Ignoring the box, my pulse racing, I squat and lovingly grab Crystal with both hands around her middle. She meows appreciatively when I lift her up high. "You think I should allow myself a little crazy, for once?" I ask. Crystal's blue eyes remind me of his, and when she turns them on me, meowing, a shiver runs down my spine, triggering another blast of heat between my legs that I take as a confirmation. My pride mocks me in the corners of my mind. My heart pounds excitedly. "Right, then," I say and put Crystal down. She meows in protest.
As if wanting to make up for lost time, I turn my attention to the box again. There is a slight tremble to my hands when I pull the top away. Even the wrapping paper looks expensive. I put the top next to the open box and pull the covering away. My jaw drops—and I allow it to—when I see my present.
For a moment I don't think anything at all. My mind is busy digesting the exquisite red dress, set with diamonds that twinkle like bright stars against a heavenly red sky. Only they aren't. Stars are unreachable objects that have fascinated minds since the dawn of man. Stars are what inspired stories of Gods, in the way my stepbrother to be inspires women like me to daydream what it would be like to have a man like him. No, what it is like to claim a man like him. Conquer a man like him. And why not? He is as perfect as the stars in the night sky. That's just your hormones talking, my pride tells me, and a stab of hurt reminds me how true that is. Diamonds are just a way to impress a woman, and I am impressed. More than I am willing to admit out loud.
Unable to resist, I run my fingers over my present, even though I know he’s probably given many women similar gifts. This is his modus operandi, my pride tells me. Warns me. But it has the opposite effect. Instead of scaring me off, the way it should, my excitement grows when I think this means he wants me. Desires me. The dress feels as smooth and soft as it looks, the diamonds cool and hard.Expensive.
Crystal smoothly jumps on the low table and brings her pretty face close to the dress just when I lift it by the shoulders. My breath caught, I register the diamonds are laid out in a pattern: forming a rose just where my left breast would be if I had it on. The front is low cut—too low for my comfort. The sides too are bare, and the back is non-existent until it reaches where my ass would be.
It’s the kind of dress only a movie star could get away with; or a model, or a woman with a lot of confidence. I am none of those.
Anger hits me like a tropical storm when I realize how he is playing me, and how part of me loves it—only to find I'm not able to play his game. Not ready to go where he is waiting—for what? Me? Easy prey?A nice snack between all those gorgeous women of his.For what? Bragging rights? Well, fuck him. Fuck him, and that bitch, and me too. Fuck me, for responding the way I do—like a bitch in heat.
"Fuck!" I shout, when I realize I'm perspiring like an addict in detox. I drop the dress unceremoniously and turn my eyes away. "What does he think I am?" Crystal doesn't reply. "Just another slut?" Crystal still doesn't reply. "Well, I'll show him!" I will. I just have no idea how, yet.
I walk around the low end table and let myself fall backward on the couch, my bathrobe falling away and leaving me only partially covered. That is how I remain for the next twenty minutes. Breathing, seething, indulging in feeling insulted.The rays of the sun caressing my skin. Twenty minutes is all it takes for my biology to prove it is stronger than my pride.
I try not to judge myself when I slip the fingers of my right hand under my panties. Eyes closed, my other hand finds its way to a hard nipple that needs attention. Crystal meows just when my fingers brush over my throbbing clit, and I sigh the way you do when pleasure rises to the surface. Pinching my nipple, I sigh again. With each wave of pleasure, my pride retreats further until I'm nothing but a woman with needs and desires that I don't have the energy to resist any longer.
I will judge myself, though. Later.After the deed is done. I'll feel ashamed of my own weakness, almost as much as my desires for a man my pride tells me to despise. A man not even worthy of being called a man. A man who uses women, solely for his own primal needs. But that is for later. Now, my fingers move faster as the burning between my legs becomes more intense, and I fill up the air around me with sighs and moans that are testimony to the state I'm in.
My chest rises and falls with each wave of pleasure that leads me to the climax I need, and my eyes are shut tight as my lips are parted. So are my legs. My left leg is pulled up, resting against the back of the sofa, and my right leg dangles over the edge.
I arch my back and curl my toes when pleasure peaks, and my unseeing eyes shoot wide open. Unshed tears spill over and I hear myself cry out; all my desires and longings are right there in the sound of a cry that only the one man I should stay away from can generate. Crystal meows. My body shocks with the intensity of my orgasm, white light exploding in front of my eyes, and my fingers dutifully continue their work.
"Oh, God," I pant once I've come down enough for a guilty conscience to kick in hard, but I'm still flying high enough on orgasmic bliss to ignore it. That only lasts several minutes, though. Self-conscious, I sit up and pull my bathrobe close. I'm almost surprised to see my room still looks the same as it always did. The furniture is still there. So is the sunlight that streams in through the windows in generous amounts. Crystal decides she has got all the attention her silly human friend is going to spend on her and offers me her behind when she retreats to her feeding corner.
I sigh, but this time it is one of frustration. Running the fingers of my left hand through my hair, my heart races when I eye the dress.The dress that testifies of exquisite taste and wealth, and a practical knowledge on how to get under a woman's skin; an art my stepbrother to be has perfected.
It would be so easy to surrender and give in. Too easy, I tell myself, half-heartedly. It is bad enough that he has this effect on me, no need to tempt fate. I dread to think what I'd do if he were physically near.
"Fucker," I say, frustrated. "I'm too old for this shit," I mutter, and sadness flows freely in my heart. Too old at twenty-two?the part of me that wants to be foolish and carefree asks. I ignore the inquiry and rise to my feet. Grabbing the dress, its softness is enough to take the edge off my anger. The crazy part of me senses its chance and asks me what I have to lose.
My pride and self-esteem, I argue. That's a valid argument, right?Pride and self-esteem.Two guards that guard us against…what?The animalistic part of being human. Pride and self-esteem are what separate us from acting like beasts.
I know I shouldn't have thought that. My crazy part instantly conjures the image of myself bent over the hood of Steve's car. Dressed in my billionaire's dress and a pair of matching red heels, my hair pulled up and my cheeks flushed, my face a mask of lust. He is behind me, dressed in a tuxedo, his pants down just as my dress is pulled up to my waist to reveal nothing but nakedness. His hands on my hips, he drills me hard, like I imagine he does to every woman who crosses his path. Both of us are beasts without pride and self-es
teem, and part of me wants it so badly that it hurts.
My pussy contracts excitedly and my blood pressure spikes. A lustful sigh escapes my lips, like a powerful breeze straight from my lungs, and I toss the dress into the corner before hurrying to the bathroom. Not that I think a cold shower is going to make a difference, but what is the alternative? Give in, my crazy part whispers, and I want to kick myself. "Never!" I shout and shut the bathroom door behind me harder than I intended.
"Wrong," I say, so softly that I can barely hear it. That's a dead giveaway, isn't it? Fake protest. Something you throw up for form, delivered because you feel you have to, but so feebly that no one in their right mind could mistake your true intent; the opposite of what you are 'protesting' against.
Blood rushes through my veins like hot lava and pleasure peaks. I'm certain my primal grunt can be heard by the guests outside, but I'm beyond caring. Throwing my head back, teeth bared, my orgasm takes hold of me and my hands shoot down. Fingers entwined in his hair, I push myself against him, not wanting his tongue to stop. It doesn't.
I sit up with a shock when I realize all eyes are on me, and Professor Dray is talking to me. Apparently he's been talking to me for quite some time, while my mind was elsewhere. "Miss Trisky, if you find my class to be so boring then maybe you should stay away altogether?"
Mumbling, “Sorry,” I try to put on a smile. Professor Dray raises an inquiring eyebrow. Of course, he just has to. He can't just give me a break, or any other student for that matter, and repeat whatever I missed. Not him. He dislikes students and is never too shy to make that much clear.
"Could you repeat that, sir?" I say. Some snickers penetrate the air but I also receive some Don't let the pathetic fuck get to you, Sally, looks, that let me know I'm not alone. Professor Dray's dislike for students is mutual—there’s no love lost between both parties.