Neon Hunger Pt. 01: Waking the Beast

All characters depicted in Neon Hunger are fictional and over the age of 18. This story is a work of imagination intended for mature audiences only. It contains explicit content, psychological themes, and adult situations. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental. The narrative explores complex dynamics and should not be interpreted as condoning or promoting harmful behavior. Reader discretion is advised.

The dream started like a glitch.

Not a story, not even a memory--just heat. A surge of something guttural and sticky, buried under her skin like a bad tattoo. She whimpered in her sleep, one bare thigh twitching under twisted sheets, and then--

"Skye. Babe. It's nine."

Her eyelids pried open like corroded shutters. The room was basked in the sunset glow --lava lamp pulsing slow violet across the clutter. Her pillow was damp with yesterday's mascara. Something plastic poked her back. She shifted. Vodka cap. Of course. Her teddy bear was wedged under her ass like it died trying to escape.

"Fuck off," she croaked. "I'm, like, regenerating."

"You said pregame at nine, remember?"

Pregame. Right. The thing she agreed to while blackout adjacent.

She peeled herself off the bed with a dramatic groan, her spine popping like bubble wrap. Her nightie--a sheer pastel thing with a stitched strawberry over one strap--clung to her like it regretted being born. It was too sweet. It made her feel filthy.

She pulled it off over her head in one sluggish motion and let it drop into the sea of dead clothes on the floor.

The black-out curtains were next. Yanked wide open like a threat.

Skye stood there in the window, totally naked. Cold air crept in, brushed her stomach, kissed her knees. Her silhouette sharp as hell in the dusk--thin arms, hard lines, hipbones like switchblades.

Shame didn't live here anymore.

Her body started throwing up warning signs: thirst, hunger, hangover. A little opera of discomfort in three acts. She staggered into the hallway, unclothed, unbothered, platinum hair a curtain down her back, damp from sweat and sleep and yesterday's smoke. It stuck to her in places. Made her look half-drowned.

The fridge was a crime scene. She opened it anyway.

A sad slice of pepperoni pizza glared at her. She bit into it cold. Chewed with vengeance. Drank from a cup that might've once held nail polish remover, then rinsed it with tap. Hydration was hydration.

In the living room, one of her roommates was doing glitter eyeliner with the precision of a sniper. The other was practicing her walk in heels that looked like ankle-breaking devices from hell.

"Breakfast of baddies," one of them snorted when Skye strutted past, still nude, still chewing.

"Dinner for degenerates," she shot back. "Balance, babes."

She farted without flinching. No one blinked. This apartment didn't run on rules. It ran on rot and love and shared eyeliner.

The shower groaned when she turned it on, pipes complaining like old men. It was a yellowed-tile wasteland, grime outlined where old shampoo bottles died, and a cracked mirror barely holding on. Still, something sacred always happened here. In this rot. In this steam.

She stood under the weak spray and let the water slap her. Rubbed herself down with dollar store soap. Washed her hair like she was exorcising it. Her body, her smell--it was protest. War paint. A fuck-you to every man who ever called her "baby" and meant it like ownership.

She wiped the fog off the mirror with her forearm. Blinked at the creature staring back.

Skin: too pale. Frame: too angular. Eyes: half-lidded, lined in last night's regret. Nipples pierced, red, still hard from cold and memory. Her face was elvish and wrong and impossible to ignore.

Tattoos showed through the steam:

A crying anime girl above her left hip--dramatic and ridiculous.

Snakes coiled around her thighs.

A shattered martini glass across her ribs.

And above her crotch, in faded black script over a green landing strip of pubes:

RUIN ME.

She made that one when she was fifteen. Never touched it up. Didn't need to.

She left a trail of wet footprints back to her room, wrapped a thin towel around her body, dried her hair with the same effort she gave to anything --minimal. Her roots were showing. Fucking perfect.

Time for the transformation.

She'll keep building the look, the armor, the girl she has to be tonight.

Foundation first--cold, thick, borderline industrial. She smeared it on like war paint, not to hide anything but to turn her face into something else. Something harder. Meaner. Someone who could survive the night and maybe even make it beg.

Contour carved out cheekbones like switchblades. Blush in sickly fever pink. Eyeliner blacker than blackout, wings sharp enough to write death threats. Kohl in the waterline. Lashes spiked like she'd slept on them for a week. Bleached brows painted over into a vague expression of menace.

Her lips--oxblood matte, a little overlined, like she was always ready to lie or kiss or both. She kissed her fingers for luck. For power.

Then came the rings--gothic script, silver stacks, a tiny coiled snake wrapped around her thumb. Across her knuckles: DEAD in chunky black enamel. She wore it like a joke. Like armor. Like prophecy.

Dressing was theater.

She stood naked in the wreckage of her room--clothes everywhere, piles of yesterday's selves discarded on the floor. A battlefield. A dressing room. A fucking museum.

She was the curator and the weapon.

First came the neon green fishnet top. She pulled it on, nipples peeking through like they wanted to start fights. Then the crimson corset, micro-tight, digging into her ribs like it had a grudge. She yanked the laces hard, watching her waist shrink, bones realigning under pressure. It looked obscene. Perfect.

Her long legs disappeared into fishnet pantyhose--ripped on purpose, re-ripped by accident. Each hole a story. A warning. She considered going commando. Almost did. But all she had clean was one pair of emerald lace boyshorts, so she wore them like a reluctant compromise.

The skirt--red tartan, low-rise, barely decent. Slashed and pinned like a threat. Sharpie graffiti scrawled across the hem: BAD IDEA BABY. It barely covered anything. That was the point.

Last, the boots. Knockoff Jimmy Choos, patent black, knee-high, and platformed like skyscrapers. They made her six feet of menace. She stepped into them like she was putting on someone else's soul.

The mirror stared back--finger-smudged, streaked with lipstick, tilted like it didn't want to witness what came next. But it saw her. All of her.

Hair like melted silver. Breasts pushed out by the corset, sharp collarbones, ink like messages from old selves she didn't remember writing. Her body looked breakable. Beautiful. Ready.

Her mouth curled at the edges. Not a smile.

A forecast.

Tonight she wasn't looking for anything.

She was the fucking storm.

In the kitchen, the girls were already summoning demons.

Plastic shot glasses lined the counter like ammo. One was filled with liquid glitter and heart confetti--something their landlord Jen called "Cupid's Discharge." Skye downed it without flinching.

A cough. A shudder. A grin.

Then the drugs came out--stamps, tiny as breath. The landlord's boyfriend had the hookup. Said they'd make the world fold open like a cheap fortune cookie.

Skye took hers slow, theatrical, tongue out like a porn parody of communion. Tab pressed to pink. Glittering between her teeth.

And then--snap.

Her brain lit up like a rave. Nerves buzzing, shadows starting to squirm just behind her vision. Inhibitions dropped like panties at a frat party.

Uber: four minutes out.

They preened. They posed. Skye lit her vape, blew out a cloud that smelled like cherry chemicals and secrets, and followed the herd into the hallway.

Her boots clicked like threats.

Her skirt swished like gossip.

Glitter trailed her like spilled sin.

As they crammed into the backseat of the car, someone passed a little tin of bright-colored crystal mint poppers--shake, lick, let it rot your neurons in all the right ways.

Skye licked hers twice and smiled like something was hatching inside her.

One of the girls groaned, adjusting her leg. "Skye, your knee is, like, attacking me."

"You're welcome," Skye said, not moving.

"Nothing but legs on this bitch," another muttered.

Skye leaned her head back, tongue grazing the back of her teeth. "Wait 'til I can afford boobs," she murmured. "Then I'll be a threat."

"Not on a student budget."

She smirked--tight, private. She wasn't planning to buy them with cash.

They knew that.

The city outside blurred neon fast. Billboards for vape shops, strip malls, mattress stores no one trusted. It all passed like scenery in a game. Inside the car, perfume and sweat mixed with the rising buzz in Skye's chest.

She caught her reflection in the window--fishnet, smirk, lips like blood.

"I'm getting that VIP tonight," she said, soft but solid. Like prophecy.

No one laughed.

They knew better.

The club hit them like a car crash made of bass.

Not a building. A beast. Pulsing from the pavement up, bassline shaking Skye's bones before the door even opened.

Outside, the bouncer didn't blink. Just clocked fishnets, thigh gaps, glitter skin, and let them through like VIPs of depravity. The fake IDs barely made it past his hand. Girls like them weren't stopped. They were welcomed.

Inside: chaos. Pure, humid, decadent.

Lights stuttered like a panic attack. Music bled out in pulses. The air tasted like vape, spilled vodka, sweat, and heat. Someone's cologne. Someone's regret.

Skye moved like smoke--sliding past bodies, skirt flashing lace. Her friends scattered fast. Bar. Booth. Boys. Whatever.

She didn't mind. Didn't need company.

She felt watched.

And she was.

Fratboy, textbook edition. Rolled-up sleeves, faux tousled hair, confidence on tap. White boy swagger and too much Axe body spray.

"Drink?" he asked.

She tilted her head, blinked slow. Like a cat watching a mouse hold out cheese.

"Sure. Surprise me."

He ran off to play bartender hero.

Skye watched his back. Not because she cared. Because she was bored. Because it was a countdown. Because the real reason she was here wasn't even looking at her yet.

He came back with something offensively pink. She took a sip. Let it stain her tongue.

His hand found her back. Low. Testing.

She let it.

They talked. Maybe. She didn't listen. Didn't care. Her eyes were elsewhere--above.

The mezzanine.

Glass rail. Gold glow. Bodyguards with dead eyes. A lounge for the men who didn't party, they collected things. Curated sin. Ran industries or crime or both. It was soft couches and softer threats.

That's where she saw him.

Older. Sharp suit. Beard that looked trimmed by someone paid six figures. Hair slicked back like a Bond villain. Watch thick. Tie undone just enough to whisper: I own everything here and I'm bored of it.

He wasn't looking at her.

Yet.

She laughed too loud at something Fratboy said. Twirled a platinum lock around one ringed finger. Let her hand rest on his chest. Posed soft. Touchable.

A contrast.

Because what she wanted wasn't the guy beside her.

She wanted the one above.

She dragged Fratboy onto the dancefloor like he owed her rent.

Music was molten now--bass flooding up through her boots, synth dripping like gasoline over her skin. The lights stuttered, seizure-fast. Bodies packed tight, slick with heat, grinding like everyone was half a drink away from fucking.

Skye turned her back to him.

Let him reach. Let him touch. Let him think he was in charge.

His hands landed cautious on her hips. She rolled her body--slow, serpentine--dragging him into the beat like a hook behind the ribs. His fingers tightened. Good. Let him. She closed her eyes, smiling dreamily, clenching his hard-on with her almost-naked ass cheeks, feeling him cupping her pierced numbs, exploring further than the dance allowed.

She arched back, stretching, showing it all, showing it off, hair falling over his chest like silver smoke. His mouth found her ear.

"Fuck," he whispered, hot breath and vodka, "You're not wearing much."

She smiled with her teeth.

"You either."

He didn't get it. Didn't need to.

She wasn't dancing for him.

She was bait.

And upstairs--he'd taken it.

She felt it. That gaze. Heavy. Clinical. Possessive. The man in the VIP had stopped pretending not to look. He was watching her now. Drinking her in like a sermon made of skin.

She bent forward, palms on her knees, tartan skirt flipping just enough to flash lace and ink. The Fratboy behind her groaned like he'd just died a little.

He pressed against her--hard. Eager. Embarrassing.

She didn't mind.

This was performance art.

Skye twisted around, wrapped her arms around his neck, swayed like temptation, lips close to his.

Close, but never touching.

Her dark eyes drifted past his shoulder--straight into his.

The one who mattered.

The businessman.

She smiled like sin had just learned to walk.

And he moved.

She felt it before she saw him.

Like a shift in gravity. Like the room sucked its breath in.

Fratboy still clung--sweaty palms on her hips, mouth grazing her neck like he was entitled to it--but it didn't matter. The air around her changed. Cleared.

Then--

He was there.

No name. No announcement. Just presence.

Tall. Composed. Black button-down undone just enough to whisper danger. Gold chain at his throat like a trophy. Cologne that smelled like power and expensive wood.

He didn't glance at Fratboy. Didn't acknowledge him at all.

Just offered Skye his hand.

She blinked slow. Smirked slower. Took it.

"come on" he said. "lets get you a better drink".

She let herself be pulled through the dancefloor like she wasn't even touching the ground.

He led. Of course he did.

At the velvet rope, security peeled it back without a word.

Inside: the VIP.

Plush leather. Dim lights. Ambient jazz threading beneath the beat below. A girl in a crystal dress laughed like someone poured champagne down her spine. Men with watches and teeth to match.

He guided Skye to a low chaise. She sat like a queen in exile--legs crossed high, skirt defiant, fishnets gleaming.

A waitress--another crystal girl--appeared. No menu. Just a bottle. No label.

Two glasses.

He poured.

She sipped.

It burned like it had a name.

He watched her. Not like prey. Not yet. More like a puzzle he already intended to break.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She tilted her head, slow grin creeping in.

"Skye. With an 'e.'"

He nodded, like that explained everything. "Of course it is."

"And you?"

"Call me Marcus."

He raised his glass.

"To the wanting."

She didn't clink. Just stared. Let it hang there--taunt, dare.

"What are you looking for tonight?" he asked.

She leaned in, chin on her hand, lips slick, voice low.

"Someone with taste for trouble"

Marcus didn't blink. Just smiled--tight, practiced, like someone who'd closed too many deals to be rattled by glitter and eyeliner.

He took a slow sip, then set the glass down.

"Come on," he said, rising with the kind of calm that said this wasn't the first girl he'd led somewhere quieter.

Skye blinked, startled for half a second--like her brain lagged behind the rest of her. But she followed.

He didn't touch her. Just let his hand hover near her lower back, a reminder. Not of power. Of credit limit.

They moved past the curtain. Through the hallway. Past the velvet ropes that didn't bother asking questions. A bouncer nodded, didn't speak.

The air changed again--thinner now. Like the real world was somewhere else, and this was the layer just before falling.

The balcony was mostly shadow and skyline.

A low-lit corner of the universe. Black couches, flickering votives. Cigarette smoke drifting lazy over concrete. A couple whispering across from them, knees touching like a secret. Another sprawled--legs tangled, mouths pressed, hands nowhere polite.

The city stretched beyond like a glitching arcade game. Neon blurred against concrete. Everything buzzing.

Marcus lit a cigarette--real, not vape. European. Something that probably cost twenty bucks a stick. He offered it without asking.

Skye hesitated, then took it. Fingers brushing his. Warm.

She dragged slow. Felt the smoke snag behind her teeth, curl down her ribs like something sharp and sweet.

"You smoke like someone who doesn't have to," he said.

She coughed, rolled her eyes, shrugged. "I do a lotta stuff I don't have to."

His gaze flicked over her again--not sleazy. Not indulgent. Just... curious. Like he was taking notes.

"Girls like you usually dance for attention," he said.

Skye made a face. "Okay, rude?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't a dig."

She squinted at him through the smoke. "Then what?"

"You didn't dance like you were looking for fun," he said, leaning back, exhale slow. "You danced like you were hunting."

That landed.

Skye looked away. Smirk cracked sideways. "Yeah, well," she muttered, flicking ash, "maybe I was. You liked it though?"

His silence was heavy. Warm. Like a coat slung over her shoulders without permission.

Then he reached his hand out again. No words. Just another wisp or smoke.

She blinked at it. Then at him. Then back at it.

"... Dude," she said. "You haven't seen me dance for real. Not yet"

He raised an eyebrow, smile touching his lips. Just stood there. Waiting.

She licked her lips. Bit the inside of her cheek. "Well," she mumbled, placing her palm in his. "Check this. But just--like--watch, okay? Not, like, weird. Just watch."

Marcus's mouth didn't move.

But his eyes said yes.

She stepped away from him slow, like a glitch pulling free of gravity.

The balcony was hers now--her stage, her altar. The club noise below filtered up as muted thunder, but out here it was only her boots on concrete, the night, and him.

Marcus didn't sit. Just leaned against the railing--one arm crossed, cigarette burning between his fingers. Smoke curled like an accent mark around his silhouette. A gold chain caught the balcony light, winking against the dark fabric of his shirt. He was all shadow and wealth, eyes heavy-lidded, already watching.

Skye rolled her neck.

One breath. Two.

Then--movement.

Not dancing. Not yet.

A stretch, slow and feline. Arms overhead. Corset lifting. The undercurve of her tits catching cold air. Fishnet sleeves slicing lines down her arms like tattoos she hadn't committed to. Her platinum hair stuck to her back in strands, wet with mist and sweat.

She turned to profile. Let her hips sway in lazy, mocking rhythm. Her skirt flirted with gravity. Boots clicked as she turned--one, two, spin. A flick of her wrist, a drop to her knees that came out of nowhere--like violence disguised as grace. Hands dragging up her thighs, catching the hem of her tartan, teasing ink, teasing lace.

Marcus exhaled slow, the cherry of his cigarette flaring red.

She rose in a whip of motion, hair a halo. Her body slinked toward him--not close, not yet. Just orbiting. A planet burning on its own axis.

She turned again, back facing him now, and rolled her hips in molten figure-eights. Her ass ground in the air like she didn't care who saw, like she knew he was looking.

She didn't need a beat. Didn't need music.

She was the fucking rhythm.

He didn't speak. But his stance shifted. The cigarette dipped. That was enough.

She bent--deep, obscene--hands braced on her knees, thighs spread, skirt hiked. The flash of green lace. The stretch of fishnet. Her boots braced wide, shiny patent slicing the glow from the floor lights.

Marcus shifted again.

She didn't look. Not yet.

Instead, she straightened slowly, hair tumbling down her spine, and walked toward him. Boots loud. Steps deliberate. Not rushed. Not hungry.

I let you look.

Now I'll let you want.

She stopped right in front of him. Turned. Let her bare back graze the front of his shirt. Felt him--hard--even through the layers. Heard the breath hitch.

Then her hips started again.

Rolling.

Grinding.

Back into him.

She reached behind, took his hand, and placed it--flat--on her waist. Pressed.

He didn't speak. Didn't ask.

He just held.

And she danced against him like she was conjuring something.

She felt his other hand hover at her shoulder, then settle. Not rough. Not groping. Just there.

A stake claiming soft skin.

His head dipped, mouth near her neck.

She gasped as his lips brushed just beneath her jaw--heat, then teeth, not biting--just teasing.

She tilted her head back, hair draped over him like a veil, breath short now.

Then she looked back--over her shoulder, eyes heavy.

"Still watching?"

His voice cracked low, right at her ear. "Always."

Her grin sharpened. "Good."

Then she spun--full turn, face-to-face, catching his jaw in one hand and his mouth in the other.

She sprung up, tip-toeing to reach high enough and kissed him like a punch.

Deep. Messy. Real.

Their teeth clacked. His beard scratched. Her lips parted, tongue flicking in, daring him to take it further--and he did.

Marcus kissed her like he'd waited years. Like he wanted to remember the shape of her mouth with every nerve ending. His hands slid under the corset line, catching warm flesh, palms hot and rough.

Skye melted forward, knees buckling.

And then--pop.

Her lips left his. Wet, bruised.

She stared at him. Glowing. Dazed.

"I, like... bite too," she whispered.

And then he was on her.

No more hovering. No more watching. Just action--deliberate, forceful.

His hand was down her side, under the skirt, gripping the meat of her ass like it was his, fingers sinking into the lace and fishnet, dragging her body up against him.

She gasped--real, involuntary--as her feet left the floor.

Marcus lifted her like she weighed nothing. Her knees locked around his hips, boots dangling midair, corset scraping his button-down. Her arms flailed for a second, surprised by the sudden strength--then found his shoulders, anchored. "shit -- the old dude must be ripped under" she mused and then the thought melted under his lips.

He carried her a step back--toward the brick wall, toward the low railing. Not rough. Not gentle. Like he knew how to handle her body before he'd even touched it.

Fuck. Even at her heel augmented six feet she felt short and tiny. Her mouth found his again. Sloppier this time. Needier.

Their teeth collided again. She whimpered into the kiss as he bit her bottom lip--not hard, just enough to claim. Her back arched. She felt him now. Oh yes she did. He was big. Way too much and way too happy to see her.

And in the thick of it--in the heat and teeth and city haze--she realized her hips were grinding against his thigh. Automatically. Desperately. She could feel the soaked lace catching friction.

It scared her.

She wasn't supposed to want this.

Not like this.

He was supposed to be a mark. A game. A sugar-coated distraction.

But this?

This felt real.

Too real.

She shoved him. Not hard. Not to stop. Just to breathe.

And like that--she was free again.

One step back. Hair wild. Corset half-shifted. Lip bitten.

Marcus just stood there. Watching. Breathing hard. His jaw tense, like it took everything not to grab her again.

"You don't do this often," he said, voice hoarse.

Skye wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Smirked, but her voice cracked on the delivery.

"Do what?"

"This," he said. "Let someone lead you into the dark."

She scoffed. Stepped to the railing. Let the breeze slap her across the face.

"Maybe I'm the one, like, leading?"

He didn't laugh. Just exhaled.

She stared at the skyline. Her reflection in the glass door beside them showed a girl she didn't fully recognize--eyes glittered with something electric, neck flushed, eyes glistening.

"I don't chase guys," she muttered, flicking ash into the night. "I just let them think they're in charge."

The silence between them stretched.

Not awkward. Just... loaded.

Like both of them were pretending this was still a casual flirt and not something shifting under their skin.

From the corner of her eye, Skye could feel the other couples clocking them. Not directly. Just the way drunk people watch--half-lidded glances, too long to be accidental. Her skirt had ridden up during the grind. Her lipstick was smeared. Her neck bore the beginning of a bruise.

She tugged the hem of her tartan down, felt the stick of her lace panties underneath.

Marcus shifted his stance.

"You wanna get out of here?" he asked. Low. Even.

Not a pick-up line.

An offer.

Skye didn't answer right away. She flicked the cigarette into a nearby glass. Watched it fizzle.

"I'm not going to your place," she said, not looking at him.

Marcus held up his hands, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Didn't ask."

She finally looked at him. Suspicious.

"But I can offer you a ride," he said. "Private. Interactive. Music. Chill champaign. The works"

Skye hesitated.

Her brain buzzed, half from the tab, half from whatever the fuck this was turning into.

"I lost my friends," she said softly. Weak excuse. She knew it.

"They'll be fine," Marcus replied. "You're not going back downstairs. And they're not coming up here."

He was right.

Something had shifted.

She wasn't the same girl who walked in earlier. That girl was performance.

This one?

She wasn't sure yet.

A smirk ghosted across her lips. "Private ride, huh?"

He nodded.

"But promise to, like... behave," she added, raising an eyebrow. "Unless I say otherwise."

His eyes flickered. But he didn't press.

Just stepped aside.

Let her lead.

Of course he did.

The hallway was quiet as they walked. Emergency lights buzzing overhead, their shadows stretching long. Her boots clicked unevenly. His were silent. She could feel him behind her like a second pulse.

The valet out front didn't even blink. Just opened the door like it was muscle memory.

The limo waited. Long. Black. The kind of car that made people stare without knowing why.

Skye climbed in first, stretching across the leather interior like she owned it. One knee up, skirt still indecent, head resting against the chilled window. Her skin buzzed. Her throat was dry. Her heart refused to stay chill.

Marcus followed. Door shut.

It was quiet inside--dim blue lights tracing along the floor. The scent of leather and cologne. Something cold in a silver cradle. Something intimate. Loaded.

Skye reached for the divider. Pressed the button.

"Drive," she said. "Parkview apartments."

The driver didn't even look back.

The limo pulled into the night.

And she let herself be followed into the dark.

The engine purred beneath them--low, steady, obscene.

Marcus didn't wait.

His hand found her wrist in the dark, pulled her across the seat like gravity had always been waiting for this. She slid into his lap--knees straddling, corset tight, skirt useless. Her back arched instinctively, legs spreading as he adjusted her--casual, practiced, like she was meant to fit there.

Her breath hitched.

She hadn't expected him to be so... sure.

"I thought you said..." she started, but then his mouth closed on hers. She moaned, shivering, hungrily answering the kiss. His hand was already running up the back of her thigh, slow, rough, dragging over fishnets and skin. He found the wet spot immediately. Lace soaked. No hesitation--he shoved the emerald panties aside and slid two fingers through her heat.

The sound was filthy. Wet. Real.

Skye gasped. Her whole body jolted. Head fell back. Mouth open. A broken "oh" spilled out like steam.

She wasn't used to being touched like this--like her body was his, not a performance. Not a prize. Just... his.

He kissed her throat--slow, sin-soaked--then bit down gently, lips and teeth right where her pulse tried to run away.

She whimpered.

"Been thinking about doing this since you stepped onto the floor, you little fucking tease" he murmured, fingers circling, pressing.

Her hips moved without asking her permission. Grinding. Chasing the pressure.

His thumb hit her clit just right and she shook.

The corset creaked with her breath. She gripped his shoulders, acrylic nails dragging down fine fabric. Her thighs tightened around him, already trembling.

"Are you?" he growled. "Are you my little tease-princess?"

She nodded--fast, messy. Her lips parted, but no words made it out. Just breath.

His beard grazed her jaw, then his mouth devoured hers--wet, aggressive, deep. A kiss with too much tongue and not enough air. His hand worked her harder now, two fingers pumping, thumb ruthless. She moaned into his mouth, her body curling in toward his.

Then she slipped.

Dropped from his lap to her knees in one breathless, fluid motion. Her hair fell forward in platinum sheets. Her face tilted up--wide eyes, parted lips.

Her hands undid his belt like she'd done it a thousand times. Zipper down. Button gone.

She pulled his cock free with reverence. Like it meant something. She guessed it right. It was fucking colossal. Thick and meaty. Too big. Too grown up. Nostrils flared drinking his musk. She didn't gasp or make some coy joke. She just stared.

"... Holy shit," she whispered, admiringly.

"Do it," he growled.

But then her mouth was already on him.

Hot. Wet. Deep.

She sucked him like she wanted to ruin both of them--lips stretched wide, spit already stringing from her chin. Her hand cradled his shaved balls gently, thumb stroking. Her other disappeared beneath her skirt. She needed some rub, badly.

The car kept moving--slow turns, soft hum--and inside, she was turning into a mess.

Her cheeks hollowed, taking him deeper. Gagging a little. She didn't stop.

Marcus groaned, one hand gripping the back of her head, guiding her but not forcing.

She looked up, eyes glassy, pupils blown.

It wasn't submission.

It was power.

The harder she sucked, the wetter her fingers worked herself. She moaned around his cock--vibration tight and wicked--and he twitched against her tongue. She slid a bit more. A bit deeper. Getting it halfway. Her palm working the shaft, guiding herself on.

"Fuck, girl..." he muttered. "You're too young to be that good--"

Red light spilled into the limo. Brake lights. She recognized the stop.

Skye pulled off with a slick pop. Licked the corner of her mouth. Wiped her chin with the back of her hand.

Then she sat back, legs crossed, skirt still bunched, no shame.

"I've arrived," she announced as a matter of the fact.

And the car came to a full stop.

Marcus let out a breath--more like a curse. His cock twitched, still hard, throbbing in the open air. His hand clenched into a fist on the seat beside him, trying to stay still. To breathe. To not lose it.

He adjusted himself with effort, zipping up with a quiet grit of teeth. The fire behind his eyes didn't fade--it just went still. Controlled. Barely.

"I'm walking you up," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. "It's almost two. Need to ensure my you will arrive safe".

She didn't protest. Just smirked.

Chauffer has opened the door, letting them into the night. Outside, the city smelled like wet pavement and old smoke. Light from a busted streetlamp flickered overhead like a dying star. Skye stepped out, stretching like she'd just come back from the dead.

He followed, slower, now composed in the way only a man used to suppressing hunger could be.

The apartment building loomed--old, cracked, frowning with rust.

"Third floor," she said as they stepped inside.

The stairwell groaned under them. Every step echoed. Skye's boots were off now--she held them in one hand, the other skimming the railing. She looked like something out of a dream left out in the rain.

At the top, she paused in front of a dented door with a sticker that said "NO COPS" and a sharpie heart drawn next to it.

"My roommates are probably still out," she said, voice casual but loaded.

Marcus nodded once, slow. Stepped back.

"Good," he said. "Sleep, well."

He turned to go.

And that's when she struck.

"That's it?" she asked, chin tilted, voice laced with something playful and venomous. "Should I kiss you goodbye now? Or just pretend you're, like, my Uber with dick privileges?"

He froze.

Turned.

Skye leaned back against the apartment door, fishnet thigh lifted slightly, skirt inching up as she toed the heel of one boot onto the opposite shin. Her hair was a silver cloak. Her puffed lips -- a dare. Her eyes--wide and slanted, the color of wild honey lit from within, feline and glassy, like she'd just stepped out of an innocent dream.

Too innocent. Almost.

Marcus didn't speak. He moved.

Her back flat against the door, his body kept pressing hard to hers, mouth catching hers in a brutal kiss. His hands on her thighs, gripped, lifted. She wrapped her legs around his waist on instinct, nails digging into the collar of his shirt.

He ground against her through their clothes, breathing heavy, cock hard again like it hadn't even dipped. She gasped into his mouth, the heat between them reigniting like a live wire pressed to skin.

She broke the kiss with a gasp.

"Wait-- Too public! PDA! --" she blurted, glancing toward the stairwell.

Marcus growled low, lips brushing her ear:

"Then invite me in."

She stared at him--breathless, high, trembling.

Then she reached behind her, turned the handle, and let the door fall open.

Silence.

Then chaos.

Marcus spun her into the kitchen before she could breathe. Her back slammed against the counter, rattling a half-empty bottle of Fireball and a plastic ashtray. The overhead light flickered once and died. Only candle-glow remained, warping the edges of the room like a fever dream.

His hands went to her corset first--gripped, yanked, ripped. The laces snapped with a sharp twang. Fabric peeled like skin. She gasped, arching back as cool air hit bare flesh. Her tits spilled free, nipples already hard, pierced rings catching the candlelight like polished sin.

"Wait--Marcus--" she half-laughed, breathless. "My room--"

Her fishnet top tore under his grip, unraveling in sharp, delicate strands. Threads snapped and slid down her arms like webbing, exposing her piece by piece. He didn't hesitate--his movements were practiced, precise, like he was unwrapping something he'd paid too much to wait for. They staggered through the apartment in jagged bursts--her pulling forward, him close behind. Skye shielding the outfit she'd built, and Marcus dismantling it with greedy hands, tearing it off her in fragments.

The bedroom greeted them with hot dark stench. Candles flickered from cracked saucers, their wax pooled into little altars on the floor. The air smelled like sleep and sex and something older--rotted fruit maybe, or perfume left open too long. The kind of scent that crawled into your skin and refused to leave. The mattress sat crooked on the floor, no frame, sheets halfway off, pillows kicked to the corner. A red lace thong hung from the ceiling fan pull-chain like a flag. The only light came from a pink neon bulb behind a cracked full-length mirror--skewed just enough to make everything look dream-drunk.

Skye hit the mattress like it had teeth. Limbs akimbo, breath torn to shreds, pupils blown wide like she'd been shot. Her platinum hair spilled across the stained sheet like mercury, catching the dim light. She didn't blink. She couldn't. She just lay there--buzzing, undone.

"Take what you want," she whispered, voice papercut thin. "And don't stop. Not even if I beg."

Marcus didn't answer. He watched her--like a wolf studying a fresh kill. Then came the command.

"Say it again, princess."

Her throat clenched. "Take what you want."

"Louder."

"Don't stop. Even if I beg."

He undid his shirt slowly, each button a fuse burning. The muscle beneath moved with purpose--he was mature, but cut from something older, heavier. Every motion lit a nerve in her spine.

"Get yourself ready."

The corset's ties slipped through her shaking fingers. One boot fell, then the other. Her ruined panties, lace clinging and translucent with heat, peeled down like she was shedding herself. She sat flushed, exposed, backlit by the sick yellow light of the hallway.

He didn't rush.

He slowly knelt--not reverent. Ritual. Predator's calm.

Rough palms slid up her legs, exposing her inked and painted privates. Hot breath against her cunt.

"Smells like heaven," he muttered, almost to himself.

He kissed through the fishnets, tasting her inch by inch. Down her hips, along her thighs, over the faded tattoo inked into tender skin.

He read it aloud, voice thick with heat: "Ruin Me."

A dark laugh, low in his throat. "Gladly."

His beard scraped her skin--sharp, electric. She gasped. First contact. Then again, because it didn't stop. He licked her with purpose. No drunken sloppiness. No eagerness of an inexperienced boy testing unknown waters. No mercy.

He was methodical. Dirty. Dangerous.

He was better than her fucking bullet vibrator on max setting. Better than her first dyke from a college sorority party--who, oh so long ago, had taught Skye the worth of a woman's mouth.

Her hips bucked. One hand knotted in his thick hair, the other found and latched on her nipple ring--pain blurring into something deeper. She ground against his face, moaning, helpless. He worked her--now with thick, slow strokes, now switching, tongue darting inside, prying her inner lips open.

Stretching. Testing.

Too much. Not enough.

Skye was shaking. The vibrator satisfied her quickly--but would never bring her this high. Her lezzy encounters would always get her to the finish line, moving in a sweet line, easing her into the gentle bliss of a climax.

But Marcus wasn't gentle.

He wasn't sweet.

He devoured her like prey.

And she was fucking into it.

"Fuh-oh-oh-oh-oh," she trilled, sensing herself squirting again and again on the face of her tormentor--and he never stopped. Just smiled against her pale flesh, dark and satisfied, lapping her juices, stretching, darting.

Then it was right on the action button. Pulsed. Twice. Thrice.

And pleasure smashed into her like a fist.

And Marcus--still didn't stop.

She chewed on her own hand now--sinking crooked teeth into flesh hard enough to bruise.

Then it hit her again, stronger, larger. Manhattan Project. Ground zero.

Light. Wind. Raw power obliterating everything in its path.

Only when she sagged against the mattress did he lift his head--beard dripping, mouth slick with her juices. He reached out, grabbing her by the neck, and pulled her over. Beard wet. Eyes black with hunger.

Then, voice low and cruel: "Tongue out."

She obeyed instantly, trembling.

He pressed his sticky lips against hers. She eagerly licked him clean of herself--salt and shame and surrender. That eagerness confused her.

He didn't give her time to wonder.

"Bend over, now," he said.

She scrambled clumsily onto her stomach, heart hammering.

Marcus's hands closed around her narrow waist, guiding her like she was nothing--like she was his to position. "Even if you beg," he said, voice shaking with desire.

Skye whimpered, face pressed into the ruined mattress, hips raised, skirt bunched around her waist. She shook violently.

His hands smoothed over the planes of her body, rough palms skimming goosebumped skin, sliding down to the curve of her ass. He inhaled deeply, like he was memorizing the scent of her cunt, the sweat on her thighs, the raw need pouring off her.

Her whole body seized. She heard him moving around, the unmistakable crinkle of plastic; he rose behind her--heavy, patient. She felt him against her: thick, hard--and then, slow, steady, he pushed inside.

She choked on a sob.

Despite all the wetness, all the preparation, he still stretched her wide--inch after brutal inch. It burned. It hurt. It was heaven.

She caught a glimpse of them in the cracked mirror across the room--her body small and shaking, his looming, brutal behind her.

"Too big," she mouthed. "It's too fucking big--"

He only grunted, burying himself deeper. His hand brushed her hair aside, baring the back of her neck. Pulling her up. He kissed the nape. Soft. Almost reverent.

"You're beautiful, princess," he murmured.

The reflection shamed her--torn fishnets, ruined makeup, her soaked cunt stretched around him, adapting to that length and girth. Her ribcage heaved against her skin, tattoos rippling with every thrust. Then--joy. The mouth. The hands. The cock.

"Oh, Daddy," she murmured, the word torn from her like a confession.

Marcus froze for a split second.

Then his hands gripped her hips like a vice. "That's right, princess," he hissed lower. "Say it again."

"Daddy," she obliged.

"Say it. Beg for it..."

"Do me hard, daddy," meowed Skye moving against him. "Give me your grown up cock, oh, oh..."

And just like that, he was out--hand tangled in her hair, yanking her higher, pulling her to stand, to tiptoe...

"Look at you," he snarled against her ear. "Horny little slut."

Her thighs shook uncontrollably.

Then she felt it--his other hand leaving her waist, reaching between her legs, pushing under her buttocks. Not for her clit. Lower. Crueler.

One thick finger pressed against her soaked entrance, sliding in easily from the mess he'd made.

She whimpered.

Then another. And another.

"Go on," his voice prodded her.

"Ohm..." -- managed Skye. "Fuhhck me, hard, Auhgm... Fuckkkk..."

Each added stretch made her jerk, made her breath hitch higher. Her mind splintered--too much, too full, too real--but she couldn't, wouldn't, didn't want to stop.

His hand worked deeper inside her, knuckles spreading her wider than any cock ever had.

A flash of horror broke through the haze: He's trying to fist me.

She tried to squirm away.

His fist yanked her mane again, reminding her that she was leashed.

"Where you going, princess?" he purred mockingly.

Her cunt spasmed around his invading hand. Unable to stay on her toes, she lowered herself down--right onto the foreign thickness.

Four fingers now, pressing harder, merciless, seeking that final give--

--and then his thumb folded down, and his whole hand pushed inside with a thick, wet pop.

Skye screamed.

Her vision blurred.

The stretch was unbearable. The violation--absolute. She tried to wriggle, tried to breathe, but all she could do was feel--his wrist buried inside her, her body helplessly clenching, trembling, wrecked around him.

"You are taking it," Marcus growled, pumping slow, deliberate, feeling her pulse around his fist.

She sobbed brokenly, emotions a slurry--terror, arousal, shame, worship.

"You're made to take it."

The mirror showed her everything: her mouth open in a silent cry, her tiny frame convulsing, her thighs glossy with slick. It wasn't an orgasm--was it? She genuinely didn't know. Her nipples raw, hips spasming--she experienced something horrifying and beautiful.

He withdrew slowly, dragging raw friction through her.

She collapsed forward on her knees -- trembling and whimpering.

Marcus loomed over, sweaty dark shadow, erect cock standing above her face. His hand came down, straightening her messed hair--almost tender.

"You belong to me now," he said softly.

She nodded, still shaking, unable to speak.

"Liked being my toy, princess? Talk to me."

"It was... too intense." She finally managed. "It was, like, fucking hell and heaven. I... I..." she stumbled.

He listened smiling wolfishly.

"The let's dive deeper. Ready for it. Will you dive with me, Skye?"

She looked up sharply, her irises--vast, dark, scared pools on a triangle of a pale face. His hands were already moving. Rearranging her. Buttocks up. Hands against the wall. Thighs parted. Obediently moving, Skye felt herself lost, disoriented. Still pondering, still....

The wet tip of his cock pressed higher now--against the star of her ass--and without warning, he began to push.

She jerked violently beneath his weight, trying to wiggle away.

"No," Marcus said, voice low, almost tender. His hand on her lower back pinned her like an animal. "You don't get to run."

The pressure was steady. Merciless.

Tears leaked from Skye's eyes--hot, humiliating.

"Please--" she choked, not sure what she was begging for. Stop? More? Everything? Nothing? "Please..."

The head of his cock pressed harder. Relentless.

Marcus withdrew just enough to yank the condom off with a wet snap. Tossed it.

Then he returned. Positioned. Pushing.

Skye's hands clawed at the plaster. Her scream was muffled against her arm.

He spat onto her back, the trail sliding down her spine. The burn was worse now--raw, intimate, obscene.

"Inch by inch, baby," Marcus murmured. "This is how you learn."

She was trembling, muscles liquefying, nerves screaming. She couldn't tell if she was upright or collapsed--held up only by the hands of her tormentor. She felt acclimating to the shape of his penis, unobstructed by the condom. Somehow it felt even thicker.

"Such a cute little hole," he groaned. "I'm all in, princess. You took me all in. Oh baby, it's such a fucking pleasure."

One paw slid up her torso. Found her breast. Twisted the ring.

"You've got such hot little tits," he growled. "Fondle them. Do it for Daddy."

Her hands shook but obeyed. She gasped, pinching her own nipples through the wreckage of her fishnet top, shame and pleasure colliding.

"Harder."

She moaned, tugging harder, breath hitching.

His other hand dipped lower. Found her clit. Slid across slick folds.

"Fuck yourself back on me."

Skye whimpered. Shook her head. Couldn't.

He pinched her clit--sharp, vicious.

Her scream filled the room.

"Say it."

"I cu-- I cuhmmmmm," --a blurted mess that used to be Skye.

"Louder."

"I CUUHHHMMMMMM!"

Her body spasmed around him. Orgasm split her open--violent, volcanic, like every nerve caught fire.

Marcus groaned. Let go. Cock twitching, spilling deep inside her.

When silence returned--he pulled out. Slowly. Seed dripped from her ass, a wet string of conquest.

She stood there. Barely. Still pressed to the wall. Twitching. Gasps too thin to fill her lungs.

Without speaking, Marcus lifted her again. One arm beneath knees, one at her back. Lifeless.

He carried her like something rare. Something earned.

The bathroom door creaked. He set her on the toilet. Crouched.

She tried to close her legs. He wouldn't let her.

"Relieve yourself, princess."

Fresh shame clawed through her chest.

Tears returned. Her body obeyed.

His load spilled into the water.

She sobbed. Then turned, retched violently into the sink.

Marcus just watched.

He cleaned her next. Warm towel. Slow hands. Between thighs. Down back. Over slick floor.

She hiccupped. Couldn't meet his eyes.

He lifted her chin. Wiped a tear with his thumb.

"Good girl."

He kissed her forehead.

She shattered.

Collapsed into his chest, sobbing, arms clinging.

He held her. Unmoving. Solid.

When she calmed, he helped her into the shower. Held her upright. Washed her. Rinsed her hair.

She blacked out.

Came back wrapped in a towel.

He placed her on the mattress, still soaked in sex and sweat. A shrine to wreckage.

She curled in on herself. Hair wet across her chest. Tattoos glowing like secrets. Piercings catching the light.

The air reeked of sex and silence.

Marcus moved through it like smoke. He satiated his thirst, drinking with a sound of a large animal on a water crossing. Returned with a cup. Crouched.

She drank. Slow sips. Trembling hands. Looking as he dressed in silence. Shirt. Pants. Movements crisp. Their eyes met. Something in hers begged. Something in his softened.

"Will you call me, Daddy?" she whispered.

He didn't laugh. Didn't flinch.

"There's nothing in this world that could stop me."

He moved around.

"Unlock."

She handed him her Motorola. He sent a message to himself. A thread woven.

Leaned in. Kissed her forehead again. This time, softer.

Then the door closed.

Like the end of a dream, you never wanted to wake from.

Skye didn't move for a long time.

Then, slowly, she rose--naked, unsteady. The towel slipped from her shoulders and crumpled on the floor.

Bruises bloomed purple along her thighs, stark against pale skin.

She padded barefoot to the window. Pulled the black curtain aside with trembling fingers.

Outside, the limo waited in the dark like a beast. Then, silently, it rolled away--devoured by the city.

She let the curtain fall.

The mattress looked obscene. She stripped the sheet quickly--tangled, slick--and tossed it into a corner with practiced shame.

From a heap of wrinkled clothes on the chair, she pulled her faded nightgown over her head--soft, oversized, familiar.

She grabbed the blanket. Thick, old, warm. Wrapped it around herself like armor.

From the mess, she found her old teddy bear. One eye missing. Ear chewed.

She crawled back onto the mattress, clean now, curled up on her side.

Blanket tight. Bear close to chest.

And finally--safe--

She cried.