She didn’t knock. Of course, she didn’t. Girls like her never knock; they trespass. She came in like the kind of mistake you make on purpose. The kind you light a cigarette for before it even happens, to say you saw it coming.

The door moaned open, tired of pretending it was locked. And there she was, hips first, mouth second, and attitude bleeding off her like perfume no one asked for but everyone inhaled anyway. That tank top? Said “I’m bored, play with me” like it was a threat, not a request. You knew better. You knew this wasn’t about boredom. This was about ruin, and you were already halfway volunteered.

She moved like her body remembered every fight it ever won. Covered in ink and half-regret, she sat down like furniture should feel lucky. Thighs spread just wide enough to shut down small talk. One of her tattoos blinked when she breathed, truth!

She didn’t ask if you were taken. She knew. She could smell loyalty the way wolves smell weakness. And she liked both.

Her fingers slid up your neck like they were climbing a bad decision. You didn’t stop her. That would’ve required spine. And besides, you’d already handed yours over the moment she smirked at your nervous laugh like it was foreplay.

She kissed you without precision, like someone who’d kissed better men and cared less every time. Her mouth was laced with unresolved arguments, lipstick like war paint from the last lover she left sobbing into their own shirt.

Your belt buckle surrendered with a single glance. She didn’t undress you so much as strip away the idea that this meant anything more than now. And maybe not even that.

Her body didn’t ride you, it dismantled you. Every curve, every drag of her nails, every exhale that said she was somewhere between heaven and “fuck it.” She bit down on your lip like it owed her rent. And when she moaned, it wasn’t for your ego. It was for the god she stopped believing in two bodies ago.

You tried to keep pace. But her rhythm? It was chaos in stilettos.

When she came, she didn’t scream. She laughed, low and wicked. Like she’d broken something in you and found it amusing.

Then, she stood. Pulled her shirt down, no rush, no apologies. Adjusted her bra like a gladiator buckling armor.

“You’ll lie about this,” she said, already walking away, “but you’ll think about it when you shouldn’t.” The door clicked shut behind her. Not gently.

Not violently. Just… finally.

You stared at the empty glass in your hand, wondering when you had poured it, wondering what she had stolen. Wondering why the room still smelled like her audacity.

Somewhere, something dripped. Maybe it was your sanity. Perhaps it was her.

Probably both...

- JSPC ] Street Artist of Wanton [

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