𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

VIII

As I walk into my dorm room, I let out a sigh. Henry almost won today. But what's worse? I almost let him. I place my coat on the hanger and go into my closet, changing into my lace pajamas. Henry Vitiello has been obsessed with corrupting me since we were little, and even after all these years, I almost believed him when showed a sliver of care for me today. I almost leaned into him, almost believed the trance he had put me through. I almost believed the way his hands were slightly shaking, almost mistook it for want.

I had to remind myself that everything was a game for him. That if I were to give up so easily, he'd forget why he ever gave me the time of day in the first place. I would be just another trophy for him to win, another award to hang on his stupid wall. And once he had me, he'd move on. Not that I cared. I don't want to give him what he wants when he's been handed everything to him his whole life.

But as I stand in front of my bed, looking down at the birthday present he gave me, I realize I stood no chance. I realize that all the lecturing and reprimanding was for nothing. As I eye the books on my bed, each one thoroughly annotated, and then the note that says, in a perfect cursive handwriting; Embarrassing myself is the best gift I can think to give you, so here's almost every book I've read with you in mind. Happy Birthday, loser.

I think, in the nemesis rule book, this is highly against the rules. This wasn't how two people who have hated each other and seen one another as competition for years acted. This wasn't the plan, and yet, I don't think I minded. I hate that I didn't mind it. I hate that maybe I don't fully hate this boy and that he doesn't fully hate me. But, fuck, Henry was always a rule breaker.

I scan all the books, The Tempest, The Velveteen Rabbit, Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, there's forty of them at least. I realize, they're all books I've read before. I've had this theory that he's read every book he's seen me read, but he always told me I was just being self absorbed. Huh.

I lay on my bed and scan through more books, some classics, most fiction, but I stop when my eyes land on a more ... erotic one. I take it out from its stack and there's a note on the first page; I cannot help but fantasize you, it's as if my brain does it without permission. I can feel my cheeks redden as I thumb through the pages, sticky notes and margins sticking out of the book, but I stop once I near scenes I loved, and counting on his annotations, he did too.

The authors words; I'd wake up at night with that taste on my tongue–wake up, thinking about your foul, beautiful mouth.

Henrys annotation; You don't want to know the depraved things I've thought about your mouth.

My free hand plays with the waistband of my shorts as I continue reading the smut and the annotations he's written and highlighted. It feels like a promise, like he'll prove to me he's read them by fucking me just like this.

'And just like that, he grabs my leather collar while thrusting, not missing a beat. And he uses the collar to lift my neck up to his face, our lips meeting' The author writes, and Henry underlines and circles everything he wants to do to me, writing about how he'd kiss me hungrily while choking me out of air.

He writes about the positions he's fantasized me in, telling me I'd kick him if I knew. Under another paragraph he writes; In my dreams, I imagine what you might like.

He writes about how he hates yet yearns to know what I taste like, how he's wanted to shut my conceited little honor graduate mouth up by making me suck on his thumb the same way the characters in my book have, but he writes what he'd do differently, too. He says he'd do one better and fuck the attitude out of my mouth, if only I'd let him.

He writes about how I may be the one with the hallucinations, but he might've just one up me for whose more delusional, because supposedly, I would never even kiss him. I wish that were true, because had he not been floors away from me, I'd be touching him and not myself right now. It'd be his cock I'd stroke instead of the folds of my pussy. It would be his hand that opens my legs, keeping them apart. It would be his fingers that disappear beneath my panties, his scarred large fingers pulsing in and out of me. It would be him making me wet, him making me moan, him making me come. It would be him I'd be a mess for, and not just the thought of him and his words.

I rubbed myself ever so slightly around my cunt, my fingers wet as I slid them between folds, trying to imagine them as his. I imagine his scarred fingers pushing inside of me, harder and faster and slower, I imagine the sounds I'd make for him and the things he'd do to get them, as if it were another one of our competitions.

I was sixteen when I first imagined Henry Vitiello inside of me, and the most contact I had with him then was arguing at debate tournaments, conferences, and Model UN. I vowed to be better than him, to study harder, to stump him. It made my mind wander to all the other things I could compete with him, like, who comes first. Who could get the other more aroused. Whose hickeys stayed longer.  Who could fuck better. 

I dreamt about Henry Vitiello, and woke up needing a cold shower.

Henrys pov

My dick legitimately hurts. It's painfully pressed against my zipper as I imagine the way her delicate fingers would slowly unbutton my pants, as I imagine her stroking her perfect little hands over my cock. I imagine her on her knees, looking up at me as she sucks on my thumb. I imagine then replacing my thumb with my cock. I imagine her taking it as a competition, trying to prove to me she can get an A +, and I imagine fucking her in the most depraved ways. I relish in the thought of corrupting the good girl.

I imagine all the things she'd like, all the sounds I'd elicit out of her. I've learned what I can do to a girl with a touch, a bondage, a collar, my lips, my tongue, a few words. I've learned all the weapons I could use to make her sing for me at my disposal, and I want to do them all to her.

I stroke my cock that tenses with each movement, hardening at my fantasy of her. Her red lipstick marking my skin, god, I'd buy her every Chanel lipstick as long as she'd stain me with it. I fantasize about everythingI'd do to her if she was mine, and my muscles tighten as I rub up and down my length. And I come with the thought of her alone, and I can't help but think how no one will ever be capable of getting my cock hard except her.

The things I'd do for the fantasy to become my reality, are horrible things. I want her so much it scares me, and I wonder, if the time comes, if it'll scare her too. I've never wanted someone more, and I've never hated myself more for it. I have lost my dignity, and she will forever damn me, for she will never want me.

I dreamt about Jane Ivers, and woke up needing a cold shower.

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I know this was barely anything but hear me out, slow burns > anyways hope you liked the chapters :)