Filthy Punk
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Saint Bryde
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Chapter 1
NEVE
It started with a gaze, thick-lashed and dark. This wasn’t the look of love, only possession.
“You filthy little brat.” His tone was like a warm caress, sending tingles down the nape of my neck. “How long have you been waiting for me?”
His fingers glided deep into the wet heat between my legs. I’d wanted this forever, since the moment he first texted me. And now he could see me, flesh all red with need under the steady force of his hands. He pressed my throat back into the pillow, giving it a gentle squeeze.
I couldn’t contain my giddiness. The oxygen evaporating from my brain made me so placid, so willing for him. In the darkness of my bedroom, nothing could disturb us.
“You smile”—a hot swirl of breath caresses my lips—“like you’ve done something naughty.”
In a burst of light, the dream was eviscerated. My retinas burned, and with a groan, I was shoving my head under the familiar darkness of my duvet.
“Sweetheart, you’re going to miss your orientation if you don’t get up.”
Ugh, right. Cringing, I sat up, the morning sunlight settling on my mother’s scrubs. She was already leaving for work? I would’ve slept longer if I hadn’t lied to her about orientation day. I’d been attending Oakland University for three weeks now.
But it was best she didn’t know. She’d figure out some way to embarrass me. At least lying to her held off the inevitable for a little while.
“I’ve picked out your outfit. You’ll wear a blouse and a tartan skirt with stockings. It screams respectable student leader, which you will be in no time!” Mother acted like the university didn’t have a distinct dress code—crisp white shirts paired with pleated pants or skirts—and pointed to where she had placed my clothing.
This ritual had been ingrained in our routine since I was a child. Mother would dictate an outfit to wear, then inspect me after I dressed, making sure my attire was appropriate. You’d think we were the fucking royal family under scrutiny.
The one time I wore a tank top outside because it was sweltering hot, she forced me to cover it with a cardigan. “They can’t see you like this,” she’d whispered fiercely.
It was just skin.
I complied, dressing to her satisfaction. Just as I was tugging my pantyhose the rest of the way up, my phone chimed from my bedside table, and every muscle in my body tensed, suppressing the urge to reach for it.
It was him.
The man of my dreams.
I bit my lip and looked at my mother. I didn’t want to risk her glimpsing the message, so I stood and grabbed my phone, opening and closing it just to get rid of the notification.
Zombi
I’m hungry for you.
“Stupid Twitter notifications,” I murmured, throwing my phone on the bed. “What time will you be home?”
Her nose crinkled. “Six? Might be later.” She kissed me on the cheek and ambled to the door. “Have a great orientation!”
I smiled. “Will do, Mother.”
I listened as she made her way down the stairs. Then I moved to the head of the stairs and listened as she made her way through the house. Her car was in the garage at the back of the house.
Living with my mother was painful, but I needed to stay under her roof until I found a stable job. And that was easier said than done. It was difficult to find a place willing to work around my class schedule at the university. Plus, my schedule made it hard to work enough hours for decent money.
I tried discussing living on campus, but for Mother, that was out of the question. First, she reminded me of the lack of privacy I’d have and the communal bathrooms, neither of which I minded. Then she tried to scare me with stories of bad roommates and potential security issues.
Ultimately, she said she refused to pay for me to live and eat in a dorm when we lived so close to campus anyway—a twenty-minute drive, I might add.
Making my way back to my room, I sagged onto the bed and waited till I heard the car. The telltale sound of the engine passed underneath the window, and in my mind’s eye, I visualized the car making its way around the curve of the driveway that hid our house from street view and then turning right toward the hospital where Mother worked.
After a few silent moments, I opened my eyes. The coast was clear. With a sigh, I grabbed my phone.
Everything I had dreamed last night, Zombi had said at some point in our texts to each other. I had a few admirers on Not Safe For Work Twitter, or NSFW, and Zombi was a part of that crowd. But where it was purely transactional and shallow with others, it was different with Zombi.
Our chemistry was natural, and nothing felt forced. I could admit things about myself to him I couldn’t admit to anyone else, and Zombi lured out aspects of myself I never knew existed.
He sent, I’m hungry for you five minutes ago, meaning he was likely still online. I grinned as my fingers brushed the stocking material on my thighs. Perhaps this outfit wasn’t completely boring. There was always the potential to be creative!
I hiked my skirt up and tore at the stocking fabric on my crotch, the satisfying rip resounding throughout my room. Through my vanity mirror, I saw that I’d created a substantial opening, enough to see my baby blue cotton underwear.
I hooked my fingers to pull the fabric up tight, grinding my clit against the cotton underwear until a wet patch formed.
I took two photos. One was a close-up crotch shot, with the underwear wet and bunched, and then the normal underwear shot, except I was just wet. Some guys preferred the natural one, where I was just resting wet as if I’d been waiting for their message all night long or after a long day. I hit send.
***
Oakland University was a sprawling green campus in an odd location. Tucked in Danshurst city center, it provided a burst of nature amid the concrete, with neatly trimmed hedge gardens lining the perimeter and a canopy-covered nature park at the front of campus.
It was a heritage site preserved for its legacy and elegance, and it was exactly the type of place a young woman of breeding would continue her education, which is why my mother demanded I go.
After my literature class, I stepped out of the main entrance archway and spotted a few acquaintances waving at me from a picnic blanket down on the green.
We’d bonded over several classes we shared, but we didn’t take all the same ones. Being an art student, I’d already finished classes, which ended at midday. The three of them, who had classes well into the afternoon, whined into their coffees.
One of them looked past me, her eyes narrowing as she caught on something in the distance. I followed her gaze to the end of the lawn, where it extended into a pathway lined by trees before the bustling city. A group of boys was making their way onto the premises as if they, too, were students.
She jumped up and wiped off her pants. “Time to go.”
It took me a moment to realize the other girls had stood up as well and were gathering their things.
My eyes darted from one to the next, and I laughed in confusion. “You’re leaving? Why?”
“Those punks are ruining the view. You coming?”
I waved my hand in the air. “I’m finished with classes today, remember?” My smile widened as they grimaced. “I’ll see you guys later.” Waving goodbye, I moved closer to the boys while trying not to appear too obvious. They stopped under a nearby tree, close enough to where I stood for me to notice their distinct styles and piercings, and I studied each one, oblivious to everything else.
From my vantage point, they couldn’t see me, so I opened my sketchbook to a blank page and sketched out a rough outline.
As far as appearances go, they were rough and messy. One wore a lip ring and eyeliner. Another wore earrings that stretched the lobes. Some had buzz cuts, others had long, braided hair.
As I drank in their characteristics, an image formed on my sketch page of a dark and enticing hybrid of them, with a few of these features combined.
Were people like this really dangerous?
By the time I’d arrived home, ready for a shower, I’d given the sketch the beginnings of a body. There was a corded neck with a deeply hollowed Adam’s apple and broad shoulders. I couldn’t get the image out of my head, and it filled me with an ache I wasn’t willing to explore.
I’m hungry for you.
The water ran hot from the showerhead and felt wonderful against my skin, but I wouldn’t allow my eyes to wander from the bathroom door. It was only five p.m. Mother wouldn’t be home yet, but I was still worried she’d suddenly appear.
I pictured the drawn boy in piercings, how the corded muscles in his neck would stand out like cables, exposed and pulsing in ecstasy.
My breath came out in short pants, steaming up the glass door as I imagined a scenario with just the two of us. I propped my foot up on the lip of the tub, my knee against the tiled wall. Reaching for the right angle, I rubbed myself relentlessly, heat building in my core.
I’d smother him in kisses. On his lips, the hollow of his throat, his—
A knock sounded from the other side of the door. “Sweetie, I didn’t see you come home,” came the muffled voice of my mother. “When did you get home?”
I jolted my hand away and dropped my foot. “Four,” I called out, reining in my panting. I brushed my wet hair off of my face, trying to cool the heat from my cheeks. “I thought you were still at work?”
“I finished early.”
Sighing, I shut off the shower, stepped out, and grabbed a dry towel. She was going to give me an overbearing guilt talk now.
“You almost made me think someone broke in.” This was Mother’s way to get me to apologize, even though I’d done nothing wrong. I wasn’t going to have it tonight.
“Wow, a burglar breaking in for a shower? Who would’ve thought?” She must have heard the snideness in my tone because it was suddenly dead silent on the other side of the door. “Mother?”
Whether my comment shocked or offended her, I couldn’t tell, but she pressed on to another subject. “Yes, um, I’m just letting you know we’re having dinner with the Harrods tonight.”
I hadn’t heard that name in years.
