This bedroom was exactly how I left it. Empty. Vacant of all love and what made it mine. She left it untouched, unbothered, like she expected me to come back at some point.
My head felt too light as it pressed against my old pillow. The sweet smell of my old cologne met my nose, tickling the memories of laying here at night. Did she keep the room as a shrine? Never washing the sheets or changing what I’d left behind?
I gripped the bedding, scrunching and un-scrunching the material, remembering all the times I touched myself under the sheets, imagining things that weren’t allowed or even right.
After Andy sucked me off that one night, I’d used it as my escape. Even though I moved out for years, alone, I used it as the material to get me off.
Andy was my replay button.
Pause.
Rewind.
Repeat.
A record of my own bliss. I could snort a line and not even that would get me higher than the way her gagging did once upon a time.
Two more hours passed as my mind rambled through lyrics, arguments, moments I wanted with Andy. Much like the last five years, she still stole my sleep. It evaded me often. Being nearly one in the morning, all I wanted to do was drink more, escape the reality my life became, and convince my aunt that marrying this man would promise her the most fucking boring life. I wished she saw it but she wouldn't until it was far too late.
Didn’t she like orgasms and getting off by touch alone? Dancing that edge of high and pain, between the good and bad as she begged for release... that was what she deserved.
New Andy, she had a routine.
Brandon was the day-to-day. Her safe place from fun.
Unlike me, she didn't escape through drugs and edging. My balls ached from how close I allowed myself to get before chasing the high.
She stayed mostly sober and held this tight-knit need to be a good person. I’d kept tabs on her from afar. When she thought I didn’t give a fuck, Royce gave me all I needed to know. He left out the fiancé tidbit for some reason, though.
My heart might have died five years ago, but the little piece that kept me alive, still beat for Andy. When I left, never returning, I thought she'd spiral by missing me. She didn't. Which only furthered my realization that these feelings that came with that blowjob meant more to me than to her.
Swallowing down the dryness in my throat, I decided on some water and possibly toast. Maybe it'd soak up some of the wine. Because whenever I drank that shit, I always seemed wired.
Not bothering to put on a shirt or pants, I opened the door to leave. My aunt’s room had always been kitty-corner to mine. It was how I knew when she was with another person or masturbating.
Both things bothered me for different reasons.
Another person, because she never orgasmed unless it was with a woman, not once. Masturbation, because I wanted to make her come until she saw fucking ghosts. I wanted to kill her with my cock and resurrect her with my mouth.
Before, I didn't know a ton of what I was doing. I’d fucked plenty of chicks, even dudes. But it wasn't until my parents died that I fully invested myself in a private club where I watched everyone fuck and they were all amateurs. Not porn stars. Their pleasure was real, visceral, and so fucking hot.
That's where I'm at.
Most times, when I hooked up, I didn't even get off. Somehow, seeing them blissed out simply by my command? That was the only way people touched me and if anyone told me otherwise, I'd tell them they were not good at pleasing a partner.
Closing the door behind me, I heard it. Them.
Grunting tickled my ears enough to make me peer through her halfway open door. On the bed, missionary, my aunt looked up at Brandon. In her eyes, there was an impassive numbness. Even in the dark, barely lit up by the moon outside, I could see it. It reminded me of wives who fucked around with me because their husbands didn't give them enough of anything.
It took her all of two seconds to notice me watching them. Time seemed to slow as our gazes connected. My breathing felt loud in my ears, a hammer hitting my chest with surprise.
Her eyes widened in shame after a moment. She was smart enough to hide the fact that she looked at me and not the man she planned to marry—the man who was currently buried in her. Did he wear a condom or did she prefer her future husband bare? Those thoughts equally angered and destroyed me.
He could have her and I could only want.
Was this where I died? My horror on replay as he failed to please the only woman I’d ever wanted to destroy and love in equal parts?
Brandon rutted into her. His hips jerked, but he didn’t fuck her hard. Back and forth, he went inside her agonizingly slow, excessively boring to watch. The men who secretly fucked in the dark had more passion in them than him. From the dispassion in her gaze, she wanted it rough and vibrant.
She wanted the music and the lyrics. The lust-filled moans and scraping vocals that filled her until she was raw.
My back hit the molding as I leaned against the doorframe, smirking. It satisfied me knowing no one could ever please her more than I could. Even if she refused that knowledge. A part of me wished I could see more than her face. I wanted to see her cunt, test how dry it was. Bet it was like the fucking Sahara; barren of moisture, where most people died from dehydration.
The thought came and went fast, making me realize soon after how wrong my yearning was. I closed my eyes, shaking that desire away.
Reaching down, I gripped my softened dick in my hands. Deep down, as the wood dug into my shoulder, I knew my pleasure didn't stem from watching her getting fucked, but the face of her pleasure might just do the job.
Her mouth opened and she let out a whimper.
“You like that, babe?”
You like that, babe? The mocking remark sat right at the tip of my tongue. If he knew he pleasured her, he’d say, I know you like that, little demon. I know you love my cock nestled between these thighs. I rolled my eyes at his weak-ass pet name.
Did he not understand she had a demon side, where she wanted rough degradation and praise for being a good girl? She was a fucking goddess who wanted to be a whore and he didn’t know what to do with her. He could uninspiringly fuck her but he’d never see her wet the sheets with unabated lust. Andy nodded at him in response, but her eyes still locked onto where my fist held my barely hardening dick.
Pulling down on the waistband of my boxer briefs, I knew my Adonis belt and veins were showing, and I think she knew it, too, because she moaned, loudly.
Brandon picked up his pace with her gasps and she actually threw her head back, crying out. The pulse in my balls beat in sync with her whimpers. It hit me, realizing I'd fucked up majorly. Again.
Closing my eyes, a twisting jab hit my gut—shame. Such a fickle emotion. I unclenched my fist, letting go of my now stiff erection, and headed into the kitchen for some fucking common sense. It seemed I lost all of mine while wanting to fuck my aunt.
Why did she watch me?
Why did I let her?
Why am I like this?
This corrosion in my brain needed to go. It lived inside me, digging, gnawing, until the only thing left was my bones. It started with the loss of the two people who loved me the most and only worsened with the one person I should protect above all others.
I am sick.
I can't make her sick.
What did I do?
What. Did. I. Do.
Chapter Twenty
Bad at Love – Halsey