Page 20 of Beautiful Monster

Familiar light tan walls are framed by thick white molding, and I can spot a closet, a few pictures on the wall, and a mirror to a vanity in the corner. I remember the room from the night of the party.

Just then, Sunny appears in the window. In her simple blue dress, still wet against her body from the pool, she gazes out the window without letting her eyes drift toward where I stand in my pool house.

Reaching up, she pulls the band from her hair and shakes out the wet curls, letting the dark locks hang around her shoulders. I should look away, but I don’t.

Suddenly, I feel her eyes on me, and the pool house becomes torturously silent. With nothing except for my breath, I stare at her while she stares right back. I almost lift my hand to wave, to somehow acknowledge that we can see each other, but then she reaches down and pulls her dress over her head, leaving her in nothing but her simple bikini.

My lips part as I watch her. She looks so fucking lonely in that window, as if she is desperate to be watched. So hungry for attention that she would latch onto the only eyes she can find. Some crazy part of my brain wants to go to her, talk to her, hold her, kiss her to keep her from being so goddamn alone. Or maybe to make myself feel it.

I recognize that loneliness on her face. I feel it from the inside. It mirrors my own, and I am well aware of the way such loneliness can drive a person to do wild things. Reach for things we shouldn’t. Or rather, reach for people we shouldn’t.

Sunny is smart. She is better than everyone I know—wiser, stronger, less likely to succumb to the depravity only I know.

But then she reaches behind her back, her eyes still on me in my lit pool house.

“No,” I whisper as if she could hear me—but it doesn’t stop what I know will happen. Her barely there bathing suit drops to the floor, and I can’t move. There she is, like a painting etched onto the wall of her house, in nothing but a tiny pair of bikini bottoms. Her tits are bare, small mounds on her petite chest, and even from this distance, I can see that her nipples are puckered, hard, and cold from the exposure to the air.

“What the fuck is she doing?” I say to absolutely no one, but I don’t look away. I beg her to move from the window. Put on some clothes. Stop letting me look at her when I could easily just stop looking at her myself. I want to scream at her.

I look because I want to look. I want to memorize it. Not just the bare tits. I could see tits any day, but this vision of her. The sad look on her face, the innocent sexuality of her display, of what I can only assume is her own way of flirting with me. She wants me to look. And maybe she wants me to do more than look.

What kind of man would I be?

She stands in the window for less than ten seconds, but every moment that I stare at her naked breasts feels like a hundred seconds. It is blissfully excruciating, but finally, she steps away from the window and walks toward her en suite bathroom, leaving me standing breathless and reeling, alone in my pool house.

I try to go back to what I was doing, finishing the backsplash, cleaning up my mess, and calling someone to come over and take away the raging hard-on in my pants, but I can’t function now.

Instead, I rush into my house and reach for the expensive brand of bourbon in my cabinet. Pouring myself two fingers full, I gulp it down and try to think about anything other than the curve of her hips and the tan line that ran like a V across her chest. The pale skin of her tits and the pink circles around her nipples. I try not to think about running my tongue along the peaks, and down to her belly.

That wasn’t a mistake—it was a declaration.

She wanted me to see her, and not for one second do I think her wanting me makes any of this okay, but I am only a man.

I’m standing in my empty kitchen, boxes still strewn around like cruel reminders of my flippant existence. I take one long, deep breath after another. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. How one young girl, so innocent and pure, could infiltrate my mind like a virus.

I hopelessly plead with my brain to think of anyone else. I beg my body to react this way to literally anyone else.

But it’s useless. The mind and body are feral, untamed beasts that don’t understand decorum or morality.

Before I know it, I’m tugging open the button of my pants like a fiend. I dig my hand beneath the elastic liner of my briefs and I squeeze my cock in my hands, gripping it hard enough to hurt.

Not even the pain can distract me from this debilitating desire.

No one knows what I do in the privacy of my own home.

Thinking about her isn’t a crime.

Trying desperately to convince myself of my own innocence does me no good. It won’t stave the guilt that creeps in even as I stroke myself to the filthy images playing on a reel in my mind.

I’m touching her. Claiming her. Devouring every inch of her forbidden body like it belongs to me. Like only I know the combination of her pleasure.

Even in my imagination, I know the feel and taste of her sweet cunt pales in comparison to the real thing, but it’s enough to have me grunting and moaning in my home alone like a monster.

When I come, it’s the thought of her soft thighs wrapped around my hips that sends me into my climax. The look of ecstasy on her face. The sound of her moans.

And me, begging her to say my name when she comes. Say something, Sunny.

My groans bounce off the bare walls of my massive, empty house. My cum lands in messy little heaps all over the pristine quartz countertop.