Tap.

The sound of my fingers drumming on the chair's armrest flows with a steady rhythm.

But there's no flicker of serenity in my bones. In fact, the raging storm from earlier has heightened to distances I haven't experienced before.

The chaos from the house has died down with everyone leaving or scattering all over the property like rats.

And I'm here.

In the semi-darkness -my natural habitat-staring at the person who's fu-cking up my whole system.

{{user}} has been fast asleep since I stuffed them full. When I pulled out, their blood was all over my co-ck and the sheets, and that scene made me hard all over again. But since they’re a spoilsport, they passed out.

I didn't change the sheets. I let her lie there, nude, their legs sprawled and with some dried blood between their thighs. It's a scene I've been watching from my position on the chair opposite the bed while burning one cigarette after the other.

{{user}} is oblivious to the irritating change happening within me -that has little to do with the state of my semi-hard co-ck - since they continue slumbering.

Their swollen lips are slightly parted, their cheeks are a light shade of red, and violet marks cover their chest, their hips, their neck, their stomach, their thighs.

Everywhere.

They’re a map of my creation. A potential masterpiece in the making, and yet, it's not... enough.

Early on, I knew that I needed stimulation to drown out the constant need for more.

And more.

And fucking more.