Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
So, I sit there in my bed, the wheels turning inside of my head as I try and figure out a way to get back at the dick living down the hall from me. I mean how do you bully the bully? How do I turn the tables? What, sneak into his room and tape up a bunch of pictures of tits or something?
I roll my eyes.
Right. I’m pretty sure he’d just enjoy that way, way too much. Instantly, as soon as I think the thought, images begin to flash into my head that send me reeling and make my face flush hotly. Because right then, I start to imagine Jamison walking into his room to find a bunch of nude pictures of tits and pussies all over his room and getting hard because of it. I imagine him groaning as he lets his eyes drink in the smorgasbord of skin I’ve taped all over his bedroom.
I imagine him getting hard.
I imagine him undoing his jeans, reaching inside, and touching himself. I imagine him stroking his cock, his ink rippling, his muscles clenching, and his di—
I blush.
His cock.
I imagine his cock.
After that, there’s no hope of me shaking the heat away from myself. My hands slip under the covers, and my fingers are slipping under the hem of my sleep shorts before I can even think about stopping myself. I gasp as my fingers slip through the dewy wetness, spreading my lips and easing inside as I moan quietly. I curl my finger deep, my pulse thundering in my ears as I rock my hips up against my hand, grinding my clit into my palm. I think of Jamison. I think of him naked and gorgeous, stroking his cock and groaning as my finger plunges wetly into my pussy over and over again.
I roll onto my stomach, moaning into my pillow and arcing my back as I shove my shorts to my knees. I bury both hands between my legs, rubbing my clit in quick circles as my breath comes haggard and stuttered. In my head, it’s Jamison’s hands on me. He’s stroking his cock and touching me with the other, telling me to come. Telling me to come for him.
Illicit, forbidden pleasure blooms through me, and by the time I feel myself falling headfirst over that edge, all I see is him. All I hear is his voice in my ear. And it’s his name gasping breathless from my lips as I come hard, moaning into the pillows.
Hard, achingly, and shamefully.
Afterwards, I bury my face in my pillow, panting and feeling my face grow red in the post-orgasm clarity.
Jamison Scott living here is a problem. And I have no idea how to fix it.
This is awful.
****
Driving every morning to a school where ninety-nine percent of the students are waking up at that school is an odd experience. If I’m early enough—say, if I want to use the school gym before classes start, or if I’m there for a morning cheer practice, or more likely than anything, if I’m just looking to get some work done in the library—I’ll see classmates of mine in pajamas getting coffee from the cafe attached to the dining hall. I’ll see them out of our mandated school uniform lounging on the steps of their dorms. I’ll see teachers out for a morning run, perhaps.
I guess it’s basically what college will be next year. But when pretty much everyone you know goes to bed about five hundred feet from where you had lab sciences together earlier in the day, and you’re driving home, it can be strange at times being that “town kid.”
I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m leaving my $100,000 a year private school and driving home to flop house or something. Weiss Manor is a huge, rambling old Tudor Revival style mansion on enormously huge grounds. We’ve got manicured lawns, hedges, prize-winning flower gardens… I mean there’s a swan pond, for crying out loud. And of course, a carriage house, an indoor/outdoor pool, spa, and a state-of-the-art gym.
Jamison of course has set up shop down the freaking hall from me. On purpose, I’m sure, just to be sure to get under my skin. But up until recently, when both of the Scott brothers were living there, Jamison’s twin, Ethan, was living in the old carriage house away from the main house. Ethan’s got his own demons from growing up, and I think everyone agreed him having his own space was good for him. Plus, it was a good space for him to work on his paintings, and on tinkering with his bike.
Of course, the carriage house is empty now, now that Ethan has moved to Chicago with Ms. Hayes—
I grin to myself, shaking my head as I pull my black Tesla into the parking lot by the main academic buildings.