[Writing smut about girls is a sort of novelty for me but it has its rewards. One of Manson's trysts from my stint in the MM role on LiveJournal. And again, this never happened.]

It would have been a going away party, but I was already gone. 

I can't imagine you being a gentleman.
I was surprised at her. She knew me well enough by now, surely after all the time we'd spent. Admittedly it wasn't a lot of time, but time enough for her to realize who I was, how I operated. I was operating just fine at the moment, well-lubricated with alcohol and trying to hide it, biding time while my mind ran through my repertoire. One might have called it 'stalling', but I preferred 'relishing the moment'. How to best approach? She was curled on my couch with the bottle of rum in her hand, her eyes dark and wounded, the stunned look of a fresh-killed deer fallen by the roadside of life. I'd had my eyes full of her since the moment she walked in, wrapped up tight in a flimsy veil of regret and madness that barely hid her intentions. I wanted to take it off her, take everything off. Whether it took the razor of my tongue or the razor in my pocket, I wanted to lay her bare on my table, to feast at her mouth and her breast, to learn the mysteries he'd hidden there over time. She made my decision for me, settling lightly onto my lap with a grace and surety that I envied, switching her rum for my absinthe and anointing my neck and forehead with liquorish kisses before her mouth found mine. She tasted of burning fruit, a syrupy fire that threatened to overwhelm me. But she had other plans and slid off my lap before I could get much further.

I want you to fuck me on the stairs, I want to be fucked where you've fucked her. I want my hands in the same places hers were.
I took her to the stairway, the curving iron beast that was one of my favorite parts of the house, one of the parts I would miss the most. She was already sitting on the railing, fitting her body along the twisted spiral just wide enough and flat enough to support the hips. Her skin was almost glowing in the dark, warming against my lips and my hands. The fire was in her everywhere: dancing on her tongue in my mouth, her hand glowing at my zipper, the secret smoldering burn that trembled invitingly at the touch of my fingers against her slit. I wasted no time, stripping her down to her skin, both of her hands teasing me expertly, guiding me into the heart of the fire where she burned white-hot and hissing. A tangle of tongue, a mingling of breath. I fucked her harder than I'd intended, her knees gripping my hips, one of my hands at her throat where her pulse hammered against my thumb, squeezing until her gasping grew labored and her movements frenzied. Her arms were over her head, both hands gripping the iron until her knuckles went white, her head rolling back until I could see the glow of the lamp in the whites of her eyes. I wondered if he'd ever fucked her like this, and I admired her for her beauty and him for his excellent taste. But the thoughts were as fleeting as the hold I had on my self-control and a moment later I was lost, ravishing her without a thought or a care to the damage I was inflicting, choking and biting and fucking her harder, faster, glutting myself on the noises I pulled from her, the way she convulsed under me.

She left soon after, her eyes dark with makeup and her neck darkening with the marks of my fingers. The next morning I found scratches on the railing from her fingernails and a few drops of blood on the floor. I wonder if she noticed, if she went home and fell asleep, if she woke up later still half dressed with her blood and my come dried in streaks on her thighs, flaking onto the sheets.

Another few steps, shuffling off this moral coil.