Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I lean down until my lips are at her ear.
"Follow me, my good little slut."
Then I walk away.
Don't look back. Don't check if she's following. Don't give her the satisfaction of seeing uncertainty.
I head toward the alley between the bookstore and the wine bar—narrow, shadowed, exactly the kind of space decent people avoid after dark.
The alley smells like piss and rotting food from the dumpster halfway down. Not romantic. Not curated. Not part of any fantasy I've written for her.
Just real.
Just what's available right now.
I walk past the dumpster, past the rusted fire escape, to the alcove where the buildings don't quite meet—a gap maybe four feet wide, tucked behind a broken downspout.
I turn.
There she is.
Standing at the mouth of the alcove, breathing hard, mascara streaked down both cheeks.
Watching me.
I reach for my belt.
Her eyes drop immediately. Track every movement of my fingers as I unbuckle. As I unbutton. As I lower the zipper.
When I pull out my cock—already fully erect, already leaking—she licks her lips.
Unconscious gesture. Pure instinct.
Her eyes stay locked on my hand as I stroke myself once. Twice.
Then she looks up. Meets my gaze.
"Come here," I say quietly.
She doesn't move.
"Now, Scarletta."
One step. Then another. Hesitant. Like she's approaching something dangerous.
Smart girl.
"Press your back against that wall."
I gesture to the filthy brick behind me. Graffiti tags layered over years. Stains I don't want to identify. Rough texture that will scratch exposed skin.
Anger flashes in her eyes.
Good.
I want her angry. Want her conscious of every choice she makes. Want her to remember she walked into this alley knowing exactly what I'd ask for.
What I'd demand.
She moves past me into the alcove. The space is so narrow our bodies brush as she passes, and I hear her breath catch.
Then she turns.
Presses her back against the brick wall.
Just stands there.
Waiting.
I stroke my cock slowly, deliberately, letting her watch.
Her chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths. Her pupils are blown wide. Her hands flatten against the brick on either side of her hips—not pushing off, not trying to leave.
Just bracing.
"Six months," I say conversationally, still stroking. "Six months of watching you pretend."
Her jaw tightens.
"Watching you run every morning like you're training for something. Watching you sit in that coffee shop staring at blank documents. Watching you go on dates with boring men who couldn't fuck you the way you need if their lives depended on it."
"Fuck you," she whispers.
"You will," I agree. "But not yet."
I step closer.
Close enough that the head of my cock nearly brushes her stomach through that pretty yellow sundress she's wearing. Fabric so thin I can see the outline of her hip bones beneath it. Summer dress that screams wholesome and normal and definitely not the kind of girl who writes rape fantasies in her spare time.
She doesn't move away.
Her breathing picks up. Shallow, rapid. I can see her pulse hammering in her throat.
"How'd you like Marty?" I ask, genuinely curious. My hand keeps moving on my cock. "Was he the kind of safe man you were looking for?"
Her eyes flick down to my hand. Back up to my face. Defiant.
"Did he meet your expectations?" I tilt my head, studying her flushed cheeks. "Did you imagine what it would feel like, pretty slut? His nice, respectful cock inside you? The way he'd probably ask permission before every single thing he did to your body?"
"Stop," she whispers.
But she's not looking at my eyes when she says it. She's watching my hand stroke my cock. Watching precum leak from the tip.
"Do you still masturbate?" I ask casually. "Or did you give that up too when you decided to play normal?"
Something flashes across her face. Shame, maybe. Or anger at being seen.
"You already know I don't," she says flatly. "You've been watching me."
I shake my head slowly. "Not in your apartment. I understand limits, Scarletta. You destroyed the cameras. I respected that boundary."
She actually laughs. A sharp, bitter sound that cuts through the space between us. "Limits?" She stares at me like I've said something genuinely hilarious. "Limits? You're standing in an alley jerking off in front of me and you want credit for respecting boundaries?"
Fair point.
I press my cock against her stomach. Just the head at first. Light pressure. Enough that she feels it through the thin fabric.
A wet spot blooms on the yellow cotton. Clear fluid soaking into the dress. Marking her.
"Why don't you masturbate anymore?" I ask quietly. "What happened?"
"Fuck off." Her voice shakes. "It's none of your business. And if you think it is—if you think that money you keep sending me is enough to buy me again—you're mistaken."
I don't answer.
Just keep stroking myself. Slower now. Deliberate. Watching her watch me.
Then I press forward again.
This time I don't stop. I rub my cock against her dress in slow, deliberate circles. Smearing precum across the yellow fabric. Soiling it on purpose. Claiming it.