by Darcy Rose
The thought makes me shiver.
My cock jumps in my hand as I stroke harder, faster. I imagine this cloth against her pert breasts. Her hard nipples rubbing against the fabric. Fuck. I take a piece of the sweater and bite it, wishing I could taste her, too. Wishing my tongue was inside her tight hole. I’d devour her, eating her out until she begged me to stop.
My mind fills with visions of Faith’s slender, naked body, a sight I am already incredibly familiar with. I have seen her naked plenty of times on camera but never been close enough to feel or smell her. Visions of her body, her face, her wide, open smile haunt me.
I bite down on my bottom lip as I grip my erection and pump just a few more times, watching the purple-tinted tip quiver. My heart is thrumming through the muscles of my cock, and I know I’m going to come soon.
Imagining the slight bounce of Faith’s breasts, I wonder what it would be like to put those small, tender nipples inside my mouth. My thoughts swirl, and I think of her hot wet mouth, her ass, and her virgin pussy, how tight it would be around my cock.
Fuck, I want her so badly, want to unwrap her like a gift. I want to take that innocent girl and dirty her up, fuck her holes, make her scream my name and beg for my cock.
With my face buried in the sweater, my knees buckle, and my balls tighten as I release thick webs of cum onto the tile floor. A pleasure I would never, ever know.
As soon as I finish coming, a deep wave of shame overcomes me. I just stole a girl’s sweater and used it to masturbate. What if she asks for it back? What if she tries to insert herself into my life now? Did I just self-sabotage completely to hold a sweater for a few minutes?
Never again, I promise myself and make peace with the fact that what’s done is done.
As I zip up my pants and go to clean up the mess, I think about how my skills as a hitman have, in a way, prepared me for a love like this.
I am adept at making peace with my past sins; I only promise to do better tomorrow. If doing better means sniping a guy who tried to kill Tony Fontana, then so be it.
Once the mess is clean, I pause at the bottom of the staircase and take a breath. Technically, this is a safe house that belongs to the Fontanas’. After I carried out a hit against the head of the Polacks’ uptown, I had to hide away for a bit. It was routine; that is, at least, for hitmen. You got used to the impermanence of everything, including human life.
It is a modern suburban home, more suited for a family of three or four. I can hear my footsteps echo most nights. The kitchen is large and modern and completely wasted on me. Most nights, I order takeout. Too tired to cook.
The house is nicely decorated, in green and brown tones. Very earthy. I’m indifferent to my surroundings, though. I’ve had to stay in much worse places to stay safe.
And hey, this one came with a French press.
I climb the stairs, heading for my bedroom.
Though I could have taken the master bedroom at the other end of the hall, I chose to sleep in the guest room. It’s smaller, and there’s no attached bathroom, but it has a window that looks almost directly into Faith’s bedroom.
If I keep the lights off, my window is far enough away that she won’t see me watching her. Faith is usually pretty good about closing her curtains; most of the moments I see are through the camera. But every now and again, she decides to play or prance around with the shades open.
Maybe Santa Claus came down and gave me a wink. Maybe I’m just a lucky guy. But the moment I step into the guest room, I’m treated with a delicious sight, Faith, with her shades wide open, in the middle of taking off her sweater.
Despite the savage wank I just had downstairs, my cock immediately begins to get hard again. I can see her pale stomach, the gentle curves leading into the hem of her tight pants. But my heart stops when the sweater comes off, and I see the little black lace number she’s wearing.
My god. I never would have dreamed my innocent Faith would own such a thing. But it does the job and makes my blood run hot. She looks so fucking sexy in it. Her breasts are round and nearly spill over the edge of the cups—my obsession.
Faith stands in front of her mirror, admiring herself in the bra. My heart is pounding fast, coursing through my veins with the excitement of watching her. She pinches the waistband of her leggings with both hands and begins to fold them down.
I almost worry she can see me due to how agonizingly slow she peels off the pants. I can just barely see the upper hem of her red underwear when I unbutton my pants and pull them to the floor, standing in the middle of my guest room wearing nothing but a sweater with my throbbing erection hanging loose.
Faith is still oblivious to her open blinds, and though I will lose nothing when she decides to close them—thank you, cameras—I hope with all my being she stands there just a little longer.
She pulls her pants down to her knees, and I appreciate the gentle curve of her ass as she bends over. Her skin looks so smooth, untouched, unmarred.
Her hands are nearly on the ground as she steps out of her leggings, and she is positioned perfectly for me to get a view of her entire ass. I can just barely make out her pussy from here, the one thing I have not yet seen up close, but she straightens up before I can squint harder.
My hand is on my cock as Faith looks herself over in the mirror for another moment, bouncing slightly on her toes. She smiles and puts her hands below her breasts, laughing and bouncing again. I can see the ripple in the mirror.
This is the best Christmas present I’ve ever received.
Suddenly, Faith stops and gasps, turning around to face her window. I step back quietly, sneaking away instinctively as if she could hear me. Realization settles over her face as she turns and crosses her room in a few strides. She has to lean over her desk to close her curtains, and I am treated with a heart-stopping top-down view of her cleavage. My cock jumps in my hand, electrified by the perfect view. I watch her chest heave one last time before she pulls the curtains shut, and I am denied the pleasure of further peeping.
My heart is still rebounding in my chest. I am still feeling some residual shame at my depraved wank session in the foyer, and combined with the fear that she might have caught me, it’s enough to make me dizzy. Taking one more step back, I lean against the doorframe. The painted wood is cool, and I take a series of deep breaths. The effect that Faith has on me is unnatural. No woman has ever occupied my thoughts the way she does. Many have tried. But not have succeeded like sweet, innocent Faith has.
Worst yet, she has no idea, and hopefully, she never will.
Confident that my heart rate is back in a normal zone, I step forward and tug my boxers out of the puddle of my pants. My cock has gone soft now, and I tuck it behind the underwear. It won’t be long until I’m looking at her again, anyway.
I head to my bed and click the spacebar on my laptop a couple times. There’s a nightstand exactly level with my bed, and at night, I set the laptop on it. It helps me to sleep, to look up and see my obsession, almost as if she were sleeping across from me.
Like in an old TV show, the screen glows to life, and I enter a series of passwords that only I know. You can never be too secure. After I type the codes, the live feed of Faith’s room fills the screen. Bliss fills my veins when she enters the frame. She’s wearing a big, baggy T-shirt with those same red panties from earlier. I can see the black bra on the floor, and I feel a pang of regret that I didn’t get to the laptop sooner. I’ve seen Faith naked many times at this point, but to watch her take off that slutty lace number would have been divine.
My stomach twinges slightly with both guilt and hunger. Quickly, I take out my phone and place an order for egg drop soup and General Tso’s online. Some enterprising Millennial gig worker was probably trying to earn a few bucks on Christmas Eve, anyway. It only takes a few taps to complete the payment, then I’m back to watching Faith. The guilt is still there, but I reason that I must simply learn to live with it. I’m not giving up this obsession. If I can’t have h
er physically, then I’ll have her any way I can.
She’s sitting at the edge of her bed, thumbing through some battered paperback. I can’t make out the title from here, but I can see her quietly mouthing the words to herself as she reads. More than ever, I wish that I could reach out and hold her, comb my fingers through her hair as she reads to herself.
Maybe she would read to me, run her fingers over my skin, wrap her arms around me.
Only in the dark, voyeuristic space of this bedroom can I admit it to myself, I want Faith to take care of me just as much as I want to take care of her.
5
Faith
I don’t know how or why, but last night, I had that weird feeling again. Like somebody was watching me. It was just like when I was in the kitchen; there I was, lost in my thoughts when suddenly, I could feel someone’s eyes on my back. It was like my whole spine was on pins and needles. What made it worse was that I had left my curtains open.
When I went to shut them, I noticed that all the windows in Vincent’s house were dark. He wasn’t there. My window faces partway into his backyard and the backyard of the house behind us. Maybe the guy behind us had been watching me? Or maybe…
No, no way. I am just being paranoid. Even though Vincent had seemed so kind at the beginning of his visit, when he ran away, it hurt. He didn’t want to be around me. So why would he be peeping on me? Please.
I told myself as I took off the black lace bra and slipped on an old camp T-shirt. The simplest explanation is most likely the right one. I’m just on-edge and paranoid. No one’s watching me.
Before falling asleep, I read more of the novel I’d been working on earlier today.
I’s a fantasy romance about an Elf King who whisks a peasant fairy girl away to his castle and treats her to splendors she never could have imagined. All she has to do is agree to be, in essence, his sex slave. It’s a filthy read, but books like that are my guilty pleasure. I can experience all sorts of things—things that I would never have the courage to ask for in real life—from the comfort of my bed.
After I read about the way the Elf King dressed the peasant girl in nothing but solid gold chains and paraded her around the town square, I tuck my bookmark back between the pages and put myself to bed. Part of me wants to touch myself before falling asleep, but I nod off before making a decision. After all, it has been a long, exhausting day.
I dream of Vincent all night. Most of the dreams are fuzzy and incomprehensible: shots of his face, his smile, his intense stare. Memories of the way I lit up when we brushed against each other. Fantasies of his strong arms lifting me, pinning me against a wall, dressing me in nothing but gold chains while looking at me as if I were a meal…
When I wake up, I can feel the throbbing between my legs before I even open my eyes. Fantasies of Vincent still dance behind my closed lids, and I want to hold on to them as long as possible. Without rolling over or opening my eyes, I use one hand to slide my white cotton panties all the way off. I’m lying on my side, so I kick both feet over the side of the bed to drop my panties onto the floor. Then I swing my legs wide open, feeling the cool morning air on my already-wet slit.
My room has always been the coldest in the house, and when I look down, I can see my nipples poking through the fabric of my T-shirt. Something about it makes me even hornier, knowing that my body is just as obsessed with the thought of Vincent touching me as my brain is. Every nerve in my body is on edge as I sit up, tossing my T-shirt over my head.
Slowly, I slide my hand down from my neck and over each breast. Bringing both hands to my breasts, I gently pinch my nipples, rolling the tips between my fingers.
I close my eyes and imagine Vincent’s strong hands on me, touching me where I touch myself. In my mind, he takes my breasts into his mouth, pursing his soft lips around me, still gazing at my face while he sucks my hard nipple into his mouth. He nips and bites at them, leaving me panting, gyrating my hips.
I can feel my pussy growing warmer and wetter and can no longer resist the urge to rub my throbbing slit. But, still imagining Vincent, I run my hands down my stomach. I nearly torture myself with the slowness, but the image of Vincent, naked and breathless, taking in every inch of me is exquisite. Even hotter than the idea of sleeping with him is the idea of making him obsess over me. To know that I enchant him as much as he intrigues me.
Once my hands finally reach the wetness between my legs, I lose control. My clit is swollen and overly sensitive, ready to make me come at a moment’s notice. I want to go slow, truly I do, but my fingers move in fast circles. Pressing back into the mattress, I raise my hips to meet my fingers, slowly moving back and forth. The sounds of my wet sex fill the room, and it only heightens my pleasure.
In my mind, Vincent is gripping my hips, pulling me closer and closer to him, burying his cock deep inside me, taking my virginity. I gasp for air, furiously rubbing at my clit as my back arches and my toes curl. I wish the moment would last forever, that I could hold off my orgasm, but I can’t. Racing toward the cliff’s edge, I fly over it. Between heaving gasps, I whisper-yell out into the cold morning air.
“Vincent!”
The crest of my orgasm crashes and washes away, and I feel the muscles of my core clench and tense to their own rhythm. My fingertips move in a few more lazy circles, feeling the wetness being pushed out of me.
My mound is smooth against the palm of my hand; I shaved just yesterday morning. I open my eyes and can see the pink labia just barely peeking out from between my lips. Impulsively, I stick both fingers in my mouth. I’ve never tasted myself before, but my wet fingers against my tongue are sweet and sticky at the same time. It’s not an unpleasant taste, almost like lemons and cream, with a little bit of salt.
Embarrassment washes over me when I sit up and notice the small wet mark I’ve left on the bedsheets. Slut, I think to myself. That’s what my mother would say if she knew I was lusting after the neighbor. What a way to begin my Christmas Day.
I’m sure my mother is still downstairs; I never heard her come up to her room last night. She is probably passed out drunk on the couch, again.
Shaking my head, I strip the sheets from my bed before getting dressed, tugging at each corner in turn. I have to bend over my mattress to free the far half of the sheet and can feel my breasts bounce slightly when I jerk my arms back and forth.
After putting my sheet in the hamper, I gather up the black lace bra and a pair of plain black comfortable underwear and place them on the bare mattress. I head into the bathroom attached to my room and take a hot shower, wanting to wash the shame and confusion off of me. The hot water scalds my skin, and I sing quietly to myself as I wash up.
Once I’m done, I dry off and wrap my hair in a towel and plop it on top of my head. When I go back into my bedroom, I step into the black pair of underwear and fasten the black bra over myself. From my closet, I pick out a red plaid flannel shirt and a pair of fleece-lined yoga pants. Mom probably won’t be lucid for another few hours, so I may as well get cozy. Another Christmas alone with my mother.
I can’t wait to move out.
Once I have my degree, I’ll move far away from here. I’ll write and draw in my spare time and have my own apartment all to myself. I could decorate it and make it my own little space, instead of feeling like I live in a soulless magazine spread.
All dressed, I unleash my wet hair from the towel and quickly arrange it into two French braids on either side of my scalp. The plaits hang to just below my shoulder blades. Taking a breath to prepare for the mess Mom has likely left me downstairs, I open my door and go down the hallway.
I pause when I reach the living room. It seems Mom kicked off her heels at some point last night; they’re laying haphazardly by the tree. She’s snoring on the couch, a mess of hair covering her face. Two empty bottles of wine lay at the bottom of the couch. Scratch that—one empty bottle of wine and one half-empty bottle of wine. I roll my eyes and go into the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas
to me,” I mutter as I pour myself a bowl of cereal.
I sit at the kitchen table, looking out the window that peers into the backyard. I’d kept a small garden in the spring, but now the entire yard is covered with untouched snow.
I smile slightly to myself as I eat my cereal. The crotch of my underwear is wet, and I shift in my seat. I’m still a little swollen. My stomach tightens when I remember the way I furiously rubbed myself earlier. I shudder at the dirty, depraved thoughts that have occupied my mind. Was I a bad person for spending my Christmas morning thinking about getting fucked—not having sex, but getting fucked—by my much older neighbor?
I shake the thoughts out of my head. Even though I know it’s normal for a girl my age to touch herself and have sex, I’m still so freaked out by the idea of sleeping with a man.
It’s not like I’ve never done anything with a guy. On the last day of eleventh grade, I agreed to give my then-boyfriend a blowjob in the back of his car. It lasted about five minutes before he finished in my mouth, and I swallowed it because I didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t necessarily a bad experience, but it didn’t turn me on either.
That guy and I broke up two weeks later, and I haven’t so much as kissed anyone since. Just threw myself into school, graduated valedictorian in hope of a full-ride scholarship. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, so I go to the community college down the road to save money.
It’s not that I don’t want to lose my virginity, but all the guys my age seem so…shallow. Erotic novels and my fingers are all I need right now. If the right person comes along, I would love to have sex with them. But no one has yet.
My mom stirs in the living room. I hear her groan and the sound of wine bottles clinking against each other. She is the exact opposite of me; Mom has been a party girl all her life. She likes men, expensive clothes, and alcohol, in that order.
I think she really did try her best to be a housewife and good mom when I was born, but then my dad left, and she lost all control. I grew up with a carousel of seedy men coming to see her, and I vowed to myself that I’d never be like that.
