Report of my bet with Elaine: Houston, we have a problem.
It's already been two days since Brianne Leviantis transferred to Ordrienne High, and in all this time, I haven't even managed to get a single 'hi' out of her.
She ignores me completely—like I don't even exist.
Who knows what kind of awful stuff my classmates must have told her about me to make her avoid me like that.
There's no other explanation!
Whatever.
I'll console myself tonight with Mrs. Fenwick.
She and my mom are colleagues—actually, my mom's her boss—but the way they talk, you'd never guess.
For as long as I can remember, she and her husband have come over to our place for dinner at least once a week.
But last week, she came alone.
I didn't ask why—there was no need.
After her first glass of wine, Mrs. Fenwick started talking nonstop, saying whatever popped into her head with zero filter.
Long story short, she thinks her husband is cheating on her.
No, scratch that—she's sure of it.
She said he hasn't touched her in over a month.
And this is the same guy who used to jump her at every opportunity, so much so she had to be careful walking around the house in anything remotely revealing.
Maybe she agreed to meet me tonight out of revenge.
Or maybe she just misses being properly fucked.
Either way, here we are, sitting in a fancy Manhattan lounge bar.
Mrs. Fenwick isn't exactly my ideal type—she's the same age as my mom, though there's a world of difference between them.
Even if she clearly tried her best to look elegant and charming tonight, some things are hard to hide.
Like her sagging breasts or the soft belly peeking out from beneath her tight black dress, matching her straight dark hair.
And yet, for some reason, she's making me hard anyway.
«It must've been so boring for you… listening to me and your mom gossip about that bastard of a husband of mine the whole time… but, you know, Isabelle is the one person I trust most in the world… and this isn't exactly something I can talk about at work…» she mutters, slightly slurring—already on her fourth Cosmopolitan and just ordered a fifth.
Hell yes! Those were the three longest hours of my life.
But thankfully, what came after more than made up for it.
Isabelle was clearly tipsy from the wine, and after all that non-stop talk about sex and all the things Mr. Fenwick used to do to his wife and doesn't anymore…
I'll never forget the sweet, melodic words she whispered to me that night.
«P-Promise me… promise me you'll never stop fucking me, Ren! Promise me I'll never have to go whining to my friends that you ignore me even when I'm half-naked around the house!»
No worries, Isabelle.
That's not happening.
If there ever comes a day I see you walking around half-naked and don't feel the urge to rip your panties off with my teeth, then go ahead—kick me out and make me live under a bridge, because I wouldn't deserve to breathe your same air.
«Oh, don't say that… actually, I'm glad you and your mom have such a beautiful bond. And hey, my mom's friends are my friends too. What kind of jerk would I be if I turned away when a friend needed someone to talk to?»
I'm not even trying to sound empathetic, understanding, or caring—everything a lonely woman might need.
It just comes naturally. Like breathing.
«I like having friends as thoughtful as you, you know? Friends who worry about me when I'm struggling… and right now, I really need a trusted friend like you to help me through this rough patch…»
Her voice soft.
Her eyes half-lidded, lost in mine.
Her red, full lips slowly inching toward mine...
It was even easier than I expected.
Not that I ever had doubts—the moment she said yes to drinks, I already knew how the night would end.
But still, even in a rocky marriage, there's always a chance guilt or hesitation might kick in when a woman is kissed, undressed, licked… by someone who isn't her husband.
But thankfully, that didn't happen to Mrs. Fenwick.
«O-Oh God, Ren… oh God… aaaah…» she moans out loud, on all fours, her cheek pressed against the back window of her Jeep, parked in the empty lot of a massive shopping center.
The more she moans, the more she pants, the tighter my fingers grip her soft, slightly sagging ass.
Kneeling behind her, I pound her dripping wet pussy harder and harder.
«D-Don't tell your mom… okay…? Aaah… I don't want her getting weird ideas about me… thinking I'm some kind of pervert… it'll be our little secret, Ren… please…»
Pff… what's Isabelle supposed to think? It's just a car quickie.
At worst, she'd give me one of her classic jealous tantrums—like that time in Miami last summer when she caught me flirting with that lifeguard, and half the beach heard her go off.
But she definitely wouldn't be shocked.
Honestly, if Mrs. Fenwick ever found out what Isabelle and I get up to… I think she'd drop dead on the spot.
Getting to taste her blood, on the other hand, wasn't quite as easy.
While we were chatting on those plush lounge sofas in Manhattan, I was way more focused on how to make her bleed 'by accident' than on how to get her into bed.
Not just bleeding—I needed a way to get a few drops without looking like a total psycho.
Thankfully, one of her earrings came to my rescue.
I asked to see them, slipped one off her ear, and while handing it back, I 'accidentally' pricked her fingertip with the earring's pin.
She dropped it on instinct, and I—ever the gentleman—dove under the table to pick it up and hand it back.
But not before tasting that tiny drop of blood still clinging to the tip of the pin.
Why go through all that trouble when I already have Isabelle letting me drink her delicious blood?
Well, pizza is great—but if you ate it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day, you'd never want to see a slice again.
It's the same logic.
And the last thing I want is to stop craving her blood—because that would be like not desiring her body anymore.
Unthinkable.