5. Scarletts Nocturnal Reign #4
He didn’t. He fucked me through one orgasm, then another, the second one so intense my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the table, face mashed against the fake marble, tears streaming from my eyes.
He grabbed my arms, pinned them behind my back, and pounded into me until he came, his whole body tensed, cock pulsing hot inside me.
He pulled out, spun me around, and kissed me, hard, before biting my lip again for good measure.
We didn’t stop there. I dragged him down the hall, shoved him onto the bed, and rode him until he begged for mercy.
He called me a whore, a freak, a goddess, and I laughed in his face every time.
I let him do anything he wanted: spit in my mouth, slap my ass, pull my hair until my scalp went numb. The more he did, the more alive I felt.
At one point, he pressed me naked against the sliding glass door, city lights strobing outside, cars and strangers and all the world watching.
He spread my legs, cupped my breasts so they flattened against the cold glass, and slid his cock inside me again.
The chill from the glass and the heat of his body sent me into a frenzy, grinding back against him, wanting to smash right through the pane and let the whole block see.
My breath fogged the glass in desperate bursts.
He pumped harder, both hands cupping my tits, squeezing until my nipples throbbed and my whole chest ached.
I pawed at the glass, leaving sweat and fingerprints and the streaks of my own need.
He pressed in deeper, then pulled out, spun me around, and made me sink to my knees.
He shoved his cock in my mouth, and I took it all the way down, letting it choke me, loving the helpless, hungry way he stared at me with nothing but gratitude.
I finished him off there, swallowing every drop, then stood and smirked, tongue still wet with his cum.
I guided him to the living room, pushed him to the floor, and let him finger me until I came again, grinding down on his hand, shrieking into a throw pillow.
He watched, mesmerized, as I squirted onto his palm, then licked it clean, the taste of myself a victory.
I let him recover his senses, then tossed him his clothes and sent him on his way before collapsing in sleep.
In the dead hours before dawn, I woke, thirsty and sticky, and padded naked to the kitchen for water.
I caught my reflection in the sliding glass.
Bruises on my hips, hickeys across my chest, lipstick smeared from chin to collarbone.
My pussy was swollen, the lips flushed deep pink, evidence of the night’s work trickling down my thigh.
I drank three glasses of water, then gathered up my clothes.
The apartment was trashed: kitchen counter covered in handprints, couch cushions on the floor, a trail of disarray like breadcrumbs.
I loved the mess. It was proof that Scarlett had lived, and that Lauren would have to clean it all up.
I reopened the hidden drawer panel and stuffed my red dress, the heels, and the shredded bra inside.
I wiped down the lipstick, scrubbed off the mascara, then stood naked in front of the mirror, admiring the constellation of marks across my skin.
I was exhausted, empty and full at the same time.
I crawled into bed, pulled the sheets over my body, and let out a long, contented sigh. I felt Lauren at the edges, pawing at the inside of my skull, desperate to claw her way back in. I smiled, closed my eyes, and whispered, “Good luck cleaning up after this, sweetheart.”
I let go, let the darkness seep in, and fell asleep with a grin plastered across my face.
Lauren
I woke up with my face mashed into the comforter and my arms thrown overhead, wrists pinned beneath the deadweight of my own body.
Sunlight battered its way through the blinds, slicing my back into uneven stripes.
The room smelled like smoke and perfume and something animal.
For a second, I thought I was still dreaming, trapped in the tail end of last night’s fever.
Then I moved, and every nerve ending in my body screamed at me.
My thighs ached. My neck ached. There was a soreness between my legs that went deeper than muscles or memory, something so raw it felt like a wound.
I rolled onto my back, and the first thing I saw was the dark smudge of lipstick on the inside of my wrist. I raised my arm, staring at the faint ring of red, and tried to remember how it had gotten there.
The last thing I recalled was the mirror, the woman in the glass swallowing me whole.
My mouth was dry and tasted like metal, but there was a sugar on my lips, an echo of last night’s lipstick.
I licked at it, and the taste was both familiar and wrong, as if someone had piped candy syrup straight into my veins.
I sat up, and the bedsheet fell away, exposing my breasts to the sunlight.
They were flushed, nipples taut and tender, the left marked by a perfect oval of bruising, as though someone had sucked it hard enough to leave a map of their teeth.
I clapped a hand over my chest, but the sensation only sharpened the memory.
There were flashes now: jagged, erotic, and out of sequence.
A hand, larger than my own, squeezing my breast. The snap of elastic as my panties were stripped away.
Fingers digging into my hips, guiding me backward, pinning me in place.
I gasped, the memory so vivid it made my core clench and throb.
My body told the story my mind wouldn’t.
My thighs were sticky, not just from sweat but from a spill of something wet and viscous that had dried overnight.
I spread my legs and looked: the skin between them was pink and tender, the flesh mottled with faint purple hickeys and scratches.
There was a set of deep, unmistakable bite marks high on my inner thigh, so fresh that the skin was raised and angry around the indentations.
I traced the bites with shaking fingers.
The touch made me shudder, and for a moment I just sat there, half-terrified and half-desperate to know more.
My hand found my pubis, still smooth and hairless from the night before.
I rubbed the skin, marveling at the sensitivity, at the way my fingers slipped over the surface without friction.
The sensation was so intense, so sharp, that I couldn’t help but moan. My breath fogged the air.
A wave of shame crashed over me. I yanked the sheet back over my lap and tried to bury the evidence.
But the scent lingered, sweet and foul. I could smell myself on my fingers, on the sheets, on the pillows.
I clawed the bedding aside and staggered to the bathroom, desperate to scrub it all away.
The mirror over the sink was fogged with condensation from someone’s shower: mine, maybe, or hers.
I wiped it clear with the back of my hand.
My reflection looked haunted: hair wild and matted, lips bruised and slightly parted, a red flush climbing up my neck and across my cheeks.
There were more marks. Little crescent moons of teeth along my jaw, a dark, spreading bruise on my shoulder.
My eyes were still dilated, almost black in the center, as if I hadn’t fully come back to earth.
I reached up and touched my lips. They were swollen, the skin split at the corner.
The memory was instant: a mouth, tongue forcing its way between my teeth, hands gripping my face with a desperation that bordered on violence.
The taste of whiskey, then blood, then the sweetness of lipstick.
The memory made my knees buckle. I gripped the edge of the sink, afraid I might collapse.
I turned on the cold water and splashed my face, but the shock only made things worse.
More memories slammed into place: being bent over the kitchen table, hands splayed for balance; pressed up against the sliding glass window, my bare breasts flattened against the glass; lying on the living room floor, legs spread and helpless, while a stranger’s mouth worked its way down my body.
There was laughter, not mine, echoing in the dark.
And always, the same name, whispered like a spell… Scarlett.
I started to cry, but the tears dried up almost instantly.
The shame was immediate and hot, but it didn’t erase the arousal that was already pooling between my legs.
I hated myself for it. I hated the way my body still responded, even now, to the ghost of her hands and the memory of her tongue.
I squeezed my thighs together, and the pressure was electric, a shock of pleasure so acute I had to bite down on my knuckles to keep from screaming.
I peeled the sheet away from my body, turned sideways to the mirror, and inspected the rest of the damage.
There were fingerprints around my wrists, a ring of bruising on my left ankle, and a cluster of marks just above my ass.
I couldn’t remember how they’d gotten there, but the sight of them made me tremble.
My nipples were so hard they hurt. I pressed my hand to my breast, kneading the flesh, and shuddered at the sensation.
It was like every nerve in my body had been rewired, tuned for maximum sensitivity.
I sat down hard on the edge of the tub, legs spread wide, unable to stop touching.
My fingers found my clit, swollen and slick with need, and the first brush against that tender bud was enough to make me jerk and moan.
I closed my eyes, and the images returned, this time in high definition: my face reflected in the window, mouth open, lipstick smeared across my cheek, eyes wild with a hunger I'd never seen before; the stranger behind me, hands locked around my hips, nails digging crescents into my flesh, fucking me so hard I thought I might break; my own voice, hoarse and begging for more, for harder, for anything.
I slid two fingers inside myself, feeling how wet and ready I still was, how my inner walls clenched greedily around the intrusion.
I felt the orgasm build, hot and fast, a coiling tension that started deep in my core and radiated outward.
When it hit I almost blacked out, my back arching off the cold porcelain, toes curling against the bathroom tile.
My whole body convulsed, muscles locking and trembling, my inner walls pulsing rhythmically around my fingers, and I cried out, the sound muffled only by my free hand clamped over my mouth.
When it was over, I slumped forward, head between my knees, wetness dripping down my thighs.
My whole body buzzed with aftershocks. I felt hollowed out, like a shell after a storm, yet somehow more complete than I'd ever been.
I rocked back and forth, waiting for the tremors to subside.
The shame came flooding back, but this time it was tinged with something else.
A satisfaction, maybe, or relief… and beneath it all, a hunger for more.
I stumbled to my feet, showered again, this time taking care not to scrub away the marks.
I dried off, dressed in the first clothes I found, and went back to the bedroom.
The sheets were a disaster, streaked with lipstick, sweat, and sex.
I stripped them off, balled them up, and shoved them in the laundry basket.
Then I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall, trying to make sense of what had happened.
A buzzing sound cut through the silence.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, but the screen was dark.
The buzzing continued. On my hands and knees, I discovered another phone half-hidden beneath the bed skirt.
When I pressed my thumb to its screen, it unlocked immediately, recognizing me.
One new message glowed from an unknown contact:
“Scarlett. Last night was incredible. Call me.”
I laughed, then cried, then laughed again.
I was still laughing when I picked up the matchbook from the bedside table, opened it, and struck a match.
I watched the flame devour the tip, burning hot and fast. I wondered if I would ever get myself back, or if I even wanted to.
I let the match burn down to my fingers, savoring the sting, before pinching it out and letting the smoke curl up into the air.
The room still smelled like her, like us.
I closed my eyes, leaned back on the bed, and waited for the darkness to come and claim me again.