Lords of Pain: Chapter 7

If it weren’t for The Game, I would be bending Story over my piano right about now, fucking her senseless. The thought of it—the vision of my cock burying myself into her tight, wet pussy—is so vivid and alluring that I have to practically force her to leave.

She must sense it because she doesn’t just leave. She runs like hell, scurrying down the hall like a scared little mouse.

Groaning in frustration, I walk across the room, my erection painful and stiff, intending to close my door. Instead, I find Tristian leaning against it, his arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow raised.

“That was quick.”

I shrug a shoulder. “Didn’t even have to work for it. She was curled up on my couch like a present, waiting to be unwrapped.”

“Bet she doesn’t make that mistake again.”

I laugh, still tasting her on my mouth. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I made that girl come so fucking hard, she’s probably still all jelly-legged.”

Tristian hums like he doesn’t care, but I can see the jealousy lurking under the façade. “Three points, then?” he asks, eyes falling down to the tent in my pants. Sure, I could have made her suck me off, but barebones compliance is the smallest point-value for head. I’m biding my time with that, maximizing my point gain.

“Five,” I correct. “The door was wide open.”

He narrows his eyes, like he wants to protest an open door being an exhibition, but we’d already laid out just about every variation, and an open door is worth two points. If there’s one thing Killian is good at, it’s managing to break any possibility down into micro-granular opportunities.

“I still think three is too much.” Tristian would. Exhibition is more his thing than mine.

I roll my eyes, but don’t bother arguing this again. Three points for giving our Lady an orgasm was my own idea. I know Tristian and Killer. They’re both too involved in their own dicks to give much thought to getting a girl off. Me? Hell, that’s part of the thrill, making a girl shake apart under my hands, my tongue, my dick. The way she’ll look at me after, half affronted, half awestruck. It’s easy to give a girl a bad fuck. Giving her a good one is the better challenge.

“Maybe,” I smirk back at him, “to those of us who only think of clits in a vague, abstract, purely theoretical kind of way.”

He flips me off and I laugh, turning to shut the door behind me. Competition has always been fierce between us, and things escalated the prior year when we worked together against the rest of the Frat. But adding Story to the mix is going to be interesting. There’s something about this girl, like just seeing her brings out something feral and wild inside. I know I’m not the only one who feels it.

When I step back in the room, I get hit by her scent, both the sweet floral smell of her shampoo and the tangy aroma of her pussy. My eyes drop to the faded gray cotton panties I’d left on the piano bench. I pick them up and press the soft, worn fabric against my nose. I close my eyes and inhale, thinking about what it was like to have her writhing against my tongue.

My cock twitches and I laugh. God, she fought so hard, yanking and pulling at my hair, pretending like she wasn’t into it. But that’s always been Sweet Cherry’s MO. I’d seen her sugar baby account back in the day. The girl is a tease. I saw the way she strung those old fuckers along. The way she acted so innocent. She’s not. She’s a horny bitch. Why the hell would she come into my room and curl up on my couch if she didn’t want me to play with her? Considering her little addendum to the contract, there’s no doubt the girl has an appetite.

I crash on the couch and unzip my pants, pulling out my cock with one hand and gripping her panties in the other.

I may have let Story get away without pleasuring me tonight, but the taste and feel of her are enough to spur my imagination. It’s not the first time I’ve had to conjure up the memory of her to get off, and something tells me it won’t be the last.

Still, the orgasm is lacking. Even as I catch my spunk in her panties, I’m thinking that next time is going to be different. Let her stew in the knowledge that I know my way around her body. Then, I’ll make her return the favor.

Maybe it’s the fading endorphins, but suddenly I’m dumped into the chilly reminder of Story mentioning my little…issue.

Scowling, I throw the panties in the trash—Ms. Crane will love that shit—and pick up my journal, flipping it open. It’s not like I never tried to get better at reading. It was just easier, paying people off to take my tests, to let me copy. After so long, I didn’t even have to pay at all. One nice, long stare was enough to make people compliant—teachers included. Do it to the right people at the right times, they won’t even realize you need it. One day I realized it was too late, I was too fucking old, to have problems with this kind of shit. Might have flown in grade school, but in middle school? High school? Fucking college? No way.

But somehow Story figured it out.

It’s late when I descend the stairs, pack of cigarettes in hand. I pass Killer’s room, right across from Story’s, and don’t have to press my ear to the door to know he’s probably already in there. Looks like I’m not the only one jacking it to Sweet Cherry tonight.

Just the only one feeling pissed off afterward.

“Heard you got a new toy,” Ms. Crane says when I step out into the back garden. Not much light reaches back here, but I can still make out the lines of her ancient, worn face.

I light my post-nut cigarette and shrug. “I’ve barely taken it out of the package yet.”

Her laugh is gravelly and harsh, a lot like her voice. Ms. Crane is in her late fifties, but she doesn’t look a day under seventy. “You boys are gonna get it one of these days.”

“Hell yeah, we are,” I say, deliberately misreading her words. “How was bridge?”

She flicks her own cigarette. We’re used to these little garden cigarette meetings, although Ms. Crane must smoke like three packs a day. She practically lives out here. “Nasty bitches. Can’t suffer ‘em.”

“Because you’re such a ray of fucking sunshine,” I respond, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the night air.

“Only thing worse than bartering pills with a dozen bitter old hags is working for you three dickless cockroaches.”

I put a hand to my chest. “You secretly love us like we’re your own.”

Her shrewd eyes land on mine. “If I’d given birth to someone like you, I would have blown my brains out.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

Ms. Crane is the baddest bitch I know. She was married to the oldest, sickest crony in South Side up until three years ago. She’s probably seen and lived through shit that would even make Killian shudder. We wouldn’t let anyone talk shit to us like she does. Ms. Crane isn’t just anybody.

“No,” she agrees, blowing a plume of smoke. “Would have solved you with a coat hanger long before it got to that point.”

I snort. “Tell me how you really feel, you old bat.”

“Very well,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “You know what happened to my husband, don’t you?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure everyone does.”

She nods. “You keep playing your little games. One of these days you’re gonna get the wrong girl. Just you watch your back. You hear?” She punctuates this with a pat to my cheek that could almost be called affectionate.

Except then she flips me off.

What I don’t tell her is that I’m always watching my back. Story knows my secret—something that even Killer and Tristian don’t even know.

If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll keep it.