Tension Rise
Tension Rise
~Lyra~
**Next Morning**
The next day came way too fast, and I was supposed to start school. And honestly? I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t even close to ready. But phew this is the last grade. I woke up to the annoying beeping of my alarm and stared at the ceiling for a full five minutes, wondering if there was any possible way to fake my own
death and skip this day entirely.
My chest felt heavy, my body still sore in places I didn’t even know could get sore, and my brain was
screaming
“Nope” before I’d even gotten out of bed. I just lay there, tangled in sheets that still smelled like sweat, s*x, and Damon, trying to gather the strength to function like a normal teenager and not a freshly–ruined, emotionally unstable little w***e who got her world rocked the night before.
To make things worse, my mum sent me a f*****g email. Not a simple “Good luck” text or a cute voice note. No. An actual long–ass email.
The kind with a motivational quote and emojis and a paragraph talking about how proud she was of me.
She said she hoped I’d learn a lot, stay focused, and be strong in my “young woman journey.” I almost
laughed.
Actually, no, I did laugh. Out loud. Because if only she knew that her daughter had spent the entire night being pinned, choked, knotted, and f****d half to death by her best friend’s father, she would’ve sent a damn priest, not a prayer–filled email.
Do I want to go to school today? No. Not even a little. Not even a tiny, delusional part of me is excited about walking into that building.
And the reason is very simple. Tasha. Tasha goes to that school. She’s not just in the school – she’s in my class. And yeah she f****d my ex. So we are it best friends anymore.
Come to think of it, I’ll have to sit in the same room with her, see her face, hear her talk, and pretend like l didn’t just moan her father’s name until I lost my voice.
I’ll have to act normal, like I didn’t spend last night with my legs in the air and my throat being f****d and my mind being turned inside out by the man who gave her life.
And the idea of sitting in that classroom, just a few feet away from her, while my p***y still twitches at the thought of what he did to me, is actually making me nauseous.
But I have to go. I don’t have a choice. I can’t avoid her forever, and I can’t exactly tell the school counselor, “Sorry I can’t attend today, I got dicked down by my best friend’s dad and I’m still emotionally unstable.” So I’m going. Reluctantly. Slowly. Dragging my ass out of bed like I’m headed to my own execution.
But here’s the twist. Despite everything – despite the dread and the awkwardness and the Tasha of it all I’m actually in a good mood this morning. I know that makes zero sense.
You’re probably thinking I’ve lost it, and maybe I have. But the truth is, I woke up with a little smile on my lips.
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Tension Rise
Because last night? Damon f****d the hell out of me.
No, seriously, I don’t just mean it was good. I mean it was life–altering, Back–breaking. Soul–shaking. I’m–still–seeing–stars kind of s*x.
He took me to hell and heaven and left me somewhere in between, tied up, crying, and begging for more. My body is still throbbing in the best way possible. My thighs are still sticky with dried slick. My entire existence has been rearranged, and I don’t even regret it.
So yeah, school sucks. Tasha is going to be there. I’m going to be stressed out, uncomfortable, and probably unable to make eye contact with anyone for more than three seconds without blushing.
But at the same time, I feel powerful. I feel chosen. I feel like I’ve been claimed in the dirtiest, most delicious way imaginable. I was the one he kissed. I was the one he tied up. I was the one he filled, over and over again, until my body forgot how to breathe.
He didn’t touch her. He didn’t even look at her the way he looked at me.
And maybe that’s wrong. Maybe that’s delusional. Maybe I’m a little too cocky right now. But I don’t care. Because while his fancy, lip–gloss–wearing, rehab–returning wife was downstairs pretending like she still mattered, I was the one moaning into a pillow, getting eaten out like it was his last meal.
I was the one with his tongue on my clit, his hands holding my thighs open, his voice calling me kitten like I was something holy. And that? That’s enough to get me through a hundred awkward school days.
So I’ll go. I’ll walk through those school gates with my head held high, my p***y still aching, and my heart beating just a little faster.
~~
I was halfway down the stairs, trying to walk like a normal person and not someone who had been split open and stretched wide for hours.
My thighs still ached with every step, my skirt felt too tight against my ass, and the last thing I needed this morning was some kind of soap opera encounter before breakfast.
But of course, the universe hates me.
Because the moment I reached the bottom step, I saw her.
Camilla.
Standing right there in the kitchen like she f*****g lived here. Which she did, technically, but still. It felt wrong. She was wearing tiny shorts. I mean tiny. Like bend–over–and–I’ll–see–your–womb kind of shorts,
Paired with a white camisole that hugged her surgically lifted t**s so tightly it looked like the fabric was begging for mercy.
Her legs were tanned and toned, and her hair looked like she had it blown out by a team of stylists before
dawn.
Like, ma’am, who looks that perfect at 8:00 AM? You just got out of rehab. Shouldn’t you be in a hoodie? Eating cereal straight out of the box? Maybe quietly regretting your life choices?
But no.
She was glowing. Like Botox–glowing. Like, “Hi I’m a MILF and I know it” glowing. And the moment she saw
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Tension Rise
me, her fake–ass smile stretched so wide I thought it might crack her face.
“Oh hi, dear!” she said, in that bright, sugary tone that instantly made my skin crawl. “Good morning!”
cleanut
I blinked. My fingers tightened around my bag strap. My stomach twisted like it knew a passive–aggressive
storm was coming.
“You must be Tasha’s best friend, right?”
I paused. I mean… was I? That felt like a stretch after everything that had happened. But I wasn’t in the mood to correct her or dive into the tragic tale of betrayal. So I just nodded once and forced a neutral smile.
“Yeah,” I said simply.
She looked at me. I mean looked at me. Her eyes dragged down my body, slow and judging, like I was some menu item she wasn’t sure belonged in the kitchen.
And then she said it.
The most unnecessary, out–of–pocket, audacity–dripping line of the century.
“She took the bus so I guess you’d catch up with her right?”
“And I must say You’re a little too thick for your age, don’t you think so?” she asked with a tilt of her head, like she was genuinely curious. “And that skirt is too short. It brings out your ass.”
I froze. For a second, I thought I misheard her. I genuinely thought my ears were malfunctioning because
there was no way this woman was slut–shaming me in Damon’s kitchen less than twelve hours after he ate my p***y like it was his last meal on earth.
“Huh?” I said, blinking like I’d just been hit with a frying pan.
She was still smirking. Still giving me that condescending once–over like I was some stripper who wandered into her Pilates class.
“What the hell is wrong with this woman?” I mumbled under my breath, more to myself than to her.
Then I straightened up. Tilted my chin. And let the sarcasm roll in smooth and strong.
“You are not my mum, ma’am,” I said, and I made sure to hit that ma’am with extra bite. “And it’s genetics. My mum has a big behind. So don’t feel intimidated.”
Boom. I said it. Loud and proud. And the look on her face? Priceless.
She scoffed like a villain in a teen drama. Tossed her perfectly curled blonde hair over her shoulder and let out the fakest laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Me? Intimidated by a kid?” she said, eyes narrowing. “Don’t make me laugh, child.
She didn’t stop there.
Of course she didn’t.
Because women like her never do. Women like her – the perfect, blonde, icy wife with the yoga body and the botoxed forehead – they always feel like they’ve got more to say. Like the world asked for their opinion. Like someone handed them a mic and begged for their judgment.
She folded her arms under her suspiciously perky boobs and tilted her head again like she was trying to figure out whether to insult me with sugar or spit.
Tension Rise
“My husband is around,” she said, voice suddenly low and sharp like broken glass under silk. “And I don’t want him seeing thick, fat asses and thighs from teenage girls walking around the house like it’s a
whorehouse.”
My jaw dropped.
Like, actually dropped.
I blinked at her so hard I saw stars. The sheer nerve of this b***h. She didn’t just imply I was throwing my
—
body around she flat–out called me thick and slutty like she doesn’t even know the same husband she just
called had his tongue halfway up my cunt not even twelve hours ago.
Oh. Oh. She really picked the right one today.
I straightened my spine, turned to face her fully, and gave her a slow, full–body scan with my eyes. Just like she did to me. My gaze dipped down to her microscopic shorts, then crawled up to her tank top, then back to her smug, lip–glossed face.
“Well, excuse me, ma’am,” I said, sweet as a f*****g blade dipped in honey. “I am not a teen. I am fully legal. And you’re the one wearing shorts, aren’t you? Or are you just jealous because you’ve got a flat ass and no amount of squats or surgery can fix that?”
Her face froze.
And I swear, for one brief, glorious second, I saw the real her flicker behind the glam – the insecure, bitter, washed–up version of the woman she used to be before the pills and the rehab and the cheating husband.
“Watch your mouth, you little-”
She lunged forward a step.
I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. I was vibrating with rage and adrenaline and the urge to slap that smug lip–gloss off her face, but I held my ground. Because I didn’t have to say another word.
His voice did the rest.
“Camilla.”
It was low. Dangerous. Familiar.
My head turned.
There he was.
Damon.
Standing right behind me. His voice sharp as a whip, his body blocking the doorway like a wall of heat and fury. His eyes locked on her, not me, and there was something in them – something lethal.
“Don’t you dare touch her.”
Royalty Writes
#Vote# Thank you all for your awesome votes. Lam beyond grateful for your support. I love y’all
