Page 15 of Study Games

My hand drifted to my cock, rubbing myself lightly through the rough material. This girl didn’t have a chance at satisfaction, and it stood to reason that I shouldn’t, either. So I rubbed gently, edging myself until I ached and my jeans were soaked.

The damp denim confined almost as tight as the subject I drew with Waverly’s features. I flicked my fly down, scratching my cock as I freed myself, and worked myself with one hand.

Behind me, my phone vibrated, a specific pattern I wanted to forget. A ruined groan left me as I released my cock and reached back.

My father couldn’t be ignored.

But first…

Panting, I stroked the tip of my cock once and let go, but it was enough. Imagining the bees walking from her body to mine did it for me. I erupted in a ruined orgasm that burst from me, coating my seed all over my tortured girl.

But the pleasure…I never finished my orgasm, tucking myself away one handed and picked up the call, my breath irregular.

“What do you want?” I snapped, ripping the tainted paper from the easel and tossed it to the floor in a heap.

Waverly’s face crumpled as I found matches and lit the first, tossing it over the mess I created. Smoke filled my nostrils while my creation burned away and my father ranted in my ear.

“To speak to my son, of course,” my father's voice schmoozed, oily to practice. It wasn’t so smooth, crackled by years of sin and overindulgence that shattered my sense of peace I enjoyed for the past hours on my own. “What the fuck are you doing? Playing sport or some shit?”

I snorted, not bothering to correct him. “You know me so well.”

“Of course I do,” my sire said smugly, as though he’d decoded the secret of the universe.

He knows nothing.

Waverly’s eyes were the last part of her face to light up, watching me until the last.

“I don't have time for you.”

“Then why did you pick the call up?”

“Why indeed?” I asked rhetorically. “What is it you want?” I repeated my original question, knowing he only called me when he needed something.

His brief silence told me I hadn’t misread his intentions.

“How is your connection with the Lancaster boy going?” he asked as if we were on a fucking picnic.

Crush. That’s what this was about. Because i couldn’t make a friend on my fucking own. Ignoring my father’s chatter on the other end of the line I stamped out the flames as my honey girl burnt up completely before it scorched anything. I might consider Crush my friend regardless of what my father implied, but he’d have me strung up as the next party favor if I burn the place down or marked anything.

And for good reason.

“That's what you care about?” I couldn't keep the disdain out of my voice as I stamped out the last of the embers. “Are you short and need to borrow from his daddy?” No, even Fabius Palmer wouldn't stoop to borrow money from someone like the Lancasters. I tilted my head to one side. “Or maybe you need his daddy for something else.”

“I don't need anyone for anything.”

My father’s voice cracked out like a whip and hung up, leaving me standing in an ashy pile turned white and the remnants of a ruined orgasm, a twisted attempt at pleasure with a girl who wished I never existed.

“Great talking to you, Dad.”

Shouts filled the levels below in the Kingsman house. I gave up seeking solitude, knowing mine was about to get a whole lot rougher, and flick the lock on my door.

If you can't beat them, fuck with them.

Or something like that.

There was a bottle of cheap alcohol downstairs with a hangover bearing tomorrow's date and my name written all over it.

I didn’t have any other plans worthwhile if Waverly wasn’t around. Hell, if I earned a hangover bad enough, maybe I could even forget her for a few hours.

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