Lyrics to Looks That Kill by Motley Crue (1983)
The brown haired girl was beginning to hope...and that scared her. Every day, cradled in her boyfriend's arms or snuggling with his on his couch, his fingers running through her hair and the comforting sound of his heartbeat in her ear, she asked herself if it was real...or if he was only pretending. At first she thought, nay, knew it was the former, but as the end of the week approached, she wasn't sure anymore. She wanted his feelings to be real so badly that it made her sick, and she told herself that she was simply seeing what she wanted rather than what was. The way he looked at her, though, and how affectionate he was made that difficult to believe. In the beginning, she held his hand, now he held hers; when she was sitting at the dining room table talking to Leia and he passed by, he would put his hand on her shoulder and kiss the top of her head; when they cuddled, he would brush his fingertips up and down her arm; if she was standing and he came up behind her, he slipped his arms around her hips and hugged her tightly, fiercely, his lips kissing her neck softly, passionately. Their sex was different now. Slower, sweeter. He looked into her eyes and held her hand every time he came, and more often than not he said I love you at the moment of release...that always made her cum harder. She was weird, okay?
Over the weekend, he looked at Lyra with lust and longing when they were together, and he seemed uncomfortable, like he kind of wanted to be somewhere else. Not now, though; he was at ease with her, and if Lyra came into the room or sat next to them on the couch, he made no sign that he even noticed. Still, when this happened, she made it a point to kiss him deeply. Not because she wanted to show off (though she kind of did -how can you not want to show off something like Lemy?), but because she didn't know if she could take him looking at his sister the way he used to. Look at me...I love you. She realized on Thursday that she didn't have to; he was staring into her eyes when Lyra came in, and his gaze never once wavered.
On Tuesday, after he gave her the poem he wrote her, the one that made her tear up and almost weep, she told him You're good at this. She didn't mean poetry (though he was), she meant pretending, because when she read his words, she almost forgot that it wasn't real. That night, she put it in her scrapbook, and now it was the first thing she went to when she opened it, reading it again and again by dim lamplight and smiling to herself, but crying too because it was an illusion, just another happy dream like the many she'd spun over the course of her short life.
By Friday, though, she didn't think it was...God help her...she thought it was real, really and actually real. The first poem was her favorite, but there were others now, one for each day since. His handwriting was sloppy but beautiful, and sometimes she simply stared at it, memorizing every ridge, curve, and swirl of his script. When she wasn't doing that, she was looking at the pictures of them on her phone: Him with his arm around her, her kissing his cheek, them laying in bed, her head on his chest and a matching smiles on their faces.
He really loved her.
He really meant all the things he said about her being beautiful. He really meant it when he wrote:
As an angel on high
Her winged grace
Love in my eye
And splendor upon her face
This wasn't pretending...it couldn't be. God, she didn't want it to be; he was her light in the dark, the clouds beneath her feet, the sunshine that warmed her cold and tired flesh. He already meant everything to her, and she wanted to be his everything too.
Part of her held onto the notion that it wasn't real, that he was simply tolerating her the way she suspected her friends did, the way she knew her mother and stepfather did. Maybe he just wanted sex, or maybe he kept her around to stroke his ego. She couldn't say. It wasn't rational, maybe, but who could really love her? She was stupid and ugly, she messed everything up and no matter how hard she tried to make people happy, they always hated her. She had something, some trait or primal scent, that alienated them...she must.
Looking into his eyes, though, those thoughts, that knowledge, crumbled. Maybe he had it too. Maybe they were outcasts both; they say there's someone for everyone, even someone like her, so maybe, just maybe, she'd found hers.
Was it real? Was it pretend? She didn't know, she thought it was the first, but she was terrified of letting go entirely, because no one had ever loved her before, and if she began to believe only to discover that it was just her imagination again, she wouldn't be able to handle it. She was fragile...her heart was fragile. She tried to build a wall around it, but she messed that up too, and everything got through...every one of her stepfather's words, every one of her mother's disgusted sighs and eyerolls. It was weak, battered and backed into a corner. One good punch - from a love that wasn't love at all - would shatter it. This was her one chance at love; beyond it lie only emptiness, loneliness, and the knowledge that she was cursed, doomed to be forever hated and shunned even if she did everything she could to be accepted and loved.
She would do anything to keep the feelings he woke in her, anything to make him happy, to see the warm light in his brown eyes and to feel his tender kisses, his loving touch. She would be anything for him, give him anything, take anything from him just so long as it meant he kept loving her. That might sound desperate...but she was desperate; she was a woman drowning in dark seas, and he was her life preserver. He was her world, and nothing else mattered.
Presently, ten o'clock Friday night, she sat Indian style on her bed with the scrapbook on her lap and her back against the headboard. Dull yellow lamplight provided a nostalgic glow, and the sound of rain hissing in the street added a drowsy quality that would have lulled her to sleep had her mother and stepfather not been arguing. She was never comfortable (except when she was in Lemy's arms) but when they fought she was really uncomfortable, her heart throbbing like an abscessed tooth and her stomach twisting. On nights that they did this, she would sit or lie awake until the stormed passed, the danger was over, and even then sleep came hard.
It started at dinner, as it always seemed to - it was the only time they were in the same room together if you didn't count bed. He was upset because of her drinking, and she was mad because he wasn't minding his own business. Gwen lost her appetite the moment the first shot was fired, and sat awkwardly between them, her head down as though the words whizzing through the air were bullets capable of hurting her.
Which they were.
She finally gathered the courage to ask if she could be excused, but neither one acknowledged her presence, and she was too timid to get up on her own or to ask again. The words became more bitter, the tone higher. At last, she mustered enough bravery to get up and take her plate to the kitchen, and though the back of her neck tingled as if in expectation of a blow, none came. They completely ignored her.
Thank God.
Safely sequestered in her room, she took out the scrapbook and tried to lose herself in happy thoughts of Lemy and her father, but downstairs, the fight intensified: Something glass smashed against the wall, and she jumped a foot. That would be her mother: She was notorious for throwing mugs, vases, and glasses. She never hit anyone, and deep down Gwen suspected that she didn't really want to, she just wanted to make her point.
Were they arguing about her now? Did she do something wrong again? No, she told herself, it was her mother's drinking, but it always had a way of coming back to her. She tried to fight the dread curiosity bubbling within her, but she lost and risked getting up, opening her door, and leaning into the hall. She heard a tapestry of voices but could not make out words.
She had to get closer.
That might get her in trouble though. Mom and Winson didn't agree on much, but they both detested eavesdroppers. She made the mistake once of being too slow once, and mother found her sitting at the top of the stairs, her elbows propped on her knees, her face in her hands, and tears sliding down her cheeks. Get back to your room! This doesn't concern you. Mother looked her up and down as she spoke the last word; she injected it with such venom that Gwen sometimes still heard it as she drifted down into the shadowy corridors of uneasy sleep.
Was it worth the risk? She knew the topic of her would come up; did she really need to hear it for herself?
For a long moment she stayed where she was, one hand wrapped around the knob and the other resting on the doorframe, then she swallowed hard and crept to the head of the stairs. Up here it was dim, and light from the living room made strange and distorted shapes on the wall. She pressed herself flat against the wall and looked haltingly around the corner, the heel of her right foot leaving the ground. They were in the living room, their voices drifting from beyond the archway and into Gwen's ears.
"...alcoholic gutter trash," Winston snarled.
"Oh, go talk to those boys on Facebook you think no one knows about," mother spat, "homosexual."
"Shut your whore mouth."
Mother laughed evilly. Gwen could picture her standing in the middle of the living room with a glass of wine in one upturned hand like a woman enjoying a party. Even with the wrinkles on her face, the cold glint in her eyes, and the hateful twist of her mouth, Gwen thought she was beautiful, and she ached for her love.
"What's wrong, Winston, don't want anyone to know that you're gay?" The last word was a thick slur.
"I'm not gay, you filthy tramp. I also don't fuck nigger pool boys and come home pregnant."
Mother giggled. "No, you fuck teenage boys."
"I DON'T!" he roared, and Gwen jumped. "Keep it up, Margret, and I'm sending you to Betty Ford's and your mongeral daughter to a boarding school."
Gwen's heart tightened, then stopped when she heard his footsteps coming toward the stairs. Coming alive, she streaked back to her room, shut the door as softly as her panicked state would allow, and jumped onto the bed. A moment later, the door flew open and Winston stuck his head in. "Lights out," he snapped, and Gwen switched the lamp off as he withdrew, slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shook.
For a long time, she sat in the dark, his words ringing through her head.
Then she cried in the dark.
Click-click-click
Lemy threw his head back and sighed. He wasn't a computer guy (if it doesn't take transistor tubes, brah, I'm lost) but even he knew that the steady, rhythmic clicking coming from his laptop was basically a techno death rattle. Combined with the constant freezing and the blue screen he got when he booted it up earlier, that click meant one thing: Nigga, you 'bout to not have a computer. Lovely, just when I was about to download a bunch of zombie porn.
Joking. You know that shit really exists, though? He looked it up once just fucking around and saw this pic of a girl who was supposed to be a zombie giving some dude a bj. Only...she bit it off and all you could see was a stump gushing blood. LOL. Do people actually get off on that? What kind of sick fucking serial killer mindset do you have to have? Check it out, Imma pound it to some chick's guts hanging out. He could get kiddie porn - you're a pedo and flat chests do it for you, okay - he could even get beastiality (damn, Fido lookin' thicc), but blood and shit? Come on. Fucking perverts, man. Oughta string 'em up by their dicks and beat them with switches. You like jacking off to blood? Well, here's some blood, nigga, enjoy.
He sighed.
Forgive the gruesome imagery and inappropriate use of the 'N' word, he wasn't in a very good mood today - he didn't get to see Gwen after school, and...things kind of fell apart from there: He was grumpy, irritable, and his arms literally fucking ached to be around her. Strange, right? You ever feel that? I do, but maybe I'm a fucking weirdo. I don't know a lot, man, but I do know this: When you're young and in love, being apart from your girl (or guy) is the worst shit in the world. I'm restless, jittery...fucking can't sit still. I've been trying to watch this old ass movie for, like, an hour and I'm only fifteen minutes in because I keep getting up and walking around. It's fucking...man, it sucks.
Click-click-click.
And this bullshit right here isn't helping matters. How long until it craps out? A week? A day? An hour?
He drew a deep breath flopped his head forward: The screen was paused on some dude making a dumb ass face, kind of reminded of that old Nicholas Cage meme. You know, the sarcastic one? YOU DON'T SAY! He had that one saved on his phone, and if someone texted him something stupid he sent it to them. He did it to his mom once and she grounded him. Not cool, dude. Neither is that goddamn Skrillex haircut you got going on, but you don't see me having a cow. She was usually cool about stuff like that; she musta been on the rag that day. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk and nodded to the click like it was music. Man, I wish Gwen was here. She makes everything better. If she was here right now, sitting on his lap, his arms around her waist, hugging her tight, he'd watch this piece of junk Samsung shit the bed with a fucking smile.
Sigh.
This is why people get married, isn't it? Because being away from the one you love is torture? He used to think marriage was just something people did because whoops, you're pregnant. Now he got it - you married someone because you wanted them with you always the way he wanted Gwen. Realistically, it was a little early to even think about thinking about marriage, but he could totally dig the idea of them living together...falling asleep with her...waking up with her...he grinned so wide his face hurt.
Click-click-click.
He frowned at ugly-face-dude. Yeah...he wasn't gonna be able to focus long enough to watch a movie. Maybe some music? He was making his way through all the episodes of Pop-Up Video, this VH! Series where...nah, he didn't feel like doing that either. Did I already sigh? Yeah. Well, here's a double dose, motherfucker. Sigh.
I need to do something to get her off my mind. I -
His phone vibrated and he jumped; he snatched it up, and when he saw that it was an incoming call from Gwen, his heart did a backflip. He hit ACCEPT with a shit eating grin and lifted it to his ear. "Hey," he said.
"Hey," she replied. Her voice was low...thick.
Like she'd been crying.
Lemy's smile fell. "You okay?" he asked worriedly.
"I'm fine," she said,"I can't talk long, I just...wanted to hear your voice."
"You sure?" he pressed. It totally sounded like she cried recently, and it was like a buzz saw in his stomach.
"Really," she said. "How's it going?"
"Better...now," he said, and her giggle made his chest swell. "I'm glad you called, I really miss you."
On the other end fabric rustled as she presumably shifted. It was pushing eleven and he figured she was lying in bed, getting ready to go to sleep. "Really?" she asked, a questioning inflection in her voice.
"Yeah," he said and transferred the phone to his other hand, "I really wish you were here."
Gwen hummed. "So do I. You make me happy."
"You make me happy too. You're still coming over tomorrow, right?"
"Yep," she said.
Thank God. She already said she was, but he was kind of worried she'd change her mind or something. He did that a lot - she wouldn't text him right back and he'd get to thinking that maybe she came to her senses and decided fuck him or something. He wasn't used to being happy like this, you know? And he was just a little bit afraid of losing it. Maybe that made him needy or clingy, and that was kind of scary too because he didn't want to scare her off, you know?
He also didn't want to be some jealous, insecure asshole who got upset when she so much as existed in the same place with another guy because I'm a worthless loser and the first chance she gets to move onto something better she'll take it. That's why guys act that way; they have low self-esteem.
Just like him.
But he wouldn't be like that. She didn't deserve it; she deserved the best him he could be..in fact, she deserved much better than him.
"What time?" he asked.
Gwen didn't immediately reply. "Uhh..I don't know. Eight maybe? I'll call you when I'm on my way."
"Alright," he said. "What do you wanna do?"
"I want you to hold me." There was a needy note in her voice that made his heart ache.
"I want to hold you," he said earnestly. He wanted to hold her close and never let her go, to wrap his arms around her and cover the back of her neck in soft, loving kisses.
Don't ask about my bike, please.
She shifted again. "Hmmm, I can't wait. I'm gonna get off now. I love you."
"I love you too," he said.
"Dream of me?"
He smiled. "Every night."
"I'll dream of you too."
"I love you."
"I love you too, Lemy."
The line went dead, and he sat the phone on the desk with a sigh of contentment. It might sound cheesy as fuck, but her voice was like the sweetest music, angel song from the lips of beauty itself.
Hey!
I'll write her a poem! I already did one today, but I guess I'll do another; she'll get two tomorrow for the price of one. *Head tap* I'm like the Dreamcast, always thinking.
First I gotta piss, though.
Closing his laptop and killing the annoying ass click he'd forgotten about until now, he got up and went out into the hallway: Lizy was on her knees in the middle of the floor zooming a red monster truck back and forth. Her door was closed and the sound of moaning drifted forth, which told him Leia was spending time with Dad. "They kick you outta your room?" he asked archly as he passed.
"No," Lizy replied without looking up, "I was out here anyway. Leia was painting her nails." She stuck her tongue out. "Polish smells gross."
"Yeah," he agreed, "it does."
In the bathroom, he took that piss...then decided to hop in the shower. Why not? He had nothing but time to kill; he'd be too excited at seeing Gwen tomorrow to fall asleep nicely, so he was in no rush to go to bed.
Actually, the sooner he got to bed, the sooner he'd fall asleep, and the sooner he fell asleep, the sooner tomorrow would come. The sooner...oh, you get the picture. Falling asleep would be the hard part, but he could always burn. You know...he didn't wanna be some burn out fucking pothead or something, but weed was fuckng nice. Bad mood? Smoke. Can't sleep? Smoke. No appetite? Smoke. They say it cured cancer...he didn't believe that shit for a minute, but he did believe that it treated the symptoms. Then again, what the hell did he know? Ask Lisa, she'd probably have the answers. Well, male nephew unit, the curative properties of tetrahydrocannabinol...blah blah blah.
He snickered to himself. What was up with the way she talked, though? Okay, I get it, you're Einstein with a vag, but come on. I bet even he didn't speak like that. Look, Lisa was one of the smartest people on the planet, he wasn't denying that, but he kind of felt like she fronted, you know? Like she intentionally used the biggest, most obscure words just...I dunno...so she seemed smart? Wearing it on her sleeve basically?
Who knows. You can drive yourself crazy psychoanalyzing people.
Cutting the water he grabbed his towel, dried off, and then wrapped it around his waist. At the sink, he brushed his teeth, gargled with Scope, then picked up his clothes and went out into the hall, which stood completely empty now, save for the sound of music and smell of cigarettes from Lyra and Lupa's room.
At his door, he shifted the clothes to his other arm and turned the knob. Alright, motherfuckers, time to smoke some weed and -
"Hi, Lemy," Lola said seductively.
Liby turned the chair around, sat, and crossed her arms over the back. Lacy stood next to a lamp, its business end angled down so that the light shone full on Hector's face; his flesh was crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions, and his black hair was matted with sweat. A piece of black duct tape covered his mouth and his eyes were hazy with punch drunkenness. "You're tough," Liby said, "I'll give you that." She rested her chin on her hands and stared at him for a moment. "You're also stupid."
He blinked rapidly against the glare.
"Tell me what I want to know," she said, leaned back, and spread her arms, "and this will all stop."
He said something; the tape muffled it. She turned her head slightly and put her hand to her ear. "What was that?"
He repeated himself.
She looked at Lacy and nodded; the younger girl leaned forward and ripped the tape from his mouth; his lips were white and chapped. "Fuck you," he said.
Liby sighed. "Three days," she said, and got to her feet, "three days you've been here." She circled him like a shark circling a wounded seal, her fingers trailing along his shoulder. His head jerked to the side as he tried to follow her with his gaze. "In that time, you've told me nothing." She was behind him, now on his other side. Lacy watched with slight misease. She didn't like doing this, but her family hung in the balance, so she had to suck it up and do whatever it took to protect them. Liby was in front of him, squatting. She reached out and grabbed his face in her hand; his lips smooshed together. "Do you know how that makes me feel?"
Hector stared at her.
"Do you?"
He shook his head.
She pushed up to a half-stand, her face hovering inches from his. "It makes me angry. I am losing my patience with you." Her voice was low, menacing. If Lacy didn't like the torture, she really didn't like seeing Liby this way; her sweet, sexy sister did such a good job playing monster that it scared even her.
Hector stared daggers into her eyes. She released him and stood to her full height. "First, I ripped your fingernails out, then your toenails." That wasn't entirely true: She didn't rip all of them out. "I yanked three of your teeth out and made you swallow them. I singed the bottoms of your feet with a blowtorch. I shoved jagged slivers of wood under your remaining fingernails." A savage smile touched her lips as she listed the cruelties she had visited upon him; she looked like a woman recalling fond and naughty memories. "I've starved you, deprived you of sleep, cut you with a knife and rubbed salt in the wounds, I even forced you to eat baby shit." She tittered darkly and Lacy swallowed. "In other words, I've treated you very humanely. That ends now." She spun on her heels, crossed to the work bench against the far wall, and picked something up. She returned, and Lacy saw what it was: A simple, rusted razor blade. Hector's eyes darted from it to Liby; they displayed only mild concern.
Liby squatted again and brushed his cheek with the knife. "I don't like doing his, Heck. In fact, I'd much rather be upstairs watching television or snuggling with my girlfriend. And that fact that I can't because I have to be down here with you pisses me off to no end." She jerked the blade, and a crimson streak appeared on his face. He winced and sucked a sharp intake of air through his teeth. "Fuck you," he said, "I'm not saying shit."
No, he wasn't...yet. Liby grinned maliciously and gazed the blade down his chin, along the fabric of his jacket, tracing down, down. With her free hand, she grabbed his crotch, and his eyes widened. Got'cha. "I didn't want to do this, Heck, but you leave me no choice."
Gripping the tab of his zipper, she pulled it down. "W-What are you doing?" he stammered.
Lacy's jaw dropped and her heart started to race. "L-Lib, maybe this is -"
"...necessary," Liby said.
Hector cried out when she reached into his pants and pulled his dick out. "I can just cut it out or I can mutilate it first. Which should I do, Heck?"
The Hispanic threw his head back and thrashed from side to side. "Nooooo!"
Liby wrapped her fingers around it and hovered the edge of the blade over his piss hole. She looked up at him and tilted her head. "Let's see...I can split down the middle like a banana...or I can cut the head off and dump salt on it...or I can deglove it...ooooh, I like that option."
"Stop! Please!"
She squeezed it hard and he moaned.
Lacy licked her lips. "Lib...this is really fucked up."
"All he has to do is say the word," Liby said, "and I'll stop."
"Please, stop!"
Liby touched the blade to his urethra, cold steel brushing warm flesh. Tears were streaming down his face now and his lips quivered. His face was completely pale and his eyes were squeezed tight in horrible anticipation. "Are you going to talk, Heck, or am I sending Monoya your dick UPS?"
He shook his head slowly. Sigh. This guy was a fucking clam; how he wasn't singing like a canary two days ago, she would never know. "Last chance, Heck," she said, "if you don't talk by the count of three, I'm skinning it and then crushing your huevos."
Tremble. Shake. Cry.
But no talk.
"One," Liby said and bore down on the blade; he jumped and moaned. "Two…"
Lacy closed her eyes with such force that her face crinkled.
"Two and a half…"
Hector sobbed.
"Two and three quarters…"
Liby tightened her grip on both his dick and the knife. "Th -"
"Hey."
Liby and Lacy's heads both whipped up. Lucy stood at the bottom of the stairs, her hand resting on the bannister. She wore a simple black dress and white tennis shoes; her dark eyes peeked out from beneath her bangs. "What are you doing?"
"Help me!" Hector cried. "They're crazy!"
"Nothing," Liby said.
Lucy's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Bullshit," she said flatly, "you're torturing someone."
The two teens looked at each other, one with fear and the other with mild annoyance. Liby tuned her head to Lucy and slitted her eyes. "Yes," she said tightly, "we are. Is that a problem?"
For a moment Lucy didn't speak. When she did, there was an almost inperceptible lift to her voice. "Wicked. Can I help?"
Now listen up
She's razor sharp
If she don't get her way
She'll slice you apart
"I was wondering when you were going to be done," Lola said. She was sitting on his bed with the covers pooled in her lap. Her silky blonde hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid gold and her half-lidded eyes shone with lustful light. She wore thin pink negligee through which Lemy could totally see her nipples. They were pink, too, just as he'd always imagined, and stiff. In his admittedly limited experience, that meant that she was either cold or turned on, and brother, it was a toasty seventy-five in here. "I was about to come join you."
Now she's a cool, cool black
Moves like a cat
If you don't get her game
You might not make it back
Lemy swallowed thickly. His dick was twitching against the towel like a junkie ODing on the kitchen floor and his heart was starting to blast blast blast like Peter Wolf dancing in the dark. His grip on the knob tightened and his breathing tried to get away from him. Lola grinned and sat up straighter, her breasts pushing against the fabric of her dress and her head tilting slightly back, baring her smooth, velvety throat.
She's got the looks that kill
That kill
She's got the looks that kill
That kill
He was dumbstruck, brah. He knew Lola was interested, but actually seeing her in his bed with blushing cheeks and sin-filled eyes, evil little gap tooth smirk…
Now she's bulletproof
Keeps her motor clean
And believe me, you
She's a number thirteen
"Hey," he croaked dumbly.
Her smile widened and her eyes caressed him up and down. "Hey." Her gaze stopped at his crotch and her eyebrows lifted. "I see you brought a friend."
He glanced down: His boner tented out the front of the towel in a shape. Whatever that thing's called. His cheeks flushed and he coughed. "Yeah, we're, uh, we're close friends."
Lola hummed. "Can I meet him?"
That comment wasn't unexpected, but you never really get used to a girl wanting to see your dick, know what I mean? There's always a rush of...I dunno, emotions (?) - Holy shit, yes! is it smaller than she likes? Oh, man, I hope she's into scat; I have a girlfriend...
Lemy hesitated. He did have a girlfriend...a pretty fucking great one at that...one that he was head over heels for like a woman.
His dick faltered.
Lola leaned forward and laid her hands on her knees. "Can I see it?" she asked, then pouted, her bottom lip out and her eyes big and shimmery. "Please?"
She's lookin' louder and louder
She's gonna turn on our juice, boy
So she turns on the power
In his thirteen years of life, Lemy Loud had had many crises of consciousness, but none quite as severe as this. On the one hand, Lola - whom he'd been kind of into for, like, ever - was half naked in his bed and looking at his boner like a thirsty bitch in heat. On the other...Gwen.
But...Lola was family, right? That's different. Plus, Gwen was okay with him fucking Leia...and all of his other sisters, come to think of it. She said I don't mind. She'd probably be cool with him fucking Lola too. And, hey, he was reasonable: If she wanted to do someone else...fair's fair.
Only he didn't want her to do someone else; the thought of her with another guy (or girl) made him feel the way thinking of Lyra with Dad used to make him feel.
Lola licked her lips slowly, her eyes flashing with lust. She was on her hands and knees now, crawling forward. Gwen did the same thing the first time they did it: Her face was like Lola's, the same hunger, the same fire...but, and this may have been a false memory, there was something else...a vulnerability in her eyes and right now he wanted to reach into his memory, yank her out, and hold her close; soft kisses, gently hair strokes, the works.
Lola was before him now, still on her hands and knees, her misty eyes rolled up and pointed at his face. "Please?" He could smell her dank passion now, a wild musk underlying the scent of her perfume. His dick, which had started to deflate, caught a whiff and came roaring back with a jerk that made her breath catch. His body was starting to smolder with desire and his heart slammed painfully.
She was family...so it was okay.
Gwen said it was okay...so it was okay.
He stripped the towel off and let it drop to the floor. Lola's eyes widened and the corners of her lips turned up in a sharp smile of wicked delight. "Wow," she said and glanced up at him, "you're big."
"T-Thanks," he said and flashed a nervous smile. Dude, she's right there, looking at it, liking it, fucking wanting it, and I'm hard as fuck...why does it feel so...wrong? It's okay. Remember?
"Leia says that thing gets her off," Lola said and crawled closer; her hands were splayed on the edge of the bed now and her warm breath broke across his dick, making it shiver in anticipation. She flicked her eyes up. "But she's a little girl. I'm a woman. Can you get me off, Lemy?"
Lemy swallowed. "I, uh…"
She reached out wrapped her slender fingers around it. He shuddered as the pad of her thumb scraped across his sensitive head. A very AberrantScript like "Nngh~!" ripped from his throat.
"Can you...make me cum?" she asked and rubbed a deep, slow circle against his slit, her thumb smearing his leaking essence across his fevered flesh. She drew herself up to her knees, and Lemy's eyes followed her like magnants. She let him go, brought her thumb to her luscious pink lips, and curled her tongue around it with a low moan of gratification. "Can you make me sigh your name, Lemy?" She slipped her arms around his neck and dragged him to her quivering breast; her smell and warmth enfolded him, and her chest flattened against his. Her lips skipped across his cheek and her breath tickled his ear. "Can you make my toes curl...Lemy?" Her wet, slimy tongue lashed his earlobe, and he cringed.
He thought of Gwen, of her smile and the light in her eyes, of the way she felt in his arms and of the way her hair smelled - warm and fragrant, like Lola's but different...better.
Lola giggled and kissed the side of his throat. Her lips felt strange on his skin...maybe even a little...what's a couple steps down from repulsive? Not quite that bad but in the same area code. She ran her hands over his shoulders then down his chest, her shaking palms tracing and fondling his every curve and swell. Her breathing was ragged, her kisses hungrier, her fingers moving down his chest, now his stomach, inching closer to his dick. She trailed kisses along his jawline, her body hitching and her chest rapidly expanding and contracting.
Holy mother of shit, she was primed...dtf...horny af...whatever you wanna call it. His body should be burning up and he should be losing himself to passion...but it wasn't and he wasn't. Yeah, he was hard, but...he just...he didn't know, man, he just didn't.
She kissed the corner of his mouth as she reached his dick; her fingers stroked slowly along the top of his shaft. Her tongue darted out and prodded his lips like a rapist looking for a way through a window. He shivered, and not in pleasure. Yeah, I know, I've kissed girls before and it's great, but right now it's...gross?
Wtf? This is Lola, dude!
I know, but…
Her tongue pried apart his lips and shot into his mouth like an invasive species of worm or something; it skipped across his and probed the inside of his mouth, leaving a trail of warm, yuck ass saliva like Gary leaves a trail of snail slime. He kissed her back, but as he did, he thought of Gwen.
Lola broke the kiss and bit her bottom lip; her hand was around his length now, stroking. "How is this, Lemy?" she asked.
"G-Good," he lied.
She giggled. "You know what will feel even better?" she asked as she fluidly sank to her stomach.
Gwen?
"W-What?"
Her lust dazzled eyes narrowed. "My mouth." She gripped him tightly and bowed her head; when her lips closed over him and her head began to bob, he let out a shivery gasp. Lola...was sucking his dick...the first girl he ever really looked at, the first girl he ever wanted to fuck, his blonde, girly beauty queen aunt whom he'd dreamed of doing since he was nine. A week ago, he would have nutted himself the moment she gave him bedroom eyes, now…
He sighed and pulled away; his dick plopped out of her mouth and she looked up, her brows furrowing. "What's wrong?"
Instead of replying, he dropped onto the bed next to her and put his head in his hands. Lola shifted and sat beside him, her hand going to his shoulder. "What's wrong?" she asked softer this time, her voice filled with concern. Lemy looked up at her, she flashed a wan smile. "You okay? Did I do something wrong?"
"No," he said heavily, "you're just…" he looked away then back, "...you're not Gwen."
Lola's brow pinched, in what he couldn't say. "That girl you've been hanging out with?"
Lemy nodded. He expected her to be angry or upset, and he felt like shit for cucking her out, but instead of harsh words, she stroked his hair with tender affection. "Awww," she said sincerely, "you really like her, huh?"
Lemy nodded. "Yeah. I...I love her."
Lola softly caressed his cheek with the back of her hand. "That's really sweet," she said.
"I'm sorry," Lemy said, "I...I mean I kind of want to - you're hot as fuck - but I can't stop thinking about her and I just can't."
A pink blush painted her cheeks (at being called hot, so we're clear) and she slipped her arm around his shoulders. "Don't worry about it, kid. I understand." She hugged him close and kissed the side of his head. "If you ever change your mind, though," she whispered into his ear, "come see me."
Liby stood aside with her arms crossed as Lucy knelt next to Hector - he was completely naked and flat on his back with his hands bound behind his back and his ankles lashed to a pair of sawed off pipes jutting from the floor. They had to pull a few of his muscles to get his legs to spread that far, but he'd live.
The goth pulled the dog collar tight around his neck, and he grunted. "Can you breathe?" she asked.
"Barely," he croaked.
"Perfect," Lucy said and got to her feet. She looked at Liby, then at Lacy. The latter looked ill-at-ease, the former looked curious but doubtful. "Are you ready?" Lucy asked.
Liby nodded. "Go ahead."
Lucy's straight line of a mouth twitched up at the corners. She crossed to the workbench and picked up her weapon of choice, a black bullwhip with a studded tip. The tip was detachable, in case you wanted to spare your partner a little pain. "Your dad never lets me do this to him," she said and turned. Her dark, stormy eyes twinkled with a hellish light. "He's a baby."
She went over to Hector with swishing hips. He watched her warily, his tongue darting out to nervously wet his chapped lips; the whip dragged along the floor, making a scraping sound that sent shivers down Lacy's spine. Lucy circled the supine man; his eyes followed the whip as though it were a venomous snake poised to strike. When Lucy spoke, he jerked to face her. "I'm very good at aiming this thing," she said. She was standing in front of him now, his legs spread before her; he limp penis rested limply against his nut sack like a sad man sitting on a duffle bag. "I bet I can hit your balls."
Hector swallowed; a shadow of fear ran across his face, but he jutted his chin defiantly. "I bet you miss...bitch."
Without another word, Lucy pulled back her and arm snapped her wrist: The whip cracked against his testicles, and he let out a high-pitched, bloodcurdling scream. His eyes bulged from their sockets and the veins on the side of his neck strained against his flesh. Liby, arms still crossed, leaned to one side to see around aunt; tattered flaps of wrinkly skin quivered as blood oozed out, spurting with every beat of his heart. Lacy's hand flew to her mouth and her eyes shimmered with horror. Hector tossed his head back and forth, his chest rising and falling and sweat slathering his forehead.
Sneering, Lucy drew the whip back again and cracked it against the air. "Silence!"
Hector fell stil; whimpers rose from his bobbing throat.
"Should I do it again?" Lucy asked.
Lacy shook her head emphatically.
"N-No," he said, his voice low and broken, "I-I'll talk."
Liby nodded appreciatively. Lucy got results, that was undeniable. The older woman turned to her and met her gaze head on. "I did it."
"You did good," Liby said and patted her shoulder.
"I like torturing people," Lucy deadpanned.
Hm...note to self: Watch out for Lucy.
Liby went over to Hector's side and knelt down. His face was pale, drawn, and sweaty, his teeth bared and his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head off the floor. "Talk."
He took a deep breath. "They sent me to watch you. They're gonna send a gang of assassins or something." His voice was breaking, labored, every other word cracking. Lucy was on her knees between his legs, looking at the wound with her lips scrunched to the side, which suggested to Liby that she was thinking of how to treat it. "They're gonna kill all of you."
"When?"
"I don't know," he said, "they said I should expect to be here for two weeks."
"How long have you been here?"
"Four days."
Lacy was leaning back against the workbench with her face in her hands. Liby watched her for a moment - you have to be strong, Lace, I need you - then turned to Hector.
Montoya was definitely planning on striking soon, but how soon? If Hector was telling the truth, the kingpin most likely wouldn't send a chopper squad until after the party, by which time he was going to be dead anyway, so it really didn't matter. "Are you alone?"
He shook his head. "No, there's someone else. I don't' know who, I never met 'em."
So there was a second scout, huh? Interesting. Would they be foolhardy enough to attempt a rescue operation? Probably not, guys like Hector, young and unskilled, were on the bottom rung of the latter in organizations like Montoya's, totally expendable. See, no matter what it is - the mafia, the Triad, MS-13 - it works the same: Take poor, angry, uneducated young men, preferably from broken homes, give them money and maybe a friendly pat on the back every now and then, and they'll do anything you want them to. And when you've gotten your use out of them, there's always another one waiting in line. To Montoya, Hector was no better than a bolt or a screw; no use worrying if you drop it in the grass because you've got a box two feet a way full of them.
Poor, poor Hector: He actually thought he meant something to the gang. Guys like him always do.
Liby would feel bad for him if she let herself, but she didn't; Lacy might think she was going too far (she'd said as much over the past few days), but the moment you let your guard down, you open yourself up to failing. Liby Loud did not intend to fail, especially when the lives of the people she loved most were in jeopardy.
"I can sew it closed," Lucy said, "I just need a needle and some thread."
Liby got to her feet. "That won't be necessary."
Hector looked up at her with hopeful eyes. "C-Can you let me go now? I swear to God I'll leave and never come back. I won't bother you again. I swear."
Liby reached into her dress pocket and brought out the Ruger. His eyes widened and filled with terror. "No! Please! I swear to Christ I won't! Please, God, don't kill me! Please!" He started to cry like a little girl.
She aimed the gun.
"Liby, don't!" Lacy cried. Liby turned to her; tears stood in the younger girl's eyes. "Don't kill him."
"Yeah," Lucy put in from her position between Hector's legs, "that's too dark even for me."
"We have to," Liby said.
"No we don't," Lacy said. "W-We can let him go."
Hector nodded eagerly.
"No we can't," Liby said, "he's too dangerous. He'll come back."
"I swear God I won't! Please!"
Liby aimed at his head...her finger putting pressure on the trigger. Hector squeezed his eyes closed and his lips started to move as he prayed.
At the same moment she pulled the trigger, something crashed into her hard from behind; the bullet slammed into the floor and kicked up a cloud of dirt. She tripped over Hector's legs and landed on her knees; the gun flew from her hand and skidded away. Reflexively, she threw her elbow back, and Lacy cried out as her nose shattered. The jock responded by wrapping her arm around Liby's neck and throwing herself to the ground. Lucy watched with raised brows as Lacy climbed onto Liby's back and shoved her face into the dirt. Blood caked her face and more fell in fat drops like a rainstorm in hell. Grunting, Liby reached back, but Lacy caught her arm and twisted it; Liby cried out and bucked, knocking Lacy to one side.
Lucy looked on for a moment as they grappled, both panting and cursing, then came to her senses. "Hey," she said.
Lacy yanked Liby's hair, and Liby cried out; she grabbed Lacy's wrist and twisted.
"Hey!"
Liby wrenched Lacy's arm, and Lacy battered the back of her sister's head with a flurry of punches. Hector watched with wide eyes and parted lips, still amazed, it seemed, that he was alive.
"Sigh."
Lucy got up, grabbed her whip from the ground, brought it up...and then down, lashing it across both girls' backs: They cried out in agony and immediately let go of each other, Lacy falling onto her side and curling up and Liby rolling back and forth with tears in her eyes. "Enough," Lucy said firmly. "Liby, we're not killing him, so get over it."
Hector breathed a sigh of relief.
"We...have...to," Liby said from the floor. She was still now, her back arched and a pained expression on her face. "Too dangerous."
"We'll talk about it later," Lucy said. "Right now, I want both of you to go upstairs. Lacy, is your nose broken?"
Lacy shook her head.
"Liby? Your arm?"
"Fine."
Lucy nodded. "Alright. Now go. I'll stay with your prisoner." She pointed toward the stairs, and both girls got to their feet; their eyes met, and a dirty look passed between them.
That night, they slept in separate beds.