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“C’mere,” I softly order, and Aoife obeys my command.
She straddles me, and the feel of her on me is almost suffocating, but I wrap my arms around her waist, almost forgetting how soft a woman feels. When she tries to kiss me, I turn my cheek because I don’t want that sort of intimacy.
Instead, I reach around and unhook her bra.
Her tits bounce free, and I bend low, taking one in my mouth. She moans, rubbing herself against my cock. She quickly lowers my trousers and takes me into her mouth.
I see stars because this feels fucking grand, but as I brush her hair aside so I can see her pretty pink lips take my cock in and out of her mouth, all I think about is how it isn’t her I want. She doesn’t rouse the hunger in my loins. She doesn’t get me rock-hard.
There is only one doll who does, and the sick fucker that I am wishes Aoife was her. I wish my half-sister was sucking my cock, the pleasured sounds spilling fromhersinful mouth.
I’m disgusting, I know it, but I can’t help the way I feel, which is why I angrily lift Aoife and take her with me as I stand and slam her front to the wall. She doesn’t have a chance to object when I rip off her underwear and sink into her warm pussy from behind.
When I hit her hard, she whimpers and arches her back. She wants more.
I ride her long and hard, wishing I could fuck away the desire I feel for Babydoll, but it’ll never go away. I could have all the pussy in the world, and there’d only ever be one I want.
“Harder,” Aoife demands, bouncing on my cock as I fuck her without remorse. I come only after she does, hoping that I’ll forget the face and body I really want. But I don’t.
It only makes me want her all the more.
Once I’m done, I clean away the mess I’ve made on Aoife’s back and get dressed.
She shyly slips on her uniform, and I wonder if I’m the first person she’s broken the rules with. But I’m not naïve, I’m no one special.
Aoife sews me back up, since my stitches split open while I was riding her hard, and slips me some prescription drugs when she’s done.
“Naw, thanks.” I refuse the offering because they are the reason my life turned to shite.
“Maybe I can see ye next week?”
She surprises me, but I nod. “If I’m still alive, then aye.”
I’m not being melodramatic. I live each day, not knowing if I’ll wake come morning. That’s my life now.
An officer comes to get me, cuffing my ankles and wrists before we commence a walk to my cell. “Y’ve got more letters,” he says stiffly. “That’s twenty this week. Who’s writin’ ye?”
With a shrug, I reply, “I can’t say I know who.”
And I mean it because since being here, I’ve not read one letter. Nor have I seen one visitor. There’ve been many of each, but I’m not interested in either. Nothing they say, nothing I read will make a difference.
“What d’ya want me to do with them?”
With nothing but firm resolve, I state, “Burn them. Burn them all.”
