🌶️♥️🩸
"𝘼𝙩𝙩𝙖 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡," 𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙙.
_______________
In which Gwendolyn Bird, beaten and bruised by the death of her brother, meets a dark-haired, green-eyed man in the most fateful circumstances. Except, he's holding a gun against her he...
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
___________________
Sexual frustration.
What an awful thing, right?
Before Gwen's life now, she hadn't thought about it much at all. When she wanted something, she went after it.
She'd let a man that looked at her too long touch her in her most desired places if that was what she wanted. Again, it never progressed past foreplay and just the mere images of doing more.
Their hands would travel her body, memorize her curves and dips within her skin, searching for solace in their lustful state. Gwen's felt soft hands, rough hands, bruised hands, large hands, you name it. She'd squirm under their touch as they felt every inch of her body, the place between her legs itching for them to touch her more.
She was a temple to them, and she loved the way they knew that just by the way their hands moved.
She craved more. She craved it in an animalistic sense.
But she wouldn't allow it. Sex seemed more personal most days than not, and therefore, she wouldn't let just anyone fuck her.
Which was a part of Gwen's problem, in all honesty.
Because since she met Nine, her desire to get railed had increased much more than she cared to admit.
She'd thought about him, the way he looked, the things he said, the manner of which he moved, and everything else at an embarrassing level.
Her mind would wander off to disgusting places, usually resulting in her imagining the way ring-clad hangs would feel on her body, which she hadn't yet felt out of all of the touches she remembered.
Admittedly, she even considered carrying around cheap rings during their time at the club just so she could force whoever she picked to wear them, satisfying her hunger for that feeling.
Deep within her belly, an aching had formed at the mere thought, shame and disappointment in her perverted mind taking over her inability to control herself.
Because like she told him before, she wouldn't allow a murderer to fuck her.
So, while she knew that if she really wanted it she could go and ask him, possibly facing the pure embarrassment of him declining, she wouldn't do it.
A part of herself said that she would never be the same again if she slept with someone that had traumatized, hurt, and cursed her in so many ways in just a short few weeks, no matter the cause or reason. And she believed that voice, alarming herself that there might be some truth to that.
She would just have to resort to something else, something she hadn't done really ever before.
Fuck a random.
Club 62 was full of life tonight, a large crowd of people dancing among different colored strobe lights with drinks in their hands occupying nearly every inch of the place she'd only been in for a short time before.
