(Somewhere discrete...)
"That dumb fucking slut Noah thinks he can mess with me and just toss me aside like trash. I'll show him who's the real boss when I've got him sobbing and begging in bed, completely broken."
After that last encounter on the bus, when he had the nerve to tase me, I knew I had to get even. He's damn lucky I didn't just pin him down right there in front of everyone and take what I wanted.
The thought of dragging him to the back of that bus, ripping off his tight little shirt, and making him scream while everyone watched—it took everything in me to hold back. My fists clenched just thinking about it.
I bit my lip hard, scrolling through his Instagram, each photo fueling the fire in my gut. There he was, posing with what I assume is his girlfriend, her arm slung around his shoulder, both of them smirking like they own the world.
And those outfits he posts—fuck, he's practically begging for it. Leggings that hugged every curve of his legs, shirts that showed off his collarbone a bit, every picture screaming vulnerability. I could almost feel my hands on him, tearing through that flimsy fabric, watching his confident little smirk turn to panic.
One photo stopped me cold. Him with two girls, all three of them laughing, pressed close together. The caption read, "My two fav girls..." Fucking whore. Of course, a slut like him needs more than one pussy to keep him satisfied.
Bet he's drowning in it, probably guzzles more squirt than water. I could just imagine him on his knees, servicing them both, thinking he's hot shit. My jaw tightened as I stared at the screen, the urge to hunt him down and show him his place burning stronger with every second. I'll make sure he learns who he's really dealing with.
I stumbled across one of his latest posts, where he's posing all coy and teasing, rocking a pair of tight, barely-there short shorts and a skimpy tank top that leaves little to the imagination.
His skin's all smooth and glistening under the light, practically begging for attention. I couldn't help but type out a comment, my fingers flying over the keyboard with a smirk. "You'd look so damn cute with a 'Laura' tattoo right across your chest, and maybe even one on that cock of yours. Mark you up real nice." I hit post, already picturing how hot he'd look branded with my name, claimed in ink.
Hell, if- or I should say WHEN I get my hands on him, I might just grab a needle and do it myself, etch my signature into that perfect skin while he squirms.
I was cackling like a damn hyena when, not even two minutes later, I saw the notification pop up—he blocked me. Couldn't handle a little spicy comment, huh? What a sensitive little slut.
Like, come on, if you're gonna post half-naked pics for the world to see, you've gotta expect some raw feedback. I wasn't about to let that stop me, though. I hopped right onto my alt account, no hesitation, and slid into his DMs. His profile's public, so he's basically asking for this kind of attention.
I typed out, "You look mad fuckable in those shorts. How much for an hour with that dick? I've got cash if you charge extra for guzzling my squirt down your throat." I hit send with a grin, imagining the look on his face when he reads it, probably blushing and pissed all at once. Too damn funny.
I stared at my phone screen as the "seen" notification popped up, and a hot wave of anticipation rushed through me. My pulse quickened; I was half-hoping he'd throw some flirty energy back my way, just a little something to keep the spark alive.
But nah, of course not. Instead, all I got was a cold, cutting message: "Can you fuck off, lmfao, you're so weird..." And just like that, another block. The little red icon mocked me as I tossed my phone onto the bed with a frustrated sigh, letting it bounce against the crumpled sheets.
I flopped back, my head hitting the pillow as I stared up at the cracked, off-white ceiling of my room. The faint hum of the city outside filtered through the window, but my mind was elsewhere.
I didn't have any other burner accounts ready to go—my last alt was toast after this. I'd have to set up a new one later, maybe tweak the profile to catch him more off guard. But that was a problem for future me. Right now, I just felt the sting of loneliness sinking deeper into my chest.
Then it hit me, like a punch to the gut, how long it'd actually been since I'd had anything real, anything physical. Six, maybe seven years? Jesus Christ, that's a drought.
I rolled onto my side, curling up a bit as the realization gnawed at me. I'm not doing anything wrong, am I? Just trying to fuck a boy like any other single thirty-seven year old lady.
I muttered to myself, "Whatever, screw it. Soon enough, with Noah, I'll break this damn cold streak." My voice sounded more determined than I felt, but saying it out loud made it seem a little more possible, like a promise I'd force myself to keep.
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