Elena's beauty was a siren’s call, turning heads wherever she went. At thirty-two, her auburn hair fell in waves, her emerald eyes sharp enough to cut through any Her beauty was her power, and she wielded it to secure Victor, a man whose wealth towered over his 5’9” frame. She married him for the private jets, the Manhattan penthouse, the life of endless luxury. But every time she stood beside him, her heels making her tower over his modest height, a quiet shame gnawed at her. Victor was rich, kind, but short—and she couldn’t forgive him for it.

Their wedding was a gilded affair, dripping with excess. The speeches, though, were a public roasting. Victor’s best man, slurring through champagne, grinned, “To Victor, the little king who conquered Mount Elena!” The room erupted in laughter, glasses clinking. Victor chuckled, but Elena’s smile was a mask, her face burning. She’d married a man who was a punchline, and the world knew it.

Five years later, the shame had calcified, buried under designer dresses and diamond necklaces. Victor worshipped her, blind to her contempt. His height was her silent resentment, a flaw she couldn’t unsee. It followed her, even to the sun-drenched cliffs of Santorini, where they vacationed in a villa overlooking the Aegean.

While Victor took business calls, Elena wandered the village, her flowing sundress drawing stares. The local men—tanned, rugged, with eyes like the sea—didn’t mock or jest. They saw her, not her husband’s money or his stature. One night, in a taverna glowing with candlelight, she drank too much ouzo, the world softening into a haze. The men surrounded her, their laughter warm, their gazes hungry. For once, she wasn’t Victor’s wife, just Elena—desired, alive.

In a reckless, defiant blur, she gave in to the moment. She performed oral sex on the men, one after another, in the shadowed corners of the taverna. She swallowed, each act a rebellion against the shame that had choked her for years. It was legal, consensual, but forbidden—a secret she’d carry alone.

Dawn broke, and Elena returned to the villa, her lips sealed, her heart pounding. Victor kissed her good morning, planning their next yacht excursion, oblivious. She never told him about the village, the men, or the night she reclaimed something she couldn’t name. The memory burned, a mix of liberation and guilt, locked deep within.

Back in their polished life, Elena’s beauty remained her shield, but the shame had shifted. It wasn’t Victor’s height anymore—it was her own choices, her secret. She wondered if the village men still whispered of the woman who came and went like a myth. Victor, ever doting, never saw the distance in her eyes, the weight of what she’d done.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5723137&forum_id=2).#48919146)