We Did It
by Lauren Emily Whalen
OMG, we’re totally gonna do it.
That’s the thought going through my head as I stand in Chandler’s bathroom after my shower, staring at myself in the mirror, clad in her pajamas. It is super juvenile.
Though they say queer people sometimes go through a second puberty, so maybe this is an appropriate reaction. I don’t know. What I do know is that I was just naked and wet in the same place where my crush is naked and wet every day. What I do know is the white tank I’m wearing is worn so thin I can see my nipples popping out. What I do know is the look she gave me not fifteen minutes ago, right after we finished the last task on our to-do list, was pure, unadulterated let’s fuck.
Unlike me, Chandler has “done it” with women. And at least in my head, they’re all prettier than I am. Way more experienced, too. By which I mean I imagine they’ve all had more than a few fumbling kisses with girls back in college. But didn’t everyone do that? Otherwise, the extent of my sexual expertise has been a series of lustful gazes I struggled to keep hidden as I figured myself out. Which isn’t easy when you’re in your early thirties and still shaking off the early aughts, when smooching other women was okay for attention in bars (ideally with visible tongue) but otherwise not, unless you were ready to rent a U-Haul and swear off men forever, which I wasn’t.
Though after what just happened, maybe I should rethink that.
Breathe. In. Out. Focus on what’s around you, Shay.
I wash my hands once more and the heat of the water stings slightly but grounds me. I breathe in expensive lavender soap, the hand version of the shower gel I just used. “Lavender is calming,” Chandler said earlier tonight, lighting a candle in preparation. I touch my nose to the soft material of Chandler’s white tank: lavender detergent. Even her towels are lavender-colored. Maybe when I step out of this room and into a new world of queer sex with the hottest woman I’ve ever seen, I’ll finally blossom, too.
Outside the door, I hear evidence of Chandler’s sex prep. Chappell Roan emanates from the speakers: “Casual,” my favorite, which I’d put on the jukebox the night we ran into each other. So sweet and sad but lusty too, an effortless journey through angsty notes. The music floods my body, heat rises into my bare face, and I realize the crotch of my borrowed pajama pants is wet.
This is all so…sudden.
I’ve never been alone with Chandler, and I know we don’t have to do anything. “Enthusiastic consent is important,” she told me, her hand soft on my forearm and her brown eyes meeting my blue. “You’re safe with me.” But still, we hardly know each other. We’re not even friends yet, just mutual acquaintances through one of those weird networks you become a part of when you move to the city, college friends and former lovers and ex and current bandmates all making up one big millennial blob just trying to figure it all out. Yes, we’ve locked eyes across sticky bars, downing sickly sweet cocktails at this or that person’s gig. Is that enough for my body to pulse with desire as I stand here in her pajama pants, sniffing her soap?
What exactly am I doing here?
And why am I fantasizing about Chandler using the fireplace poker on me a whole different way than she did just before?
“Shay?” Chandler’s voice cuts through the bisexual chaos in my head. “Are you okay in there?”
Swallowing my fear, I check my fingernails one last time (thank you, queer Instagram, for reminding me to file them down). I nod to the empty air and push open the bathroom door.
Miles and miles of legs greet me in the living room, followed by an elegant torso, sculpted arms, and the most inviting smile I’ve ever seen. Her nightgown isn’t overtly sexual, simple silk with spaghetti straps, but the deep aqua draped over every slim curve contrasts with her light brown skin, dark curls, and thick black eyelashes like an insane oil painting. Her rose velvet fainting couch that she got at Goodwill is an altar to sex. I barely notice the still-soaked carpet under my bare feet.
If I was wet before, I’m positively swimming now.
What if I don’t measure up? I mean, I’m a whore for buffets, and Chandler’s stretched out in front of me like one that has extra ranch dressing, neon-orange nacho cheese on tap and a soft-serve machine. So like, literally, where do I start?
“Um.” I clear my throat. “Nice nightie.” Good one, Shay. The world’s biggest understatement just came out of your mouth. She’ll def want you now!
Chandler sits up. I can now see a little bit of tummy pooching out from her nightgown, which automatically renders her more human and less sensual goddess of intimidation.
“Too much?” she asks. We both laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m nervous too. And you’re the cute one here, Shay.” She looks me up and down, wet hair and pj pants and all, and pats the couch. “Come sit on the queerest sofa ever.”
And I do. I even wipe my feet on a dry spot of carpet, like the good girl I am.
“I’m going to keep asking this: are you okay?” There’s genuine care in her brown eyes.
“Um.” Great response, Shay. The confidence of it all. Then Chandler brushes back one strand of my damp hair. The heat of her fingertips against the side of my face and that soft spot under my ear undoes me in the best possible way.
I’m not sure what this single night will turn into, if anything at all. But what I realize, gazing into her eyes on this velvet sofa and warming to her touch, is that I am okay. It might be a bit scary at first—even compared to what happened earlier—but I trust her.
“Yes.” My voice comes out stronger than I expected. “Just a little tense.”
“Well,” Chandler replies, and I swear her voice gets deeper, huskier. I find myself scooting closer without meaning to—if I were a skosh more confident I’d pull her onto my lap. “I know a way you could relax.” She bites her lip. “Shay, can I kiss you again?
I nod.
Our lips touch, and I taste strawberry ChapStick, my favorite flavor. Chandler’s hand starts on my shoulder and slides to the back of my neck, massaging it lightly in a way that feels so good I moan and open my mouth wider. As our tongues tangle, then dance, sliding back and forth, I savor the new taste: a sharp combination of tangy metal with an undertone of salt.
I have the irrational sensation that Chandler tastes red.
I giggle into Chandler’s mouth and she pulls away. Her pupils are dilated and her swollen lips grin at me. “What’s funny?”
“Have you ever seen A Christmas Story?” My words rush out. I tuck my hair behind my ears just to give my hands something to do.
“Oh yeah.” She looks charmed rather than weirded out, so I feel okay going on.
“So when I tasted you just now,” I rush, my face flushing, “I thought of when they triple dog dare that kid to put his tongue on that metal pole in the freezing cold. But um…sexy.” We both giggle now. Chander reaches for my knee, stroking the kneecap in a way that makes me even wetter.
We kiss. And kiss. And kiss. I want more metal, more salt, more strawberries, more. I could leave now and this would be the most erotic night of my life.
But I don’t want to leave.
After five minutes or five years, Chandler pulls away, her fingers playing with the hem of my top and a question in her eyes. I nod, and she pulls it over my head, and inhales sharply at the result.
“Oh my god, Shay,” she says, and now she’s the one who sounds nervous. “You know you have perfect tits, right?”
I could tell her how these tits have been asshole magnets since I was twelve years old. I could tell her about the accidental grazes from the upperclassman stage manager when I worked on theater crew freshman year in high school, and how he knew I was too shy to protest. I could tell her that if one more fucking man uses the phrase “big naturals” in or out of bed, he won’t survive till morning.
Instead, I thread my fingers through her silky curls and gently guide her head to my breasts.
Chandler grins up at me. “I’m assuming guys don’t know what to do with these.”
“Other than squeeze them and make honking noises?” I wish I were joking. “Nope.”
Chandler guides us horizontally so I’m lying below her, and uses her mouth and hands to go to town on my breasts. She licks. She sucks. She strokes. I’m drenched, and I’d beg her to touch me down there, just once, so I can come, but that would require the power of words which I currently do not have. The pink velvet is more prickly than I anticipated under my bare skin but that tiny bit of pain just…works.
Finally, she comes up for air and rests her head on my chest. I take a deep breath. “A guy has never done that to me.”
Chandler moves up to my neck, nipping it lightly before murmuring in my ear, “what else would a guy never do, Shay?” My name sounds so good in her pretty mouth.
“Go down on me properly, oh,” I say as Chandler nips my earlobe. She lifts her head to look at me and I shake my head. “That was a good oh, don’t stop. Remember how we used to dry hump as teens, or at least I did because I didn’t want to get pregnant? Why don’t guys just like, grind anymore? It feels so fucking good.” That’s all it takes for Chandler to spread her legs so our bottom halves are lined up. She’s not wearing panties and neither am I. Before I completely lose myself I blurt out, “you, naked?” or something equally caveman-like.
“Yes,” she murmurs in my ear, and I peel off her nightie. She sits up, straddling my hips, and shit, talk about perfect tits with beautiful brown nipples I want to suck on all night. Best of all, I can feel the wetness from her core. She’s practically dripping.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m ready for anything.
I just need to get one more confession off my (apparently perfect) chest.
“I’ve never done anything beyond vanilla,” I tell Chandler, trying and failing not to stare at her insane body.
Chandler laughs, all throaty and hot. “Shay, my love”—I blush— “we’re way beyond vanilla at this point.”
“True. But…” I take a deep breath, this is a big deal. Chandler’s gaze returns to mine. “I’ve never fully trusted any guy to um, go further.”
I don’t know what I expected, but certainly not for Chandler to hug me. I could pass out from the sheer sensation of our torsos fully skin to skin, but I savor her sweet, sincere voice in my ear. “Do you trust me, Shay?”
We both glance at the floor in front of the couch, then back at each other. I say yes.
Chandler squeezes me one more time, then touches her forehead to mine, a sly smile on your face. “Do you want your pants off?”
“Fuck yes.”
I don’t even remember how I get naked. All I know is Chandler wrestles me to the floor and we’re both fully bare on her soft shag rug. She’s on top, then I am, then she is again, then me. She’s grinding her wet pussy against my leg, I’m kissing her breasts, sucking those sweet brown nipples, and lightly running my nails down her back to squeeze her round, firm ass. We keep returning to each other’s mouths, deeply sharing the lingering tastes of metal and salt and strawberries as lavender from her candles wafts through the air and Chappell trills about finding just where you belong. I’m wet all over, not just there, but from the damp spots on the carpet, my own sweat, and Chandler’s, and it all feels so fucking good.
I hear a crash and realize Chandler’s knocked over her coffee table, then go back to tonguing her neck. What’s a table, anyway? Now we have more room to play.
“Chandler,” I choke out, as she rolls on top of me again. “I need to come.” I don’t say it out loud, but this is another thing that rarely happens with men.
“What do you want, Shay?” I’m about to repeat myself, but Chandler raises an eyebrow, challenging. “I said,” and she punctuates this with the lightest of smacks to the right side of my face, “what do you want?”
I manage to get out in a high, thin whine, “Finger me. Please?”
Two fingers plunge inside me, her thumb only whispers against my clit, and I come so hard I black out.
When I come to, we’re lying together, sweaty, the smell of me mixing with the candle. I’ve never come that fast, and now I want to return the favor. I straddle Chandler.
“Can I go down on you?” I whisper. Desire and fear run through me—I’ve definitely never done this before. Chandler grins, nods, and slaps my ass so hard I almost come again. I kiss down her body, her breasts, her beautiful torso, and then she speaks.
“We really should thank Josh for bringing us together.”
I rest my chin on her stomach and put on a fake-stern face. “Hey. Focus. I’m about to eat pussy for the first time, it’s impressive.”
She laughs, a deep chuckle I wish I could box up and give to our grandchildren. “I’m serious. He has good taste.”
Our eyes slide to the foot of the couch and we both smirk.
Returning her focus to me, Chandler cocks her head out to the side. “Finger me first, please? Start with one, work up to two, then use your mouth?”
Without breaking eye contact, I suck on my index finger and slide it inside Chandler. Her walls clench around me, insistent as I move gently in and out. She moans at the intimate act, the desired invasion, and I slowly withdraw, and lick her off of me.
“You like this,” Chandler observes.
“Like is an understatement,” I murmur, licking her off my top lip.
“But Shay?”
“Yeah?”
With an innocent grin, Chandler says, “You missed a spot.”
She tips her chin and I move up, straddling her torso once again. I’m leaning down to kiss her, feel her tongue against mine, her erect nipples brushing my chest, when she grabs my hand and sticks it in a warm pool just to my right. Chandler uses my hand to touch my body, sliding fresh blood down the side of my face she slapped not long ago, down my sensitive and tingling breasts, and my stomach.
“Oh,” she says, gazing up at me, her personal work of art. “Beautiful.” The tang of metal is even stronger now that it’s smeared on my body, vibrant scarlet against my pale skin. Blood’s redder than you’d think. I look down at my torso, decorated with the thick, metallic fruits of our labor, and I’ve never felt more beautiful.
“You really like it?” I whisper. My pussy tingles and I’m wet all over again. Dripping, just like the blood on my tits.
Chandler sits up, shifting me to her lap, and slowly, carefully, licks the blood off my chest. When she finishes, she giggles, white teeth stained red. “I do.”
We laugh and kiss and laugh and kiss some more, as Josh’s corpse, throat slit ear to ear, bleeds out next to us.
Chandler and Josh appeared last week at a mutual friend’s gig. I hadn’t seen either of them in a minute, no one had. But I definitely saw the bruises around Chandler’s neck, bruises that no makeup could cover. Or maybe she was just too tired to hide them.
Josh kept his arm around her as he happily jawed and bullshitted the crowd, winning them over with his Oscar-worthy performance of a personality. His eyes were bright in the dim bar lights. Chandler’s were dull and downcast, her shoulders slumped.
I kept my distance from Josh, but then I saw Chandler beeline to the women’s room.
I didn’t have to pee, but I went into the stall next to hers, holding my nose and watching her Doc Martens. I heard only a small, choked sob. She flushed and I did too. When we came out, our eyes met in the smudged mirror over the sink.
“Hi.” My voice echoed off the empty walls. “I don’t know if you remember me—”
“Shay.” She smiled slightly: the first expression I’d seen all night other than pure resignation. “I’ve missed seeing you out.”
My heart fluttered, but it wasn’t about me right then. “Can I show you something?” I asked. She nodded, and I pulled out my phone, scrolling back two months to the images I took just for me, just in case, just to remind myself of evil in the world. In men.
Chandler’s eyes widened when she saw the photos of a bruise circling my entire right wrist. Mostly brown and purple, because I’d taken the pictures when it was still fresh, just minutes after. I remember thinking thank god I’m a lefty, what if I couldn’t hold the phone?
Her plump, lovely mouth was now a straight line as her eyes met mine. “Josh?”
I nodded, then held up my now healed wrist, bedecked with a wide bronze cuff bracelet. “I speed-ordered this off Amazon right after I took the pics. I didn’t want anyone asking questions.” What I didn’t say: I still wore the cuff, to remember.
You’ve heard about the Nice Guy, right? The one who’s not really nice, but by the time you learn that, he’s fooled you into the illusion and can get away with all kinds of shit. To me, Josh was the Safe Guy. The one who talked about what a dork he was in high school, especially around the pretty girls he respected, because he grew up with sisters. The one obsessed with comic books and superheroes (before it was cool, of course). The one with Black Lives Matter and Women’s March pins on his backpack who was always showily supportive of his queer and trans friends.
Motherfucker, I bought into the act.
I wasn’t with Josh for very long. He hadn’t played the wooing game with me. It was more of a fling on the verge of becoming something…until he’d tried to make me stay at his apartment one night. I giggled, said no, I knew how hot I was, but I had an early meeting for real, I wasn’t just making an excuse. He guffawed and insisted using the “aren’t I so goofy and cute?” way he had.
Back and forth we went, his eyes going darker, the laughs fading on both sides, until he shoved me against the wall. Grabbed my wrists, held them over my head. Squeezed the right one and twisted. Hard. He wasn’t a big guy, but there was brute force. He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d surely done it before.
I screamed, loud enough that the thin apartment walls practically rattled. It must have shocked Josh, because he let go long enough for me to twist the doorknob free and bolt down the stairs, down the street, into the nearest drugstore where I felt okay to call an Uber home. Thank god I’d had my purse over my arm already.
Maybe he tried to apologize, to win me back, I’ll never know. I blocked him everywhere while still standing in the candy aisle, studying M&M labels through blurry tears and waiting for my ride. In the dark of the car illuminated by streetlights, I saw the bruise taking shape.
I never told anyone. Tried to rationalize that maybe it wasn’t a big deal, he was just a horny straight guy who got a little overzealous. Tried not to feel completely ashamed that I let him violate me.
Failed.
Until that night in the shitty bar bathroom when Chandler’s eyes met mine. I could see her beautiful face change from shocked, to sad, to steely. Just below her face, the bruises beckoned to me. Heal us.
We started texting that night: her while Josh snored in her bed, me blissfully alone in my double-locked apartment. And the story came out.
The first thing Chandler texted me was that she didn’t date cishet men. Not even Josh, her friend since college who’d always had a crush on her. Until he wore her down, with her favorite coffee DoorDashed to her office when she was having a shitty day, with platonic movie nights sans the superheroes she hated, with playlists and cute texts and all that shit that’s not supposed to work but usually does.
Eventually Chandler, who’d had plenty of girlfriends and theyfriends and friends with benefits but never a boyfriend, said yes to Josh.
At first, she vented, the red flags looked like pink hearts. Josh wanted all of her time, but as he said, she’s Chandler, she’s amazing, who wouldn’t? He’d get a little jealous of emails or texts or DMs from the various exes and former lovers, the vast majority of whom were still in her life. But hey, she thought, he’s straight, he doesn’t quite understand how queer dating works and how a lot of it ends in friendship or at least social media likes. He started to get into kink, but Chandler was kinky herself. And sometimes he got a little rough, and didn’t quite hear the no. She could educate him, clue him in on boundaries, fill the gaps left by the patriarchy. She was Chandler, after all, and she was confident she could set him right.
Except that didn’t happen, she said. Early relationship clinginess descended into control. Soon she never spent a night alone. Jealousy descended into slut-shaming, which is so hard to tune out when it’s coming from someone who says he loves you and wants you to be safe in a society that burns sluts at the stake. Consensual (or “at least he’s trying boundaries”) kink devolved into Josh domming Chandler when she didn’t want it, disregarding safe words, calling her a dyke/bitch/whore when she said no, and increasingly, choking her out until she forgot who and where she was.
Chandler felt herself disappear, fade away, to the point where she would look in a mirror and startle when she saw her reflection. She startled a lot when she was with Josh. Horror movie-style jump scares that weren’t any fun.
I thought he was different, she texted me, a blue wall of confessions. He TOLD me he was different. And I believed him, and I made excuse after excuse until he almost killed me. He could kill me still, Shay. It’s so fucking cliché…he said no one would believe me, because everyone knows I like it rough. He says everyone because I’m such a slut.
She deleted as we went. Saved my info under Tampon Delivery, because we know how shitty straight guys feel about the T word. Only a few days in did she write:
He got so far in my head, I couldn’t find my thoughts anymore.
It was then we moved on to phone calls, then burners, to hammer out the details.
Josh had inflicted himself on the both of us. We’d cried together over text, over phone calls in work bathrooms, and once at an out-of-the-way Starbucks when we’d held hands as our tears fell into our cinnamon dolce lattes. We’d looked into each others’ eyes as grief over lost trust and bruised skin slowly morphed into steely resolve.
But after we actually started plotting? Emotion went out the window. Not consciously, but when knives and fireplace pokers entered the chat, we shifted into work mode. Maybe we were just sick of crying over someone who had never deserved our tears, or anyone’s. Who, in fact, deserved to die.
I can tell you this for sure: if you ever want to lure a shitty man to your apartment—or even a good man, I’ll let you know when I meet one—promise him a FMF threesome.
Text him a suggestive selfie of the two of you sitting on her bed, her hand resting on your knee, your head on her shoulder. If you are me, ignore the goosebumps that arise when her soft fingers touch your skin, and try not to bury your face in her neck. Look straight into her phone camera and open your mouth, not like he used to when he snored at night, but just slightly, wetly, hinting for a kiss, as if you’d want his slug of a tongue in your mouth again. Bonus accessories for this selfie: a hint of cleavage on you, which isn’t hard to accomplish with your rack; lace-up knee-high boots on her; short skirts on you both, flashes of creamy and tawny thighs.
And text him the kicker: we’re not wearing panties.
When he shows up at her place faster than you can say “hard-on”—which is very much on display as she opens the door—put on another show for him. A suggestion: her arms around your waist from behind, lips just barely grazing the side of your neck. (Try not to melt into a puddle because she’s seducing you, the plan is to seduce him. Focus.)
Hide your complete and utter glee when she leads him into the living room and promptly plops on the couch next to you, your legs and sides and arms touching, then slings one of her long-ass legs—boots still on even though in normal circumstances she has a shoes-off household because she’s not a monster—over yours. Try not to smile when he comes to join the two of you, but she points at the floor, and he obeys a woman for once in his pathetic life. Try not to burst out laughing at how easy men are when his eyes bug out of his head cartoon-style. Take your cue when she whispers in your ear, lips brushing yours in a way that makes you shiver:
“Now.”
“Drinks?” you chirp. Head into the kitchen as you listen to her trill of a laugh at yet another one of his terrible jokes. Seriously, how did either of you find this guy charming? Grab the uncorked bottle of Cabernet, his favorite because he’s seen Sideways one too many times, and pour two small glasses, one for you, one for her. His glass requires a bit more preparation: two crushed-up Rohypnol.
Try not to feel guilty about this. Remember the rumors that circulated last year, that he’d roofied that girl who used to work at the record shop, before she moved back to Minneapolis to be with her family and how he’d laughed it off, calling her “crazy.”
Sip your wine. Pretend to flirt. Watch him get relaxed, so much that he slams down the glass and hollers “Another!” like Chris Hemsworth in Thor without any of the charisma. Don’t roll your eyes. Force a laugh, refill his glass, add another crushed pill while you’re at it. Just in case.
Watch her face. The sultry smiles she’s clearly forcing. The subtle tension in her neck and shoulders. The way her forehead scrunches—how you long to smooth out those wrinkles, hold her, reassure her it will all be okay, even though you don’t know if it will. Because how many others like him are out there?
Remember that night at the bar, those bruises circling her neck.
Slink behind him and massage his shoulders. Do not openly cringe when he says “mmmm” loudly, performatively. Wait for the next signal: her eyes, trained on him like the most fascinating person in the world, the person he believes himself to be, meet yours with a message as clear as if she’d spoken out loud. NOW.
OMG, we’re totally gonna do it.
“So, ladies, are we gonna fuck or what?”
That’s all you need to hear before you pick up the conveniently placed antique fireplace poker, sourced last week at Goodwill, and bash in his fucking skull.
You don’t see his face as he falls forward and you smash, and smash, and smash your anger out. Be prepared: know this anger isn’t just about him. It’s about every man who squeezes, pinches, drugs, assaults, hits, insults, negs. It’s about every man.
Thwack.
Sharp poker hits soft brain matter. Over and over and over again.
Meanwhile, she has removed the knife from her boot and is stabbing him with the same force as you’re hitting. She has her own anger. Her own reasons.
The two of you could go all night, the overkill spoken of on true crime shows you never understood until right now, until she says your name and you look up.
“Can I kiss you?” she asks, still panting, sweaty and bloody and so beautifully alive.
You nod.
Your careful coif is now a tangly mess, hanging in your blood-spattered face as you breathe hard. You’re a final girl in a horror movie. And this kiss, all wet tongue and metallic red above a fresh corpse, feels better than any orgasm you’ve ever had.
Surprisingly, your man of a thousand words didn’t make a sound. No screaming. No protests. Maybe he was too taken by surprise, maybe your first blow was just that powerful. For once and for all, he has finally, finally shut the fuck up.
He’s a bleeder. Even before she started stabbing, in the heart and the stomach and just to make a point, in the back, the pool has begun to spread across the cheap beige carpet that’s de rigueur in city buildings. And when she turned him over and slit his throat, a perfect line across the voice box, it’s only a matter of time before he is literally, completely drained.
It’s done.
The two of you break apart. A quirk of a smile, promising everything you’ve ever wanted, accompanies her decree: “Go shower.”
***
“Shay?”
Chandler’s throaty voice guides me back into the present. I’m still straddling her lap, but there’s concern in her eyes. “You okay?” she asks, then smiles. “I told you I’d keep asking.”
His eyes are, mercifully, closed. My eyes meet hers, and I feel no guilt. I’m steady. I’m alive. I’m free.
And I’m very hungry for her pussy.
“I just want to make you come,” I tell Chandler, and she moans her assent. I reach my hand back into the blood, and I mark my lover, her perfect breasts and mile-long torso and lovely face with the brilliant mind that thought out the best solution to the worst problem. As I use my fingertips and my palm to coat Chandler with blood, she bucks her hips under mine, her core dripping, waiting for me to lap it up. “You’re such a good girl,” she breathes, and I’m tingling and on the verge.
I know we didn’t save the world. Abusive men are like goddamn whack-a-moles—even when one is struck down, five more pop up. But this abusive man will never hurt me, or Chandler, or any woman ever again.
And all because he wanted a threesome.
Metal never tasted sweeter as I kiss down Chandler’s torso, using my lips and tongue to tease her, flick her belly button and finally, finally suckle her bud of a clit as I slide two fingers inside her and she bucks her hips, begging for more and more and more until she screams her release on the soft carpeting drenched with blood.
We did it.
YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF THE CHAIN.
Come back every Tuesday… if you dare.
About the author
Lauren Emily Whalen is the author of I HEART JENNIFER COOLIDGE (Running Press/Hachette, 2024), as well as the novels TOMORROW & TOMORROW (a scary-sexy New Adult Macbeth retelling cowritten with Lillah Lawson), TAKE HER DOWN, TWO WINTERS and SATELLITE, and the nonfiction books DEALING WITH DRAMA and CELEBRITY BIOS: MARGOT ROBBIE. She is a contributor to GO Magazine, Queerty and BookPage. Lauren lives in Chicago with her black cat, Rosaline, and never misses an A24 film. Say hi on Instagram @laurenemilywrites.
oh my god, i had no idea what to expect from this and as soon as the blood puddle happened i was like did i miss something?? but no, god this was amazing!!!