17. Shane
17
Shane
I watch her from outside of her window as I finish off the last of my blunt, sucking in a deep hit of the potent substance as I lean back against the metal gate separating our neighbors from us. It’s still so early, a bit dark for her to see me outside lurking.
I’ve been up all night, riding around the city since she left my mother’s house, stopping to smoke multiple packs. I’d found comfort in the darkness of the night, but as the sun rose, so did my discomfort again. I was almost tempted to visit Lana at the shop and fuck out my frustrations, but even the thought of anyone else disturbs me.
Shoes hit the pavement as Wheeter walks past the sidewalk to my left, making his way around the block with his fishing pole and tackle box in hand, ready to assist the neighborhood with their addictions like a busted-ass ice-cream man handing out treats. A sharp clang against the window steals my attention back as Montana tosses a notebook at it, the papers raining over her bed.
Bitch. Cunt. Manipulative whore.
Words that cycle through my skull on a rotating loop when I think of my stepsister. Crazy how fast people can change. How indefinite sharing your innermost thoughts with someone can be. It all feels so…wasted. So fucking unfortunate. As always, I’m caught in that endless battle of hating the person in front of me but still holding on to something because I know that person I knew is in there. The girl I fell in love with is buried beneath this shell. I just need to break her out of it. Shake her out of it. Choke it out of her, if I must.
I cash out the rest of my weed before walking around the side of the house to climb back into my room through the window. Everything is ready to go, the scene is set, and I’m itching for the impending chaos.
Knocking on her door a few times, I hear her exacerbated sigh, which makes the demon in me smile voraciously.
“What do you want?” she answers, wearing an oversized DMX t-shirt, the black sports bra containing her perky tits showing through the worn material, short black shorts exposing all of those tan legs, and her long black hair tied up in a knot at the top of her head.
“I found your folder,” I state, leaning against her door.
Her eyes do that thing again—narrowing on mine with a certain madness in them, as if she can imagine herself stabbing me repeatedly. It earns a dick twitch.
“You took my folder,” she says, accusatory.
“I have it, so do what you want with that,” I say, turning to leave.
“Wait!” She rushes out of her room, gripping my bicep.
My flesh practically melts from my bones at her touch. I quickly brush her off, jarring my elbow at her until her soft fingers have no choice but to let go of me.
“Give it back, please. I really need to go over…I just really…please.”
She begs like it physically pains her. She winces, her body recoiling into itself as she wraps her arms around her stomach like she might be ill.
Why the fuck does this matter so much to her now? Music isn’t who she is as a person. It became a part of her when she forgot who she truly was. Now here we are, in this tiny hallway, the only person who ever truly loved her in all her dark and disturbing facets, coming between her and the future that stole her away from me.
“Come get it,” I nod toward my room. “But don’t forget your beloved.”
Her posture changes, her spine straightening.
“My beloved?”
“Your darling dearest?”
“M-my cello? You want me to bring my cello…to take my music back from you?” She glances nervously behind me at my door.
“There’s a cost to everything, Montana.”
I glare at her for her stupidity and turn toward my room. She has no idea. No one could ever imagine the monster she grew in the dark void all those years ago—the freak born from the pain she’d subjected that sweet boy to. The product of a useless and wasted love with nowhere to go and no escape. It became a ghost, imprisoned and chained to us, haunting our lives daily.
She follows me, her toned arms carrying her cello in tow, allowing me to close the door behind her. I slip the lock as if it matters, and she bites down on her bottom lip in response, appeasing me further.
I lean against the door, tipping my head back, and study her through my lashes as she surveys the scene. The tripod. The camera. The lights. The simple black background. The music stand. The folder opened upon it. The chair. The flesh-toned silicon dick strapped to it.
Montana’s chest heaves before me, mind whirling with useless solutions as her fingers tighten along the shaft of the cello.
“It’s customary to practice before an audience.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, sounding breathless as she takes in the scene. “I’m not doing whatever twisted shit this is.”
She stands in the center of my room, her body buzzing with the need to run, searching endlessly for an escape from my trap, but there is no freedom without a little fun. I seal myself to her back, staring at the scene before us. Inhaling the intoxicating scent of her pomegranate and pear shampoo, I nuzzle my nose along the side of her head, breathing in the reality of her before me. My hands can’t keep to themselves as my fingers find the back of her neck. I trail my middle finger softly over the bony protrusion of her spine until it meets the edge of her t-shirt, right at the neckline.
She shivers beneath my touch, her bones rattling at the close proximity to me.
“You want that music? You’ll do it.” I grip the back of her shirt in my fist, slowly tightening it until I’m sure the collar is choking her.
She doesn’t panic, however. She leans into it. Embracing the restriction of air, arching her back until her ass sits right against my groin. I imagine choking her from behind as I slide my aching cock between her sopping folds.
I release her immediately, and she stumbles forward, gasping for a breath.
“I can ask Wes to get some copies from his father,” she says, voice hoarse. “I don’t need this.”
“Ah, okay, cool. Perfect.” I smile, nodding as I usher her toward the door again. “Yeah, we don’t need to do any of this. Just ask needle-dick Wes…”
“Wait,” she whispers. Her jaw tightens as she peers over at the setup and back to me.
She doesn’t need to say anything more. Her eyes laser in on my computer screen. She slowly walks forward until she’s directly in front of it, leaning over the desk. Her body slumps into the chair, her elbows hitting the desk, defeat written all over her face.
The email displayed has a list of some worthy individuals. Our glorious sex tape is attached and ready to send to her boyfriend and the entire rugby team, for good measure.
“What do you want from me?” she whispers, running a hand over her temple.
Her heart is practically in her throat, her forehead glistening with perspiration.
“Just a song,” I reply simply, placing both hands on the arms of the chair around her. I lean down over her, my lips dusting against the shell of her ear. “A simple song…Just. For. Me.” I say the words slowly and deliberately. “Let’s see who you inspire today.”
I grip her t-shirt and pull her up from the desk chair, kicking it away from us, and drag her curvaceous little frame back against my body. It seals effortlessly to mine, her round ass pushing against the straining erection in my pants. I glide it between her cheeks, allowing her the pleasure of knowing what she does to me. I want to taste her tongue. I want to taste it and then rip it from her whorish mouth.
“I just wanna hear you play again,” I whisper into her ear, enjoying the sensation of her warm flesh quivering against mine. But before she can enjoy me too much, I push her forward toward the setup. She gets tripped up, stumbling forward a few feet before her panicked eyes study the scene again. “Aren’t I allowed the pleasure of a private show?”
With a deep breath, she calms herself before deciding to appease me. This time, her gaze is fueled by something different. I take a seat on the edge of the bed, leaning back onto my elbow and tipping my head to the side, curious about the creature in front of me.
She’s morphing again.
But who will she become before my eyes this time?
Every side of Montana is one I’ve gotten to know, but this one that’s manifesting now…it’s feral, unhinged, unleashed.
She steps into the bright heat of the standing lamp, almost like she’s letting it warm her body. I watch her movements, studying her as she tips her cello against the wall and stares at the music stand set up and waiting. I’ve already placed the page to the song she meticulously practices on the music desk, ready for her instincts to take over and drive her to play.
Her fingers trail the edge of the stand as she leans over to inspect the piece, and it’s strange how something so gentle and quick can make me stir in my pants, sending liquid heat pouring over my flesh.
My body is preparing itself for the nostalgic show. Memories of her masked face, those glowing whisky eyes and pale flesh beneath those green LED lights, taking a fake cock in her hungry cunt and moaning my name, begging to be filled with my cum as she quivered and came along with me. Those nights we stayed up until the crack of dawn, when we couldn’t just stop at sex and needed more of one another, conversations circulating to our lives and what made us. Declarations of love and pure obsession. Until the veil was stripped, and a money-hungry slut was all that remained.
This is her space. This is what she does. This is the new home of the cold, calculating tramp.
She stares directly at me, her look, her expression one of a challenger with whom I share infinite enmity. Grabbing the hem of her shirt, she lifts it up and over her head, tossing it in the corner. I tip my chin at her, indicating to continue.
Volcanic heat travels from my head to my heart, and I’m suddenly enraged.
“This isn’t a strip-tease. Hurry it the fuck along,” I command, purposely sounding bored.
Her eyes wince, her mismanaged ego taking a blow before she starts removing the rest of her clothing. Her bra lifts, and her perky breasts bounce free. She kicks her shorts and underwear from her toned legs onto the floor. Naked before me, I swallow, hiding my desire to throw her onto my bed, rip her thighs apart, and spear her with my thick dick, needing to spill myself so deep within her that it spews from her luscious lips.
“The clamps,” I murmur through my clenched jaw, pointing at the music stand.
Her brows lower, tracing my gaze until she sees them. She lifts the chain with her fingers from the edge of the stand, holding it before her face.
“Put them on,” I say, startling her.
That aggravated glare finds me again, and I nod, hurrying her along. I know she’s familiar with these toys. I’ve seen her don more than one painful outfit choice for her fans, and yet she’s sitting there, debating whether or not to put it on.
“Just fucking do it, Montana,” I say, exacerbated.
She bites down on her bottom lip, and with a sigh, opens the first clamp. Slowly and with her eyes closed, she clamps the first one down, her erect nipple hardening further. Her lips part and her lashes flutter as the next clamp pinches down on her flesh.
The two chains form a Y, leading to one last clamp. She grabs the end of it, the chain unintentionally pulling down on her nipples, and she whines.
“That’s for the—”
“I know what it's for,” she snaps, interrupting me.
Gently clamping the last piece on her clit, she places it just below her piercing, the glistening lips of her vulva teasing me with the promise of the wetness to come. The full view of her gorgeous shaved sex being so violently assaulted by the tight pinch calls to the sadist in me. The one who now lives for her torment. When she straightens, the clamps tug on each other, and a hard breath escapes her, pain and pleasure so intricately weaving before me.
My favorite little fuck toy, right here on display before me. Violent urges surge through my bloodstream, needs that demand fulfilling. But all in due time…
She grabs her cello again, pulling it in front of her. My eyes caress her body, sweeping over those soft, supple breasts that were once so taut and reddened by her own teasing, mesmerized by the sweet curve of those glorious hips that used to have me begging her for another angle. All of which she would give anyone for the right price.
Swinging a leg over the wide wooden chair, she effectively straddles it, the large silicone cock inches away from spearing her.
“When you’re ready, give me the gre—”
“Green light,” she interrupts.
My mouth twists up at the corner, surprised by her eagerness to get on with it.
I turn on the camera, leaning forward at the edge of my bed, my elbows on my knees, waiting for her to begin. She has the audacity to stare directly at me, her hate-fueled eyes spiking my heart rate as she stabilizes herself with the neck of the cello. Her thighs brace on each side of the chair, allowing her to sink down onto the toy. Calculatingly slow, she eases herself down, lifting and lowering, using her own excitement to allow it to glide deeper. Taunting me with eyes that scream lies of innocence.
I grit my back teeth, unprepared for the influx of emotions that are now raining down on me—an onslaught of torment of my own doing. I realize now how much I fucking hate this. Hate her. I’ve come face to face with the only person who’s ever found a way to split me apart, effectively dissecting me to my core.
She’s performing again. This version of her is the one that left me with no hope for humanity. The one that proclaimed her love and affection in order to slither her way around my heart and choke it to death, effectively robbing me of my livelihood in the process. The one that had me on the streets, scrambling effortlessly for a hit to take away the delusion of her.
The one that, in turn, made me fearless, eradicating the possibility of love from my system, becoming a lethal toxicity to myself and anyone who dared to be near me.
I reach for my pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and pull one out, lighting it up, working to keep from biting it in half. My deceptive cock tents my jeans as Montana slides her way down to the bottom of the chair, her sweet, bare ass now kissing the wood. Her lashes flutter, her breaths coming short and fast as she plants the cello between her spread thighs, arms wrapping around the instrument as if embracing it like a dear friend, and her focus becomes one of a musician.
A hot wave of jealousy threatens to dismantle me as if the instrument alone replaced me in her life.
She begins her piece, drawing the bow across the instrument before dropping her hand. The clamps must’ve snagged against the cello because her face contorts in pain, a soft hiss penetrating my ears, before she picks up the bow, holding her head high again. Her lips form a circle, and she blows out a breath, reestablishing herself before continuing her piece.
I’m caught off guard when the same emotions overtake me as when I listened to her behind the door of the music hall. I don’t know if it’s the weed or simply my obsession, but my heart feels like it beats in tune with her tempo as I witness her expressions change with every new erotic note. The hairs on my arms rise yet again, dancing to her sweet song. The beauty and grace with which her body moves to the classic tune have me utterly enraptured. Her talents appear endless as her fingers work with precision and effortless skill. Her eyes close, and the eerie deep tenor of those notes vibrates through the air, sizzling their way through my flesh into the deeper parts of me she could never own.
The butt of the cigarette nearly burns my hand by the time I realize I’ve all but sucked the nicotine straight out. I’m too captivated. Too distracted as she reaches the closing notes, finishing the song with a long, slow stroke, naked as the day she was born, stuffed and stretched by a cock that I wish was mine.
Her lashes flutter open, and she peers at the music sheets on the stand, her eyes rounding as her focus shifts to me. Swallowing thickly, she slowly stands, a harsh breath of pained pleasure escaping her when the strapped-on dildo slips from her warmth coated in her cream.
Precum slips from my tip, my cock swollen and ready to release just at the sight of her arousal. I itch with needs. Dark, devious needs.
“W-what are you going to do with this?” she asks softly, removing the clamps before grabbing her clothes to redress.
I light up another cigarette, leaning back on my bed to stare at the ceiling. I can’t look at her right now. I can’t deal with her questions, or her sweet, sensual voice, for that matter. I can’t sit here and watch her leave.
“Get out,” I reply. “Take your music.”
“Shane, what are you going—”
“I said get the fuck out!” I yell, grabbing a baseball bat from the corner of my bed and chucking at the opposing wall near the door. It cuts a divot into the drywall before falling to the floor with a clang.
She finishes dressing, clutching her music sheets to her chest, and carries her cello to the door. Pausing for a moment, she looks back at the scene, her wispy black hair dusting the perspiration on her forehead, then peers back at me with some sort of longing in her devilish eyes.
“I said get—”
Before I can even finish my sentence, she’s gone. The door slams, and I’m left alone with nothing but silence. Dead silence and the ghost of her song ringing in my ears.
My body is alive with so much electricity. Anger, rage, excitement, lust…
I can barely take it—these endless emotions that I wish to release, seeking freedom from my being through my destructive habits.
Sitting up, I eagerly open my nightstand drawer and pop a few pills to take the edge off. I know they won’t kick in for a while, but even the idea of something in my system aids in taming my madness. Once I swallow them down, I stand and make my way over to the scene, undoing the straps and releasing the toy from its chair. I grip it in my fist and head back to my bed, lying down again, studying it.
Without a second thought, I quickly shove my pants down to my thighs, spit into my hand, and grip my firm cock right at the base. Parting my lips, my tongue dips out to lick the tip of the erect toy, eager to taste her tangy scent. The pearly-white cream still clings to the protruding veins, so I trace my tongue over their grooves, lapping up her arousal. Licking the length of it, I slowly stroke myself, feeling my dick harden further. Fuck, her taste.
I’m delirious again. Ill by the thought of her. But it’s not enough. I need more.
I need the warmth of her insides inside me. I need to swallow every part that grazed the depths of her. Opening my jaw, I slide the silicone cock over my tongue, wrapping my lips around the girth as my hips thrust off the bed and into my hand.
My throat vibrates with a muffled groan around the toy, my body quickly building to release. I grip the tip of my cock tight, squeezing it, choking it, before working my hand faster as the end of the toy reaches the back of my throat. I gag around the thickness; the saliva that pours from my lips and onto my chest becomes extra fuel for my fire. My palm is slick and wetter than ever, my heels digging into the mattress while the slippery sounds of me fucking my own hand replace the agony of her penetrable song.
I take a deep breath through my nose when the smell of her deliciously tart scent floods my senses again. I cough up a moan. Unable to hold back, I release hot waves of cum onto my stomach and chest, nearly hitting my neck with the extreme force of my release as it pours out of me.
Maddening rage ascends my body like a blanket of pure disgust—hatred for who I’ve become flashes before me. Chucking the toy to the ground, I reach up, wrapping my hands around my neck. I squeeze. I squeeze so tightly my eyes feel like they’ll bulge from the pressure. Tightening my noose, I dig my fingertips so cruelly into my flesh that bruises will be inevitable. With my air restricted and a sense of weightlessness encapsulating me, I imagined my life slipping away into a peaceful calm. A dark abyss of absolution. A place where Montana and her counterfeit love never even existed.
But instead, my hands fall to my sides, and my head thumps back against the pillow. Breathless and torn from the inside out, I rise, my legs taking me to my desk. Bending over the computer, I quickly upload the new file. Finding the email with Wesley Hopkins linked to the video again, I swap the content.
I click send.
Because this is my abyss. My world.
A world where a girl like Montana should beg for death instead of me.