"Fuck off." Her voice shakes. "It's none of your business. And if you think it is—if you think that money you keep sending me is enough to buy me again—you're mistaken."
I don't answer.
Just keep stroking myself. Slower now. Deliberate. Watching her watch me.
Then I press forward again.
This time I don't stop. I rub my cock against her dress in slow, deliberate circles. Smearing precum across the yellow fabric. Soiling it on purpose. Claiming it.
Ruining it.
Her eyes stay locked on mine.
She's holding her breath.
I can see her ribs expand and freeze. Can see the way her lips part slightly like she's about to speak but can't quite form words.
"Make me stop," I say softly.
She doesn't move.
"Say the word, Scarletta. Tell me no. Push me away. Scream for help." I press my thigh between her legs. "Do any single fucking thing that indicates you don't want this."
A whimper escapes her throat.
Small sound. Desperate.
I move my thigh. Slow, firm pressure against her pussy through the dress. Rubbing her the way I know she needs. The way those boring yoga instructors and pottery boys never could.
"That's what I thought," I murmur. "Still just a filthy little slut who gets wet when dangerous men corner her in alleys."
"No—" She gasps when I increase the pressure. "I'm not?—"
"You are." I keep grinding my thigh against her pussy. Feel the heat of her through two layers of fabric. "You're a desperate, cock-hungry whore who's been pretending to be normal for six months and hating every second of it."
Another whimper.
Her hands are still pressed flat against the brick wall, but her hips have started moving. Small, unconscious rocks forward into the friction I'm providing.
"That's right, pretty slut," I breathe. "Take what you need. Hump my leg like the bitch in heat you are."
"Stop—" But she doesn't mean it. Her body is betraying every protest her mouth makes.
"You want to come, don't you?" I watch her face. The flush spreading down her neck. The way her eyes keep losing focus. "You want to soak through this nice wholesome dress while I watch. Want to prove you're still the same broken girl who checked all those boxes on a consent form because she needed someone to own her."
She's close.
I can read every sign. The way her breathing hitches. The tension building in her shoulders. The desperate little sounds catching in her throat.
So I stop moving.
Step back.
Remove all contact.
Her eyes fly open. Wild. Devastated.
"No—" It comes out broken. "Please?—"
