I chase it.
Instead of Darcy beneath me, I picture the stunning woman as she takes me inch by inch. Her long wavy hair wrapped around my fist as I push into her relentlessly. The tingle at the base of my spine starts to fizz and all sorts of sordid visions flick through my mind. Her on her back in my bed as I fuck her deep, her real breasts gripped in my hands. I wonder what colour her nipples are. With the tight black top she had on this morning, I could see her tits were smaller than Darcy’s but that doesn’t bother me. I’m an ass man anyway.
Another image of her on her knees before me, those brown eyes staring up at me as I fuck her face. I know she likes it. I watched the back of her head bob up and down on that douche’s cock for a full three minutes before getting dumped at the entrance.
Lips all swollen and puffy. Perfect.
I picture the head of my cock hitting the back of her throat as she gags but takes me willingly. My balls start to tighten, and I know I am seconds away from release. I pick up the pace on Darcy wishing it was the stranger below me. I shift my hips again and go to town, fast and hard. The last image I see is me coming in her mouth as she swallows me greedily, then opens her mouth to show me how good she can be.
“Fuuuuuck,” I grunt as I come the hardest I have in a while as Darcy cries out with her own release.
I quickly pull out and throw the condom in the bin by my feet after rolling it up in some tissue. Don’t want Mr. Chapman knowing we used his space after hours. Not that he would care much, I’ve caught him fucking a few students in this very spot several times, the bastard.
“Wow. That was amazing,” Darcy says breathlessly as she readjusts her skirt. Her face red and blotchy but make-up completely intact. Not like the little vixen from this morning, with her smudged lipstick and spillage I wish was mine for some reason.
“Hey,” I say as I grab both our bags from the floor and place Darcy’s on her shoulder. “Who’s the new girl?” I ask trying to keep things neutral. Darcy can be a little bit psycho when she thinks she has competition. I wouldn’t usually stand for it, I can stick my dick where I want to, but Darcy does everything I need for now, and is the best of a bad bunch here at Marrowton.
She spins and narrows her brown eyes on me with suspicion. “Ruella Griffith. All I know is that she is a new starter from down south after taking a few years off,” She tilts her head. “Why?”
I shrug and open the door leading to the West wing. “No reason. Just seen her this morning and let’s say things might get interesting around here,” I smirk. I don’t usually shit stir, I pretty much mind my own business when it comes to this place, but for some reason I want to push the new girl’s buttons. She looks like she can take it, and knowing Darcy, she will push it multiple times. She’s going to hate her, hate her natural beauty, hate her stand out hair and she will fucking despise the girl’s fashion. Marrowton is the top of the upper class. Men dress like they are going to a mix between the office and a fashion show, the women dress to perfection in the most expensive things they own. Boring if you ask me.
But the new girl. Ruella. I already know she is not going to fit in with the popular crowd here. She is going to ruffle some feathers and I cannot wait for the carnage that is about to follow.
“What do you mean?” Darcy asks as we make our way down the corridor.
“You will see,”
For the first time in a long time, I am excited for tomorrow.
FOUR
RUELLA
Laughter bursts from my lips, startling in the stillness, too loud and alive for a place like this. It echoes around the room, bouncing off the high stone walls before fading into something almost haunted. Morning sunlight cuts through the tall window, glinting through the leaded panes and casting fractured shadows across the plush crimson carpet beneath my bare feet.
I catch my reflection in the tall mirror, a flicker of movement in a gilded frame. My expression is twisted in a half-grimace, half-smile, as if I’m still deciding how I feel about the girl staring back. I turn slightly, inspecting myself from the side, as if some new angle might make the view a little better.
“My Lord what the hell is this uniform” I again, fill the silence with my own voice. With the amount of people attending Marrowton and stuffed tight into turrets, I assumed I would hear nonstop chatter and noise. The walls must be thick, because even after dinner hours in the hall, I didn’t hear a thing. I am not complaining, I really enjoyed my quiet night with a sandwich and a warm cup of Horlicks. I didn’t even manage to read the rest of my book before I fell into a deep sleep. The most comfortable and safest sleep I have had in three years. It made me thinkof the future I can make for myself after finding out what happened to Marlowe.
Marlowe.
The real reason I am here.
I take one last glance at myself in the mirror, tilting my head slightly as I study the uniform I’ve just finished making my own. The skirt isn’t completely terrible, a deep green tartan with crisp pleats, almost endearing in its painfully traditional, Catholic-school way. After rolling the waistband a few times, it now sits mid-thigh, far shorter than intended but still modest by my standards. Let the professors clutch their pearls, I’ve done them a favour.
The shirt, however, is unforgivable. Starched white, stiff, and shapeless, clearly designed with no one in mind. I tore out a few of the plastic buttons and replaced them with silver ones scavenged from a shirt I brought from home, then cinched the back in with my stitcher gun to make it skim my waist properly. Now it resembles something meant for a living person.
The blazer, though, that was beyond saving. Dark green and boxy, like a corporate ghost had designed it. I tossed it aside without remorse and pulled on a sheer black pullover instead, cropped just enough to let the hem of the white shirt peek out beneath. Fishnet tights and my worn-in black lace-up boots, the ones that hug under my knees, finish the look. A little rebellion artfully layered.
You can’t get expelled for creative interpretation of a uniform, right?
A sweep of red lipstick, a black ribbon tied through my freshly blow-dried hair, and I’m done. I don’t appear to belong, and I intend to keep it that way.
“Wish me luckMar,” I say to no one as I grab my things and head for the door. As I quietly tip toe down the stairs way earlier than everyone else will be heading to class, I wonder what house Marlowe was assigned.
Was it Hastings like me? Or one of the other houses.
With my head down I practically run to the fridge and grab a chilled bottle of water and an apple, which will do for breakfast, then I quietly close the house door behind me.
