Page 17 of Wicked Spite
“Relax,” I say, flipping a switch inside me, turning on my Blackwood charm. Everyone loves Lincoln forbeing the quarterback, Graham for being the grumpy, unattainable one and Jeremiah for being the pretty boy. They love me because I make their cunts and cocks leak, and everyone wants to fuck crazy then brag about how this one-time Penn Blackwood shoved his cock so far down their throat before coming on his boots and making them lick it off until they shined.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Didn’t mean to hit you that hard. Sometimes I just don’t know my own strength. Football boy problems, ya know?” I shrug my shoulders, making myself appear smaller than I am and quirk one side of my mouth up.
“Fuck off,” he says, but his eyes are confused, wavering. Yea, he’s hooked already.
“Come on, don’t be like that.” I lean closer, close enough for him to smell the whiskey on my breath. “You know, you’ve got a pretty face. Shame to see it all busted up. I’m real sorry I messed with perfection.”
His eyes widen, confusion being quickly replaced by interest and desire. Perfect. I pull my cap off my head and run a hand through my curls and let my voice drop an octave. “How ‘bout we go somewhere more private? You know, I’ll make it up to you.”
“Y-you’re serious?” His disbelief is palpable, but so is the glimmer of hope. Stupid little fucker. Why the fuck do college bitches let their cocks lead them? And that’s coming from someone who’s the same age and I follow my dick a lot of fucking places.
“Dead serious,” I whisper, leaning in even closer. “I promise to set your blood alight tonight.”
“Alright,” he says, after what feels like an eternity. The word is barely out of his mouth before I’m opening his car door, my mind already racing ahead.
Hook, line, and sinker.
My fingers brushing against his lower back just enough to make him shiver.
“Where to?” he asks, trying to sound confident but failing miserably.
“I’ll give you directions,” I say, rounding the hood and sliding into the passenger seat like I own it.
“Okay,” he mutters, starting the engine. His hands are shaking, and I can almost hear his heart pounding over the hum of the car’s motor.
“Take a left here,” I instruct, and like a puppy he follows. The city lights blur as we drive deeper into the industrial district, far from most of the population. It’s dark out here, it swallows everything whole. My kind of place.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” the guy asks, doubt creeping into his voice.
“Positive, I have a sweet little studio one of my ‘clients’ gave me,” I say, letting my eyes linger on him a little longer than necessary. “Trust me.”
“Alright,” he says again, more to himself than to me. Idiot.
“Pull over there,” I point to a strip of asphalt near the lake, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. He parks the car, cutting the ignition. The silence is heavy, oppressive. Just how I like it.
“Now what?” he asks, turning to me, anticipation and fear battling in his eyes.
“Get in the backseat and get naked,” I say, my tone flat, unwavering. “I wanna see if you’re worth all this trouble.”
“Uh, okay,” he stammers, climbing over the console into the backseat. I watch him fumble with his clothes, stripping down to nothing but his vulnerability. Pathetic. His hard-on is laughable, barely four inches. But it’s not about that, is it?
“Good boy,” I purr. “Now, let’s get you ready.”
His eyes widen, confusion mingling with arousal. He doesn’t know yet, but he’s already mine.
I flash him a sly grin as I pull out the tube of lube from my pocket. Never know when you need a little lubrication. His eyes follow my every move, like a moth to a flame, unaware he’s already burning.
“Here,” I say, uncapping the top and squeezing the slick liquid onto his pitiful excuse for a hard-on. “Get yourself nice and ready for me.” My words wrap around him, tight and suffocating, as I watch him begin to stroke himself, desperation in every motion.
“Yeah, just like that,” I encourage, even though the sight is less than impressive. My fingers flick my lighter open, the small flame casting a glow inside the car.
“How’s it feel?” I ask, my tone mockingly sweet. He mumbles something incoherent, too lost in the moment to realize the danger lurking within my smile.
Perfect. He’s too fucking distracted to notice what the fuck I’m doing as I bring Naomi closer to the flame. His eyes never leave his own hand. The metal heats up quickly, turning a threatening shade of orange.
“Keep going, don’t stop now,” I command, my voice laced with amusement.
I wait until he’s fully immersed in his own pathetic display before making my move. The knife slices through the air with a swift, precise motion, connecting with the tender flesh of his ball sac. Blood spurts out like a crimson geyser, painting the cracking leather seats in a castration masterpiece.
