The Masks We Wear by Lee Jacquot
PREVIEW
Ilove when a brat is good with her mouth.
Scratch that. I don't love anything. That requires the capacity to open one's theoretical heart, which is literally the stupidest shit I've ever heard. It's a vital organ that merely pumps blood through your body so you can continue to breathe. Yet, people seem to place some imaginary power that it has the capability to feel based on another human being.
Don't get me wrong. I feel things—hunger, annoyance, pain. Real things. Real feelings. Not attachments. Which is all love is. Well, that and hate. It's all connected, both emotions twisting around each other until they're nearly indecipherable.
That being said, I do take pleasure when a woman is on her knees, hair coiled in my fist, sucking the soul from my dick. Current case in point: a redhead I've snuck off with at my father's fundraiser. A gala for the richest in Washington state. All here to measure whose cock is bigger based on how many zeros are in their bank accounts.
My father, Mr. Steel F. Barot—CEO and founder of Clean Source Energy Incorporated, doesn't have to prove anything to the piranhas circling. He's the great white who enjoys watching them fight it out, eating one another alive, donating everything they can, leaving my father with more money than he makes in a day.
No matter how fucking horrible these things are, as the future heir, or pup as my father loves to spit, I’m expected to attend. Typically, my friend, Lily, accompanies me and provides an entertaining distraction, but she has some therapy sessions, leaving me stranded in the infested waters alone. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry thinks they can butter me up and get in good with my father. Little do they know, not even I’m in good with the old man. Still, it's something I use to my advantage quite often.
Like now.
This little lady was one of the many things that caught my eye under the dim candle lighting, and not in a good sense. Her red dress is the color of a fire hydrant, clinging to every bone that sticks out from her thin frame. There's at least four coats of makeup covering her face, and I'm relatively certain she came with her husband or maybe fiancé.
Even so, Sheila, or perhaps Stephanie, eye-fucked me the moment I walked in, and I've never been one to turn down a pouty set of lips. One of her surprisingly rough hands wraps around the base of my shaft, while the other digs into my hip. She's attempting to steady herself from the long strokes, and I'm beginning to grow tired of keeping her upright. She underestimated my size, and that in itself is annoying enough.
But instead of letting that ruin the fun, my eyes drift to a near close like they always do, and suddenly the red hair in front of me dims to an inky black.
The same black hair I think of far more than I should and can't seem to get off without. It's been two years since I've seen her, yet she's all I see when I find myself balls deep in someone warm.
Those oversized hexagon glasses that frame almond-shaped eyes that make it feel like I’m staring at a sunflower in the brightest grass. Her slightly toned arms from carrying piles of books everywhere she went. And that fucking halo floating over her head, that was a constant reminder that she was too good, too pure for the likes of me.
Remy Solace.
