Page 47 of The Secrets of a Sin

“You gonna come on my tongue, blondie?” Priscilla hums as her hand trails up Annalise’s taut stomach and squeezes her breast.

“Not if you keep teasing my fucking clit like that.” Annalise snarls as her head viciously snaps back on a cry.

“I shouldn’t even let you cum on my tongue after you’ve been a goddamn cunt to me all day.” She bites back but still licks her with the same fervor as before. “I should let you suffer and find someone who appreciates my mouth.”

“Yeah? Is that what you’re going to do?” Annalise laughs darkly, grabbing the opposite breast that’s exposed and squeezing hard. “Find another hot wet cunt to rub on to piss me off?”

Priscilla's muffled groan sends heat throughout my body, and I can feel the beginning of an orgasm twirling within me.

“Then perhaps I’ll have to find someone who doesn’t fucking complain all the time. Maybe try out someone new and beautiful.” She begins to swirl her hips provocatively over Priscilla’s face as her mouth twists into a grin. “Someone you can’t stand.”

A rabid growl tears out of Priscilla’s mouth, and within seconds, she rises off her knees and snatches Annalise’s thigh in a menacing grip. Placing her body between her legs, she thrusts ruthlessly against her center until Annalise circles her arms around her neck.

“Fuck. You. Annalise.” Priscilla grinds out with each wild shove as Annalise holds on for dear life with her eyes tightly closed. “The only pussy you’ll be fucking is mine.”

Circling, dipping inside, and swirling, I fuck myself into unconsciousness. My eyes squeeze shut as my vision begins to blur from the force of the orgasm that strikes me. All the pent-up energy from Arsen, all of his teasing, spiteful words, and the fire he ignites in my belly come barreling in and intensify the blinding climax I’m experiencing.

And then suddenly, I’m fucking flying.

“Then make me cum, dammit.” Annalise grins as their skin slides against one another, and they both groan in unison. Faster and harder, they chase and chase until finally, Annalise rips her eyes open, and with a scream, she meets my eyes. They slam into me like a punch to the gut. I immediately rip my head away from them and fix my dress before sprinting out of the showers.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

She caught me. Annalise fucking caught me watching them.

Did she see that I was touching myself like a goddamn creep in the shadows?

I can’t breathe. I can’t even see straight as I race down the hallway with a battering heart. I want to hide forever. I want to somehow travel back in time where I would know not to go into the showers, so I could avoid the embarrassment of having to confront them now.

How the hell were they going to take this? Would they be pissed? Would they call me a freak?

I want to die.

Finally reaching the safety of my room, I rush inside and slam the door until my breathing slowly evens out and my heart rate steadies.

What in the fuck just happened?

15

ARSEN

Art was my escape. Painting was what truly saved me from fully submerging into the darkness that consumed me. I needed a hobby-something to distract me from my dangerous thoughts and everyday life that seemed to be weighing me down constantly. I was fucking lost.

Empty.

With no hope for a future.

Then, one day, I picked up a paintbrush. The wooden handle reminded me of the shovel from the basement. The feeling felt the same. I felt the same power when I held it, but where one was for destroying evil, the other was for something good. I purchased paints, canvases, brushes and decided to try it out on a whim. I’m not going to lie. I was fucking awful at first. Nothing was speaking to me. Portraits were a hell no. Realism, absolutely not. Then one day, I decided to go to a vacant cemetery where I set up and painted what I saw. Dark, eerie colors filled the canvas, and the person who always makes an appearance in all my paintings. I kept him hidden in the shadows, and that became my unique signature. My paintings began to circulate the world of art because of that recurring lonely man in the background. Different expressions, different postures, he was a mysterious enigma that people wanted to know. To me, he was just someone I envisioned in my head, but others think it’s how I perceive myself.

And perhaps they’re right.

As I sit in my studio, I focus on a bird outside my window that’s perched upon a tree branch. A large black raven with eyes as black as a witch’s cauldron and wings that flutter out as if he wants to fly off.

“Arsen?” Phoebe’s short frame comes into view as I continue to scrub the kitchen floors on my hands and knees. My head quickly lifts in panic, seeing her tiny face pressed up against the window with the broomstick dangling from her hand.

---