Page 32 of Lesson Learned

I turn on the tv and start scrolling, then turn it off after ten minutes, not even interested enough to read the listing descriptions.

I’m antsy. For the past two years, every night has followed the same pattern. Go out, either with a girl or finding one, fuck her in whatever way she’ll let me, and pour all my excess venom into her.

Shag. Rinse. Repeat. Easy-peasy.

Until I can’t get my mind to shift off a girl who on the surface is no different from any of the others.

Sure, she has a cute smile. I loved the expression of panic when I paid her entry. Her fumbling attempts to offer to pay me back, like the money was such a substantial amount I would surely miss having it in my bank account.

How long’s it been since a girl turned down my offer to pay for her?

Years? Never? I spent more on the blonde I arrived with that night, and she’d buggered off after one drink, not even stopping to dance.

Not really an issue since I’d been happier dancing on my own, winking at Paisley and watching her face explode with brightness at the attention. Even in my early days with Saski, she’d never been as excited by my pursuit.

I rub my abdomen, the muscles tightening for absolutely no reason. Knowing my luck, I’m probably growing an ulcer in there.

Even if the thought of fucking a random stranger doesn’t appeal, I could still go dancing. Lose myself in the music and the movement. A simple act of enjoyment that might lift my current malaise.

I grab my phone again, start typing in a search for clubs nearby, then abruptly switch to the tracking screen, the one linked to Paisley’s phone.

No. This isn’t a game.

The random thought is correct, but it’s not like I’m meeting up with her, I’m just peeking. She’s probably in her room at school or studying in the library.

Given the quality of her essay submissions—and yes, I’ve read every single one on file—the latter is most likely. I know the requirements for scholarship students are even harsher than for the general school roll, and those are already stricter than most schools have in place.

On screen, the tiny tracking dot deciphers the location, zooming in again and again, highlighting her phone with pinpoint accuracy.

She’s at a mall. Not somewhere a girl her age goes on her own. She’s probably sitting in the food court with friends. Perhaps waiting to go to a movie.

I close my eyes until the memory of moving inside her tiny body flashes into view. Not in the alley outside the club, though that was its own kind of pleasurable, but afterwards.

When I brought her home.

When she passed out from whatever the bartender gave her.

When I peeled off that expensive gold dress, the zipper torn from my earlier efforts, laid her unconscious body with her arms above her head, hair splayed like a wavy halo, and fucked her again. Fucked her properly. Fucked her long and hard and deep, experiencing her continuing arousal even though her brain had exited the building. Feeling the muscles in her tight cunt clench and twitch and convulse as she came, an event that triggered my own release.

Then doing it all again. My refractory period almost nil.

Afterwards, I’d played with her in the bath while washing the evidence of my crime away. She’d laughed as she emerged into consciousness, fingers seeking and searching me, smiling like she was having a fantastic time. Her eyes opened wide, appearing so innocent while she grabbed my hardening cock in her soap slippery hands and guided me inside her again.

Fuck.

I jump to my feet, stalking over to the sideboard cabinet and opening it, glaring at the decanter that had been full at the start of the week and is now empty.

Considering the heightened levels of awareness I need on my current job, I shouldn’t be drinking at all. Instead, I’ve consumed in one week what would normally take a month.

The slam of the cabinet door is a momentary satisfaction before I pace the room, moving from one piece of furniture to the next, hating everything and everyone.

Everyone except her.

I grab my jacket, deciding to walk the short distance rather than using my driver. Not because I’m covering my tracks, ensuring word doesn’t get back to Patrick, but because I need the fresh air. Need it to blow the cobwebs away.

Hopefully, they’ll be replaced by common sense and the moment I reach the mall I can turn on my heel and walk straight back home again.

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