Page 2 of Vow of Revenge
My release was a means to a satisfactory end. I enjoyed the climax, but what I loved even fucking more, was the fact I reeled her into a fantasy that would never exist. This was a scam, a pantomime of sorts. She fell into the abyss of my black soul on a false promise that we would end up together. My interests were laser focused on my next auction purchase, not meeting her again after tonight.
Molly lay satiated on the hotel bed as I readied myself to leave. It was just sex - a primal fuck between an alpha male and a pitiful woman.
She was nothing to me. I couldn’t even recall her surname, nor did I care to guess.
“Stay, Kaleb. You promised we could spend a night together.” Her breath was ragged. Milky skin blushed with that just fucked glow after I had ploughed my vengeance into yet another female. There was no desire on my part to indulge in the ideals of sex being a connection.
“Nah,” I muttered, quickly buttoning up my tight jeans and pulling a black tee over my head. “I’m not feeling this anymore.”
My inky hair was ruffled from her overzealous fingers, draping messily over my forehead. I swept it back and checked my reflection. I didn’t look like my late father. He had pale skin and dead eyes, whereas I was tanned with a ring of blue circling my pupils like a wild ocean in winter. Aside from my toned physique, my eyes were the dart that pinpointed female attention – well that, and my dick.
The warming haze of bedside table lamps illuminated the suite with a romantic vibe, the perfect retreat for two adults who embraced loving touches, closeness and forever. I, however, didn’t respond to any of those feelings.
Women areevil.
They embody the devil with their bouncing breasts and tight cunts. I learned their cruelty first-hand. It was branded on my brain for eternity. There wasn’t much I could remember about my childhood, but the snippets that replayed were always the same – my father being murdered.
It’s not an unusual story, I guess. Man meets woman. Woman slits the man’s throat. That’s pretty much the height of my memory, until I moved in with my cousin and made new ones. Then life became a conveyer belt of foolish women, their bodies used only for my sexual gratification, and I was done with her.
“I don’t understand. We’ve been together for a while now. I thought we…”
I stepped into my shoes and abruptly cut her off mid-sentence. “You thought we would get married?” My throaty laugh was forbidding. “We were just fucking, that’s all, Molly. We only met because you’re a prospective buyer with a big bank balance, who’ll pay top dollar for the painting. Surely you didn’t think it was anything more than that?” I may have accidentally, on purpose, given the impression that a relationship could be on the table, but that was just part of the game.
I’m sure if I cared to listen, I would’ve heard her heart break. Crouching down, I focused on tying my laces without looking up at her. I hated the look of desperation, or maybe it was sadness, that filled their eyes every fucking time I brutally cut them out of my life.
“Can we still fool around?” She rolled onto her knees. “You don’t have to leave just yet. I want you to stay.” Her voice weaved inside my empty soul. I didn’t give a fuck what she wanted. Her easy to please attitude was boring me.
“I have somewhere else to be,” I replied with a half-shrug.
Molly scrambled to the edge of the bed, looped my waist and tugged me closer, fluttering her coated lashes. Shaking off her needy grasp, I left her alone amongst the wrangled sheets.
“I’ll let you do whatever you want,” she panted, leaning back with long legs spread wide.
Let’s be honest here, firstly, I’m a man with a greedy dick, and secondly, I deserve to have payment, even if I am fraternising with evil. Regardless of her pretty freckles and suggestive smile, I possess insider knowledge and kindle a rightful hatred in my heart.
The full wrath of my hardness burst out again. It was angry at her persistent begging, but it wanted her dirty mouth. She offered more and I accepted with a slap to her creamy ass. My fingernails scraped the curve of her spine, showering her flesh with goosebumps. She loved it, and no doubt she’d want it all over again in the morning, but I’ll be long gone by then and she’d know the painting was sold to the highest bidder. Last night, I secretly sold the watercolour to a different buyer in Hong Kong, via one of my many underground contacts. She would find that out later when word of mouth repeats my recent sale.
I mentally added her to the ever-growing list of women who thought they could trap Kaleb De Courcy until death do us part.
There was something demonic, hedonistic or just seedy about the dark rooms of Club Pherall. Syrah, my sister and best friend, coaxed me from our apartment, away from the sanctuary of my desk. She knew me better than anyone, but she didn’t really know the torment hidden inside my mind.
Luckily, I had found writing from an early age. It was a method of self-expression, the chance to let go of reality and create a new world where fantasy collided with realism. I lived my life through my warped writing and succinct magazine articles. More often than not, Syrah forced me away from my laptop, begging me to acknowledge life.
Tonight, throngs of heated bodies were enveloped in a wicked seductive mist. Beams of light cast their net across the main dance floor, revealing half naked bodies in compromising positions. The purpose of this club was to dance, however the undertones flowed with sexual provocation.
“Why can’t we just go to a bar?” I yelled, eyeing Syrah as she unzipped her tight leather jacket and repositioned her forced cleavage.
“Come on, Freya. Just let your hair down!” Syrah shouted over the heavy bass that thrummed through my skeleton. “Think of it as research!”
Her long willowy body was clad in shiny black hip fitting trousers and a matching bralette. Poker straight, treacle black hair skimmed her shoulders with elegance, her warm ruby smile had a way of caressing my heart, keeping my demons at bay. I always gave in to her whims because she delivered the wildness that overruled my dullness.
“Head to the bar. Shots are on Cal!” Syrah winked.
My flushed skin grazed against slick moisture of overheated bodies as we pushed through the crowd. I didn’t particularity enjoy the sweaty touch of strangers, if I was completely honest, it turned my guts inside out. This underground club was definitely not on my list of must visit venues - but I was here, nonetheless.
“Tequila,” Syrah mouthed to the tall burly male behind the bar, holding up four of her fingers.
“See anyone you like?” she asked, scanning the crowd and leaning into my ear.
