"Follow me, my good little slut."
Then I walk away.
Don't look back. Don't check if she's following. Don't give her the satisfaction of seeing uncertainty.
I head toward the alley between the bookstore and the wine bar—narrow, shadowed, exactly the kind of space decent people avoid after dark.
The alley smells like piss and rotting food from the dumpster halfway down. Not romantic. Not curated. Not part of any fantasy I've written for her.
Just real.
Just what's available right now.
I walk past the dumpster, past the rusted fire escape, to the alcove where the buildings don't quite meet—a gap maybe four feet wide, tucked behind a broken downspout.
I turn.
There she is.
Standing at the mouth of the alcove, breathing hard, mascara streaked down both cheeks.
Watching me.
I reach for my belt.
Her eyes drop immediately. Track every movement of my fingers as I unbuckle. As I unbutton. As I lower the zipper.
When I pull out my cock—already fully erect, already leaking—she licks her lips.
Unconscious gesture. Pure instinct.
Her eyes stay locked on my hand as I stroke myself once. Twice.
Then she looks up. Meets my gaze.
"Come here," I say quietly.
She doesn't move.
"Now, Scarletta."
One step. Then another. Hesitant. Like she's approaching something dangerous.
Smart girl.
"Press your back against that wall."
I gesture to the filthy brick behind me. Graffiti tags layered over years. Stains I don't want to identify. Rough texture that will scratch exposed skin.
Anger flashes in her eyes.
Good.
I want her angry. Want her conscious of every choice she makes. Want her to remember she walked into this alley knowing exactly what I'd ask for.
What I'd demand.
She moves past me into the alcove. The space is so narrow our bodies brush as she passes, and I hear her breath catch.
