen.
The fridge light spills over my bare skin as I pull out what I can find. A thick, straight cucumber, cool and heavy in my hand. A smaller courgette. A couple of smooth, tapered carrots. On the counter there’s a wooden spoon with a long, rounded handle and a half-empty bottle of olive oil. I take all of it back to the sofa, heart already beating faster.
I sit with my legs spread wide, phone propped up so Sean’s smiling, sun-warmed face is still watching me. I drizzle oil over the cucumber until it shines, then press the blunt end against my cunt. It stretches me open slowly as I push, inch by thick inch, the coolness making me gasp. I keep going until it’s buried deep, the end sticking out between my lips. In my head it’s Sean’s long cock—the same one I’ve ground my thigh against during those hugs—shoving inside me without warning.
“Fuck… Sean…” I whisper, already rocking my hips.
I oil up the courgette next and reach behind myself. I have to lean forward, arse lifted, to work the thinner end against my tight hole. It resists at first, then gives. I push steadily until the whole thing is seated in my arse, the fullness making my thighs shake. Both holes stuffed now. I grab a carrot, slick it with oil and the wetness already dripping out of me, and shove it into my mouth, gagging a little as I take it deep, saliva running down my chin. Every hole filled with whatever I could find, and all of it Sean in my mind.
I start fucking myself properly.
One hand wraps around the cucumber and drives it in and out of my cunt in hard, wet strokes. The other reaches back to twist and thrust the courgette in my arse. The carrot muffles the filthy sounds I’m making—gagging, moaning, the slick slap of vegetables pounding into me. My small breasts bounce with every movement. Juice and oil run down my thighs, onto the sofa. I can smell sex and olive oil and the faint green scent of the cucumber.
I stare at Sean’s bare chest on the screen and imagine it’s him using me like this—holding me open, stuffing every hole, telling me in that kind voice how dirty I look taking it all for him. I push the cucumber deeper until it hurts in the best way, grind my clit against the heel of my hand, and fuck my arse harder with the courgette. The carrot slides in and out of my throat, messy and obscenely wet.
I come violently, cunt clamping down on the thick cucumber, arse spasming around the courgette, choking on the carrot as the orgasm rips through me. My whole body jerks. Fluid squirts out around the cucumber and soaks my hand, the sofa, everything. I keep thrusting through it, forcing the vegetables in and out while I shake and drool and sob his name around the carrot.
When it finally eases I collapse back, still stuffed full, legs trembling, oil and come and spit everywhere. The phone screen has gone dark but I can still see Sean’s smile behind my eyes.
I leave everything inside me for a long moment, pulsing around the cold shapes, wishing they were warm and alive and him.