Page 75 of Under the Bed

Nothing has ever come close to this.

What I would give to see her cry.

Shewillcry for me.

She’ll weep.

Her pussy sure does. She squeezes around me. Her juices drip down my hand and to my wrist. She must be close.

So. Goddamn. Close.

That’s when I pull them out. I make her wait, make her need it badly while I chase my pleasure, spilling myself on her pussy. While I turn my good girl into a dirty one.

It must feel awful to be left like this. Unattended to.

I’m a bastard. Her worst nightmare.

She shouldn’t expect any less from me.

I don’t expect any less of me.

What’s strange is that I’m not calm.

In many ways, this woman is supposed to be my captive. I’m the one who’s supposed to be under control.

Yet she’s the one consuming me.

That makes me want to hurt her all the more.

Just until we’re equals.

That’s why I step back. Stuff her used thong in my jeans. Tuck myself in. Leave her bedroom.

No better way to soothe this chaos inside of me than walking it off. Do some digging around her house.

It’s a constant pain in my chest to have her out of my sight. A pain so strong that my bones protest. An invisible rope pulls me back to her. It’s all I can do to stay out of that room.

Focus.

My version of sanity is back as I start browsing through her things without worrying that she might wake up or stop me.

Her apartment is in perfect condition. Clothes inside the hamper and closet, not scattered around the floor. The sink is empty. The granite counter is sparkling.

The more I see how organized her life is, the more determined I am to make a mess of it.

She wasn’t meant for this life.

This…boredom.

A soul that burns as bright as Shiloh’s isn’t supposed to be caged in this perfect little home. Isn’t supposed to be shackled to this mundane routine.

When I start heading back to her room, I notice something. The bookshelves that line the walls of her living room aren’t as perfect as the rest of the place.

Something that shouldn’t be there sticks out like a sore thumb.

“What do we have here?” I pull out a thick, black binder that stands out from her other textbooks.

The spine is tattered and old. Its age shows. I carry it with me to the kitchen, switch on the light, and set the binder on her dining table.

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