Page 87

I flip the page to uncover a piece I’d done of a woman. Ropes pulled taut around her. Looped around her neck, cinched around her narrow waist, just cupping the underside of her small, soft breasts. Shibari—I’d had to fucking Google it, that’s how green I was. Pretty, generic female face; pretty, generic long hair.

I stare at it. Because I know what I want to do. What I could do, can do.

I pick up a kneaded eraser and clench it in my hand.

Sure, I’ve drawn Tink before. By accident. Subconsciously. I had been, for God knows how long, putting her face on all my sketches when I was working out design ideas.

This, though…

I move all at once, sudden, like I’m possessed: pinch my eraser in my fingers, blot out the face and hair, and move in with quick, deft strokes of the nearest pencil. Redraw so it’s her.

God. Fuck.

My throat goes dry even as my blood runs screaming hot.

It’s one thing to hold the idea in your head, the vague notion of an image, the inclination toward a vision that you might, one day, want to realize. That’s a concept, not a work. Nothing real, nothing you’ve committed to, created. Even my actual fantasies, the stuff I conjure up in my imagination to, you know, do the trick when I’m horny and desperate and need to get off just so I can sleep or relax or go about my day in peace, are fairly…blurry. Inchoate. Impersonal, notional, just enough to get the right synapses firing.

So that. That’s one thing, to have that vague idea.

It’s entirely another to commit it to the page.

And now that I have…

My hand is shaking so badly I have to set the pencil down.

It’s beautiful.

She’s beautiful.

That same hand finds my cock.

One stroke and I know I’m a goner. I am consumed, lost.

I think about her on camera, moaning softly into my brother’s mouth.

I think about her writhing, captured, pinned down and perfect like a butterfly in a frame.

My fist strokes faster. Harder.

I think about how I’d pull her. Squeeze her. Get something taut around her neck, guide her gasping to me so her cheeks are flushed, her eyes half-closed and dizzy. Mouth red and wet.

My hips lift out of the chair.

And I’d fuck⁠—

I’d fuck⁠—

I don’t make it. I come, come so hard I see stars. Come on my fingers, on the page, come in a spatter of hot drops that land on the thighs of my jeans and the surface of my desk.

“Fuuuck,” I shudder, both at the tight choking force of the orgasm and the mess, and I clutch at the edge of the wood to stay steady as the last waves thrum out of me. Either the loudest sound or the deadliest silence I’ve ever heard is roaring in my ears, and it’s a good thirty seconds of deep, deep breaths before I have my bearings again.

Jesus Christ.

I can’t be jerking off to drawings of my roommate. My roommate who I thought was a boy. Who kissed my brother, literally last night⁠—

“Yo, Kit?”

Fuck. I almost jump out of my skin at the sound of Fox’s voice. The door to our room rattles—I at least have the good sense to lock it first.