Page 14 of Wicked Spite
Stepping back to the counter, I catch sight of something black on the counter. Black glitter lip gloss. Because of course she would have something like this. I pick it up, twisting the cap off and pulling out the wand. The glitter sparkles under the harsh bathroom light. A wicked grin spreads across my face.
With one hand, I tug down my pants, freeing my cock. The wand hovers over the head of my dick before I slide it around, feeling the cold, slick gloss coat my sensitive skin.
“Fuck,” I groan out loud, the sensation of the fuzzy tip sending a jolt through me. I dip the wand into my slit, shivering at the contact. The thought of her using this same lip gloss later, unknowingly rubbing my dick across her lips, sends a thrill down my spine.
Next time she paints those pretty pouty lips, she’ll be tasting me. My breath hitches at the thought as I slide thewand back into the tube, satisfied but still hungry for more. Always fucking more.
Standing in front of the mirror, I adjust myself, but I’m still hard as fuck. No way am I riding my bike back home with this raging boner. Nah, I need relief now, and fast.
I move back into her bedroom, eyes darting over that messy, rickety ass fucking bed she calls her own. Sheets tangled, pillow half off the mattress.
I stand over her bed as I grip myself, hand moving quick and roughly. The cool metal of my rings glide across my shaft and I grip myself tighter than I should. My breaths come out harsh, ragged. Each stroke brings images of her beneath me, crying out, helpless and wanting.
“Fuck, Reagan,” I groan, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. The tang of it just makes me harder. The bed creaks beneath my weight as I lean forward, bracing myself against the wall.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I hiss, “this is what you do to me. Every fucking second, you haunt me.”
The tension builds, choking me and my dick. I can almost hear her voice, feel her skin, taste her on my tongue. My orgasm hits like a freight train, ripping through me, leaving me breathless and shaking.
“Jesus,” I pant, leaning heavily against the wall. Slowly, reality seeps back in. The room, the bed, everything comes into focus. I straighten up, a crooked smile on my face.
My chest heaves as I come down from the high. Leaning over the bed, I pull back the pillowcase. The sticky warmth between my fingers is almost poetic—my mark on her territory. I let it drip inside, spreading my seed against the cool fabric before smoothing the case back down like nothing happened. A sinister grin spreads across my face.
“Enjoy your sweet dreams, hellfire,” I mutter to the empty room, my voice low and mocking.
I take a step back, surveying my handiwork. The thought of her unknowingly resting her head on my cum-stained pillow sends a thrill through me. It’s fucked up, sure, but that’s what makes it so goddamn exhilarating.
I’m one twisted son of a bitch. I run a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. Not the one just covered in cum. This isn’t fucking Something About Mary.
Jesus fuck, have I gone too far?
Nah, the limit does not exist for me.
Chapter 6
Reagan
The bell rings, signaling the end of class, and my heart races with anxiety, wondering if tall, dark, and creepy is still lingering. I shove my textbook into my bag and bolt out of the classroom, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone.
“Watch it!” someone snaps as I barge through the crowded halls, but I don’t have the desire to apologize to anyone or anything ever again.
Stepping outside, I glance around and don’t see my mystery man, so I feel a bit of the tension leave my shoulders as I walk through campus to my apartment.
Finally reaching my building, I walk up the stairs and fling the door open and freeze. Something feels off. The eerie sensation that someone has been in my room sends chills down my spine. My eyes dart around the space, searching for any sign of an intruder, but I don’t see anything. I flop onto the couch and reach out to grab my sketchbook, but it’s not on the table. I glance around the couch, but don’t see it. It’s the one thing that I take comfort in. Sometimes I’ll flip through it, even ifI’m too exhausted to just doodle something before I pass out for a few hours of sleep. I always leave it right within reach, and yet it’s not here. I’ve had a lot going on lately, but the pit in my stomach is telling me someone has been in here.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, panic setting in as I frantically search for my sketchbook. It’s my solace, my escape from the fucked-up reality that is my life. And now, it’s gone.
I get up and start tossing aside clothes and books in a desperate attempt to locate it. I pause, trying to remember where I last saw it, when my phone buzzes with a reminder of tonight’s double shift at the bar. “Not now,” I groan, swiping away the alarm notification and tossing the phone on to the couch and it slides into the cushion.
Looking on my bed, in the bathroom and kitchen, and I don’t see it anywhere. Frustrated, I go to pull my phone from the couch when my fingers finally brush against the familiar texture of the sketchbook, hidden between the arm and the cushion. Relief washes over me, but as I open it, confusion quickly replaces my relief. Several pages are ripped out, leaving jagged edges and incomplete drawings behind. My heart sinks, and I can’t help but wonder the circumstances where this even happened or why.
“Who the hell...?” I mutter under my breath, my eyes narrowing in suspicion. Fury ignites within me, and I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks. No one has any right to tamper with my art not to mention fucking break into my damn place.
Shaking off the unease, I force myself to focus on getting ready for my shift at the bar. If there’s anything that can distract me from the mess of my life, it’s losing myself in the chaos of that grimy place and the money doesn’t hurt either. Every shift is one step close to being free where I can disappear from everyone and everything that has ever given megrief. With determined resolve, I kick off my shoes and hastily strip out of mysensibleclothes.
I pull on a pair of fishnets and then my favorite pair of frayed jean shorts, followed by my black combat boots—both items worn in from countless nights spent escaping reality. An all-black tank top ripped across my chest and a worn leather jacket complete the look. As I glance in the mirror, I smirk at the reflection staring back at me. I like what I see. Fake it till you make it, I guess. I look fierce and that’s an armor I wear proudly.
Detouring into my bathroom, I spray some dry shampoo in my hair, line my eyes even darker, and swipe on my favorite black glitter gloss.
