Chapter 5 #2
The second they leave, and my mind wanders to Galina writhing on my lap, I’m hard as fucking diamonds.
I’ve had to wash those fucking pink panties of hers five times since Friday, because I keep coming in them. I might have a bit of a predicament on my hands.
Or rather, in my hands.
I scowl at my phone as Achilles silently drives us through the woods surrounding Hawthorne Hollow back to campus. I scroll through a few more images of Galina as a blonde, dressed in various dick-hardening fetish outfits.
A thumbnail of her in a black bralette with lacy fringe over her tits, matching black cutoff denim shorts, and thigh-high stiletto boots catches my attention. I make sure my volume is off and then tap on it.
Son of a bitch.
My cock instantly comes to life. I shift in the passenger seat, trying to adjust my now throbbing erection as Velvet Villainess gyrates her hips on screen.
She never speaks in any of her videos, which makes sense. I mean, I’m wearing a full mask in my stuff which hides the voice scrambler. But Galina wears a Venetian masquerade thing which only covers the top half of her face.
That’s bad for trying to hide a voice scrambler. But great for anyone such as myself who finds themselves heavily fixated on her glossy, plump lips and vividly imagining those lips wrapped around their swollen cock.
I can’t hear the music track with the volume off. But I watch anyway as she gyrates her body sensually and then turns her back to the camera.
I bite back a groan at just how short those cutoffs are, the black fringe fluttering over her tight, round ass cheeks as they sway in front of my face.
The caption “when he wraps his hands around your throat and makes you take every inch like his good girl” flashes on the screen, followed by the cover of the dark romance book she’s reviewing in the caption.
Velvet Villainess then turns back to the camera, wraps a dainty hand around her slender throat, and sticks out her tongue as her eyes behind her mask roll back in ecstasy.
Precum drips into my boxers as my dick twitches hungrily.
It’s not like I’ve ever paid a ton of attention to Galina. She’s cute enough, in a way that would be sexy if she wasn’t always dressed like she just walked out of a garden party in the Hamptons or out of the pages of a J. Crew catalog.
Okay, I lied. She’s more than cute, and I’ve maybe fantasized about her several times over the course of the last few weeks, since I started TA-ing Professor McGrath’s Social Psychology of Deception class.
But at the end of the day, Galina Nikitin is a bona fide “good girl”.
Not as in “you’re being such a good girl for me”. I mean like a truly GOOD girl.
The type who plays by the rules. Who doesn’t do casual hookups or anything overtly sexual.
She’s preppy, dresses attractively but not in a hugely sexy way, and always leaves a party with her friends, never a random guy.
So to see this side of her is…intriguing.
My gaze watches her gyrating her hips on my phone again, her tongue dancing over her lips as she turns to slowly curl her fingers around her neck and roll her eyes back like she’s taking every inch of my dick like a good cum slut.
But which version of this girl is the mask, and which is the real her?
Time to find out.
Even though I keep my volume off, my phone is connected by Bluetooth to Achilles’ car.
Which means unbeknownst to me, we drive the whole way back with my cousin seeing “Velvet Villainess: Villains Do It Better” streaming from “Lochlan Kildare’s iPhone” right there on the media screen of his fucking Range Rover.
He gives me a huge helping of shit for it the second we get back to campus.
Fucker.
And then twenty minutes after that, I find myself standing in a dark, quiet bedroom, watching Galina sleep.
On top of the covers.
In just tank top and panties.
Fuck me, I could take a bite out of that ass she's got going on.
Now, part of me—i.e., my penis—is super okay with the current view. But the rest of me feels a familiar, dark chill coiling through me like poison.
Like a disease.
Like that blood inside me is about to stage a hostile takeover and turn me into the monster I worry I’m destined to become.
Because even though I always say I’ve been blessed by genetics, I’ve also been cursed by them.
His name was Seamus O’Conor, and he was my dad’s great-uncle.
During The Troubles back in Belfast, he fought as part of the IRA, until they kicked him out for…wait for it…“cruel and barbaric conduct in the field”.
And as my own great-uncle Cillian likes to say, “If you’re too extreme for the IR fucking A, you’ve lost the plot, boyo.”
Eventually, Seamus made his way to the US, where he used his unique “skills” to become a top contract killer for the Irish mob.
Seamus wasn’t just a killer, though. He was a religious extremist, a bloodthirsty psychopath and a fucking animal.
The Irish mob tried to put him back in his cage, but some monsters can’t be chained back up again.
When they tried, it only turned him into a killer who didn't see a need for rules of any kind.
Eventually, Seamus met his end. But not before he kidnapped Achilles' parents—my uncle Ares and my aunt Neve—long before I was born, took them to a shack in the woods, and literally tried to crucify them.
They carry the scars of that nightmare to this day.
I carry something worse.
I'm part of Seamus’ bloodline.
I mean, Ronan and our sister Demi do, too, same as Achilles and the rest of my cousins on the Irish side of the family. But they've all made a sort of peace with it and don’t let it bother them. As Achilles tells me from time to time, “If you had O’Conor blood in you, Loch, we’d know by now.”
There’s just one flaw to that argument: he’d only know if I allowed him to.
He doesn’t know about the flashes I get in my vision.
The headaches.
The thirst for control.
The temper.
The black thoughts I keep under lock and key.
Seamus and his fondness for “bleeding the evil” from his victims is the reason I don’t like knives, and why I shy away from using them in my videos for the most part, although I know my fans would eat it up.
It just feels like tempting fate.
Holding out bait to the ravenous monster lurking within me.
I often try to tell myself I’m imagining things. Overreacting. Being dramatic.
Scaring myself with shadows and ghosts that aren’t real.
And yet, here I am.
Breaking into a girl’s bedroom and watching her sleep.
Getting off on it, and not just because I can see her panties snug against the mound of her pussy between her slightly parted thighs, or because her nipples are tight and hard beneath the cotton tank top that’s so thin I can see the slight pink hue to them.
Not just because as I watch her, all I can think about is the way she came on my lap, her hair in my fist as she soaked my erection with her cum.
No, I’m getting off on the fact that I’m here at all.
Sneaking.
Watching.
Lurking.
Or is it hunting?
My jaw sets.
Believe me, trying to wrestle feelings of self-loathing, fear of a monster hidden in your DNA, and a raging erection is a confusing mix.
Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.
I pull my gaze away from Galina’s sleeping form and begin to prowl her incredibly neat and organized room.
On the one hand, looking through someone’s personal shit without their knowledge or consent is uncool.
But so is breaking into their room to watch them sleep. Coercing them into giving you a lap dance with blackmail you don’t actually have isn't great, either.
So… You know.
Bridges have been crossed. Ships have set sail.
At first all I find is exactly what you’d expect. A vast closet full of pretty, tastefully classy clothes alongside her school uniforms. Framed photos of her dads, her brother Zane, and a group shot of her friends here at school—Yelena De Luca, Lucia Barone, Arianna Sartorre, and Wren Antonov.
The rack of vinyl next to the vintage record player is your basic collection of Standard White Girl music, with the addition of a frankly crazy number of Billy Joel singles and full albums.
My tastes gravitate more to 90’s rap and hiphop, 70’s punk, and early 00’s indie rock. I'm pleased to note she’s actually got some gems mixed into the Taylor Swift and Lana Del Ray: some Roberta Flack, older Smashing Pumpkins, even The Fugees’ The Score, which is supremely fucking cool.