Report of my bet with Elaine: Houston, we've got a problem.
It's been two days since Brianne Leviantis transferred to Ordrienne High, and in all that time I haven't managed to get a single "hi" out of her.
She ignores me completely, like I don't even exist.
Who knows what kind of crap my classmates must have told her about me to make her avoid me like this.
There's no other explanation.
Whatever.
Tonight, I'll console myself with Mrs. Fenwick.
She and my mom are colleagues—actually, my mom's her boss—but the way they talk, you'd never guess.
For as long as I can remember, she and her husband have come over to our place for dinner at least once a month.
But last week, she came alone.
I didn't ask why—no need.
After her first glass of wine, Mrs. Fenwick just kept talking, saying whatever came to mind without a filter.
Long story short, she thinks her husband is cheating on her.
No—she's sure of it.
She said he hasn't touched her in over a month, and this is the same guy who used to jump her at every chance, so much that she had to be careful walking around the house in anything remotely revealing.
Maybe she agreed to meet me tonight out of revenge.
Or maybe she just misses being properly fucked.
Either way, here we are, sitting in a fancy Manhattan lounge bar.
Mrs. Fenwick isn't exactly my type—she's my mom's age, though there's a world of difference between them.
Even though she clearly tried her best to look elegant and charming tonight, some things are hard to hide.
Her sagging breasts.
The soft belly pressing against her tight black dress.
Her straight dark hair framing her face.
And yet, for some reason, she's making me hard anyway.
«It must've been boring for you… listening to me and your mom gossip about that bastard of a husband of mine all the time… but Isabelle is the one person I trust most in the world… and this isn't exactly something I can talk about at work…» she mutters, slurring slightly—already on her fourth Cosmopolitan, a fifth on the way.
Hell yes.
Those were the three longest hours of my life, but what came after more than made up for it.
Isabelle was tipsy from the wine, and after all that endless talk about sex and all the things Mr. Fenwick used to do to his wife and doesn't anymore…
I'll never forget the sweet, melodic words she whispered that night.
«P-Promise me… promise me you'll never stop fucking me, Ren! Promise me I'll never end up whining to my friends that you ignore me even when I'm half-naked around the house!»
No worries, Isabelle.
That's not happening.
If the day ever comes when I see you walking half-naked around the house and I don't feel like ripping your panties off with my teeth, then kick me out and let me rot under a bridge, because I wouldn't deserve to breathe your same air.
«Oh, don't say that… actually, I'm glad you and your mom share such a beautiful bond. And hey, my mom's friends are my friends too. What kind of jerk would I be if I turned away when a friend needed someone to talk to?»
I'm not even trying to sound empathetic, understanding, or caring—everything a lonely woman might want.
It just comes naturally, like breathing.
«I like having friends as thoughtful as you. Friends who worry about me when I'm struggling… and right now, I really need a trusted friend like you to help me through this rough patch…»
Her voice soft.
Her eyes half-lidded, locked on mine.
Her red lips inching closer… It was even easier than I thought.
Not that I doubted it—when she agreed to drinks, I already knew how the night would end.
But still, even in a rocky marriage, there's always a chance guilt or hesitation kicks in when a woman is kissed, undressed, licked… by someone who isn't her husband.
Thankfully, that didn't happen with Mrs. Fenwick.
«O-Oh God, Ren… oh God… aaaah…» she moans out loud, on all fours, cheek pressed against the back window of her Jeep, parked in the empty lot of a massive shopping center.
The more she moans, the more she pants, the tighter my fingers dig into her soft, sagging ass.
Kneeling behind her, I pound her dripping wet pussy harder and harder.
«D-Don't tell your mom… okay…? Aaah… I don't want her getting weird ideas about me… thinking I'm some kind of pervert… it'll be our little secret, Ren… please…»
Pff… what's Isabelle supposed to think? It's just a car quickie.
At worst, she'd give me one of her jealous tantrums—like that time in Miami when she caught me flirting with that lifeguard and half the beach heard her scream.
But shocked? No way.
Honestly, if Mrs. Fenwick ever found out what Isabelle and I get up to… she'd probably drop dead on the spot.
Tasting her blood, though—that wasn't as easy.
While we sat on those plush lounge sofas in Manhattan, I was more focused on how to make her bleed "by accident" than on how to get her into bed.
Not just bleed—I needed a way to get a drop or two without looking like a psycho.
Luckily, her earrings came to the rescue.
I asked to see them, slipped one off her ear, and when handing it back, I "accidentally" pricked her fingertip with the pin.
She dropped it on instinct, and I—ever the gentleman—dove under the table to pick it up and hand it back.
But not before tasting that tiny drop still clinging to the pin.
Why go through all that trouble when I already have Isabelle letting me drink her sweet blood?
Pizza's amazing, but if you ate it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day, you'd never want to see another slice.
Same logic.
And the last thing I want is to stop craving her blood—because that would mean not desiring her body anymore.
Unthinkable.