Irreality - Chapters 1-3 + Rendered Illustrations

Hey everyone! I think I'm ready to start sharing this personal project I've been working on. It started out as the typical set of lewd renders featuring an updated IRL/Irreality (more on that in a sec) Viola model depicting her at the age of 18. As I wanted people to see Viola in a way that to-date only I've really been able to see I decided to write a companion piece to go with the images.

What I didn't expect was to be 25+pages and 7.5k words in as it started to evolve into a deeper, more personal story about mental health struggles, past trauma and the journey from there to becoming the Viola you all know and love. I know that's far from what a lot of you come to my content for, but besides being important to me that people see Viola as more than just a fuckable piece of meat, it was a bit therapeutic to draw on my own experiences and struggles and put them to page. If nothing else, I hope that if there's anyone else out there dealing with the same shit I do that they can maybe see themselves in the character I'm writing and who knows, maybe it'll help?

As for what you can expect, I'm posting the first three chapters here as a starter and from here on I'll probably end up posting each chapter as I finish writing and polishing them. But for those of you who are here to look at stuff, I also plan to do at least one render per chapter just to give it some flavor. Some might be NSFW, some might not.

Oh, and it's Canadian as shit <3

Lastly, a bit of clarification on 'Irreality'. Some of you may already know this, but Irreality is the name of the band that Viola later goes on to become the guitarist for (this particular story serves as a prequel, as I mentioned above). It's just a little nod to the fact that the fictionalized universe it takes place in is pretty close to our own, with a few exceptions. And, since it's a band name, it doesn't have to make actual sense! So, in the future when you hear me say things like "Irreality Viola" or "IRL Viola", you know it specifically means this iteration of her, in this universe.

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Irreality

Chapter 1 - Rejection

4:32PM, November 20th, 2010

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

"Fuck me!"

The sudden, barked words spat out across the cold Toronto sidewalk and drew both surprised

eyes and disappointed frowns from the leery pedestrians walking by. Even the babushka waddling by with her pint-sized pug in tow, grunting and garbling in existential misery all the while cast judging eyes towards the young woman stepping from the front doors of the uptown Tim Horton's.

As the rotund grandmother shook her head and flashed a hasty sign of the cross, the young girl who had befouled the area with her expletive merely grumbled inwardly and reached into the front pocket of her hoodie for a cigarette and her flip phone. While jamming the filter of the cigarette between her lips with a bit more aggression that one usually would, she opened the phone and punched in a number before tucking it under her front-swept pale blonde hair and against her right ear.

The soft purr of the dial tone rang once, twice, three times. The girl took one, two, three steps away from the front door of the Tim Horton's restaurant she had just emerged from, past the pedestrians making their way through life with seemingly much less trouble than herself and plopped herself down on the cold curb. With a flick of her thumb over the flint – safety torn out, of course - she lit the cigarette with a faded blue and white Bic lighter.

This was a routine that Erin, or rather 'Viola' as she preferred, had become miserably accustomed to and was desperately getting tired of. Rejection had become the norm, as did storming out of another 'too-good-for-you' job interview to find a place on the sidewalk to wallow and have a calming smoke. This time the results were mixed.

She was barely mid-drag when the phone clicked.

"Allô Vi, how did it-"

"Matt I just got fucking rejected! Again!" 

The slim girl practically shouted at the receiver, drawing more eyes. Her voice started strong and crackled ever so slightly with emotion as yet another crack formed in her composure.

Matt - or Matthieu - was the oldest of her four roommates and the owner of the apartment commune they all shared.

He sighed on the other end. She could practically hear him shaking his head in disappointment.

"What was it dis time? You didn't swear mid-interview did you?" He asked, his Quebecois accent turning 'th's into d's. She knew he was joking, trying to ease the anger that was extremely evident in her voice, but the reminder of one of her previous failures and the mistake that had led to it left her feeling rotten all the same.

She'd been in the city six months – not long for most, but for an eighteen year old it might as well have been an eternity. Six months of wanted ads and interviews and buses and subways to and fro across the city.

At first it had started out normal. 'You'll get it next time', 'Nobody gets it on the first try'; the usual spunky attitude most people approach finding a steady job with. But, as also tends to be the case when rejection repeatedly begets rejection, as weeks turned to month spunk started to turn to resentment. Before long the little things started to slip; at first she stopped ironing her interview clothes, stopped fixing her hair before walking in. She started having a smoke to calm her nerves before walking in, and yes – one time, ONE time – she cussed out the interviewer in a frustrated, expletive-filled tirade for pressing her about her juvenile record.

One by one her vision of a 'perfect candidate' chipped away.

Now it just felt like six whole months of abject failure.

"No." She replied, her voice turning from rage to defeat. She plucked the butt from her lips and rubbed the side of her nose with the outside of her thumb. "She said I 'lacked experience'.".

Matt chuffed in a 'of course' sort of way. It wasn't the first time she'd heard that excuse for rejection. In her 'experience' it was what a recruiter would lean on when they either found out about said juvenile record, that she had no prior job experience, or that she hadn't finished secondary. Take your pick, it really seemed like the reasons not to hire her were infinite at this point.

A lingering silence filled the line with only the faint crackle of her cigarette burning in the cold November air. A few seconds felt like a minute before Viola sighed and broke it, broaching the whole point of why she was so desperately looking for a job in the first place.

"Matt, about rent-"

"Câlisse" he interrupted, cursing in his native tongue. "I told you, don't worry about it."

It was a discussion they'd had too many times. Matt didn't seem to be overly bothered about her inability to pay her share on a regular basis. She'd managed to pay her way the first three months of her stay using money she still had saved up from before she arrived, but it was starting to really nag on the back of Viola's mind.

She was tired of being a burden. Something to be looked after and fixed.

Pitied...

She felt a swell of anger in the pit of her stomach at the very thought. Her whole life had been nothing but pity in a poorly wrapped disguise of sympathy. Pity for her 'situation'; that's what they always called it, her 'situation'. Like being an orphan your entire life, raised in a benefits farm of a borderline abusive group foster home and on your own from the age of sixteen was a temporary thing that would sort itself out...

Another brief-but-eternal silence and this time it was Matt who spoke.

"Dere's no point crying on de sidewalk over Tim fucking Horton's. Come home and maybe we can talk?"

Viola couldn't help but snort. Even Matt knew her routine. He seemed to be the first person in years to actually understand, if only a little bit. She'd only ever told him enough to help him understand why a jobless eighteen year old was trying to rent the room in his attic.

"Yeah..." She distantly resigned with an inward nod of her head. She was already barely part of the conversation at this point anyways, lost in thought. Her mind was drifting gradually into a familiar spiral of self-loathing and guilt; at least she had 'experience' with that.

After a parting goodbye from her friend and the promise of being home soon she flipped the phone shut with an audible clack and pocketed it. Something Matt had said stuck in her mind, made the pit in her stomach turn to concrete.

'We will talk.'

Matt's words rang through her head like a warning bell. What did that even mean? Was he upset? Maybe he was starting to lose his patience too...?

More spiraling.

Thankfully, before she could ponder it too much her butt began getting numb from the cold slab under her and she decided that the equally hard and uncomfortable seat on the bus would probably be better than a sidewalk.

Still, that nagging worry started to sprout like a seed...

'We will talk'

"Fuck..." She muttered to herself again with a sigh before rising from the frigid concrete.

With one last long drag she completed her minor rebellion against the oppressive coffee corporation by pressing her nearly-done cigarette butt against the front window and dragged it along as she started off towards the nearest streetcar stop. On the other side of the glass a toddler in a stroller merely giggled at the unusual gesture and innocently bounced up and down against their restraints.

The mother was certainly not impressed, but Viola couldn't care less.

"Don't grow up, kid..." she grumbled in parting. 

"It's not worth it."

Chapter 2 - Homeless

5:21PM, November 20th, 2010

Liberty Village, Toronto

The trip home from the uptown 'Timmies' took about forty-five minutes on Toronto's transit system - the 'TTC' - but it might as well have been hours as that inkling of worry had grown from a sprout to a damned sequoia by the time Viola stepped off the big red and white bus. By now both the sun and the temperature had gone down and a light snow was beginning to fall. It wasn't much but she begrudged the cold anyways as she pulled her hood up over her head and stuffed her hands into her front pockets for warmth.

Liberty Village, or "LibVidge" as some locals called it, was one of the city's most up-and-coming neighborhoods. As such, half a dozen condo towers had started construction near the lake. A little further north, however, the neighborhood still retained an old sort of charm. Brick and mortar homes, small businesses, and that 'je-ne-said-pas' quality that seemed to draw in hipsters in droves.

As Viola rounded the corner off of King West onto a side street someone called out to her left.

"Spare some change?"

Aside from the hipsters, "LibVidge" had also become popular with the homeless, who were a little more tolerated in the more liberal-leaning area than in other parts of the city. Viola didn't really mind, everyone had to live somewhere.

Turning her head, she spotted the familiar destitute camped at the corner of the building; There sat an old man who probably looked much older than he was owing to his situation. She knew him - she passed by him almost every day. Once she had turned her head, he recognized her in turn.

"Oh, hey kid." He said, withdrawing his panhandle like he knew better than to ask her. She had given him change a few times, but he seemed to know better than to ask... Somehow, after the day she just had, that just made her feel worse.

'Bums know bums, I guess.' She thought to herself.

She nodded to Teddy and gave him a forced half-smile that he surely would have gotten at least a thousand times that day from people who declined to pony up any money. Approaching him, she reached into her pocket and instead took out a pair of cigarettes from her pack and offered it to him - if only to make herself feel a little less pathetic.

Teddy accepted them graciously and after a few seconds of small talk about how it was getting cold and soon they'd be buried in snow again Viola was back on her way, walking down the quiet side street and away from all the noise.

As the sound of cars and buses on King West behind her began to fade, her thoughts clouded. She wondered to herself if she was destined to become like Teddy. Homeless, alone. A high school dropout runaway, abandoned or given up on by anyone in her life who had tried to help, with no family to speak of. She pictured herself sitting there, on the street corner next to Teddy, begging for scraps and being pitied by the common folk who went on with their lives. Maybe they'd wonder how she ended up there.

Most likely nobody would care enough to pity her then. Why was that thought oddly comforting?

She wondered about Matt, and how long his patience would hold. Would she come home one day after another failed interview to find the locks changed and her stuff on the sidewalk, half picked apart by Teddy's homeless ilk. Was it her fate to simply fade out of everyone's memory? Was she about to walk into that very situation now?

Questions and doubts flooded her mind one after the other, spiraling more and more until suddenly she simply found herself knocked out of her trance and standing on the stone path to the walk-up brick townhouse that she and the other four called home.

'Home', in this case, was a small rented bedroom on the converted-top floor of the building, with a round porthole window overlooking the street. The apartment itself was owned by Matthieu who more or less spent his summers as a lifeguard and the winters doing whatever he felt like; he was older, in his early thirties, and had inherited the apartment from his grandmother.

As she thought about it, she couldn't help but picture the babushka from earlier.

Would Matt's had owned a French Bulldog instead of a pug?

Now she was just imagining a stumpy, all-the-way yoked Grandma in a power stance, scarf around her head and crucifix chain wrapped around her knuckles like she was ready to street fight GSP alongside her equally stumpy (and yoked) French Bulldog at her feet.

'Tabarnac, you want to fuck wid me liddle man!?'

She quietly snorted in amusement to herself at the mental picture.

For a few seconds Viola simply stood on the walkway and debated turning around and going on a long, aimless walk but a soft sigh and the puff of steam that visibly joined it reminded her that it wasn't about to get any warmer. Figuring that dealing with a disappointed Matt was better than freezing to death, Viola sucked up what left of her pride and clomped her way up the old, paint-chipped wooden steps to the front door and headed past the ground-floor neighbors door and upstairs.

The apartment was shared between himself; an Amish-turned-street artist from outside Kitchener named Jacob; a U of T student named Paul who, ironically, worked nights at Tim Horton's and whom she rarely saw; Ezra who was a stage and lighting assistant at a few local bars and theaters; and of course Viola The Jobless. Each had their own room and shared the communal areas in a sort of New York in the 70's-style bohemian arrangement. It was a little cramped sometimes, but it worked.

The front door to the apartment led into a narrow hallway. To the left was a relatively spacious living room with a brick fireplace at the centerpiece - there was brick everywhere in these old buildings - as well as the kitchen, and the dining room that Jacob was using as a bedroom complete with a blanket for doors. To the right the hallway led to the master bedroom claimed by Matt and the stairway that led upstairs to the two rooms occupied by Paul and Ezra and the ladder to the attic-turned-bedroom occupied by Viola.

"Vi?"Matt's voice called from the kitchen. "Dat you?"

As she wiped off the bottom of her shoes - a pair of black Vans with brown soles she had the good fortune to find at her local Goodwill store (along with most of what she owned) - she debated answering at all before settling on a downtrodden and half-hearted "...Yeah."

Half of her wanted very much to sprint upstairs to hide in her room, to leave 'the talk' of her uselessness for another day, or better yet, for never. Somehow, though, she knew it wouldn't be that easy. This one was better to deal with head-on.

Rounding the corner into the kitchen Viola leaned herself against the door frame, hands tucked in her pockets and head hung like a scolded child, her slight and slim shape made all the more apparent by the colossally high ceilings and doors. Sometimes she wondered if everyone in the 1800's were giants for building homes like these.

Matthieu stood across the kitchen, leaning against the countertop. He may as well have been an actual giant. He was very tall, almost six-and-a-half-foot, with a lean-but-muscular build earned from his summer work saving children and horny MILFs that pretend to forget how to swim from drowning. He had a sort of rugged Frenchman-ness to him too, with his unkempt mop of light brown hair and his stubbly jawline that surely would have inspired a hundred Greek statues back in the day. 

Damn him. 

Damn him and his handsomeness.

But it wasn't his dashing looks that struck Viola today. She'd gotten used to that months ago. Today it was the hot cup of coffee that he was holding in his hands, and the spare that sat on the counter next to him.

"Café." He said warmly with a nod towards the cup.

It wasn't a question or an offer of coffee. He had simply made her one.

It was a kindness she was unfamiliar with.

"Thanks..." was Viola's diminutive reply. She pushed herself off the door frame and skulked to the counter to pick up the mug. He'd even used the big bright pink one with "It's Coffee Time, Bitch" written in cutesy, flowery lettering on it. Her favorite mug in the house.

'Is he pitying me?' Was a thought that intrusively ran across her mind, and just like that the spiral was back.

'Is he kicking me out gently? Am I living with Teddy tonight? What about my stuff? Fuck... Fuckfuckfuck-'

"-It tastes like shit anyway."

The words snapped her out of her spiral and she turned her head and craned her neck to look up at him. She realized he'd been talking all the while she'd been dooming herself in her mind.

"Huh?"

Matt was looking at her with an eyebrow arched.

"The coffee? At Tim'orton." He clarified. "Bad beans now, tastes like shit. Probably will go out of business, you are better off without dem." He added, looking back down at her with those steely grey eyes and a cheeky smirk. He offered her a genuine reassuring smile and nudged her with his elbow before pushing off from the counter.

After a moment of lingering silence wherein Viola simply didn't know how to respond to this kind of kindness, Matt seemed to notice her state of awkwardness and spoke up; "Ez and I are watching de game if you want to watch wid us." he offered her. Normally she'd have been all about joining on the communal roast that was watching the Leafs trying to make the playoffs in the year of our Lord 2010, but tonight she had too much on her mind to come up with sick burns about Dion Phaneuf and pylons.

"Ehm..." Viola stuttered slowly, still turning over his words in her head.

Why wasn't he mad at her? She had failed again, was leeching again. He should have been shouting her out the door, throwing things at her, just like before.

Viola winced and forced the thought from her mind.

"I... I think I'll head upstairs and clear my head. Maybe crash early..." She replied slowly. Her voice stayed low and guarded. Her eyes turned back to the mug and stayed fixed there, anywhere but on her kindly, entirely too-handsome landlord.

He kept his gaze on her for a second. She could feel his eyes on the side of her head and it made her want to put her hood back up, made her want to shrink and hide. She subconsciously tensed up...

Instead of pressing the issue Matt just nodded, took a sip of his own coffee and turned to head towards the living room.

"Okiedokie, come down if you change your mind. We can talk later if you want." He offered instead as he left the room, and then it hit her...

'We can talk'.

Not 'We will talk'.

Matt had simply offered to chat about her situation like a good friend and her dumb ass brain had translated three simple to understand words into an entire worst case scenario wherein she would be left entirely homeless and destitute before midnight, all within the span of an hour.

As the warmth from the mug spread across Viola's fingers, and the warmth of embarrassment spread across her lightly freckled cheeks she felt a third, unfamiliar warmth in the pit of her chest. She began to feel awkward, exposed and anxious... but not the same anxiousness that had stalked her all the way home... She felt relieved and frustrated and somehow even shittier than before.

She brought the cup up to take a sip.

Of course it was delicious...

Damn him...

-

Chapter 3 - Insomnia

1:21AM, November 21st, 2010

Liberty Village, Toronto

The red glowing numbers on the already-ancient Toshiba alarm clock cast an eerie, solemn glow across the small attic bedroom. Even though it sat on a speaker in the corner across from the bed - as far away as possible to force the lump under the sheets to rise every morning to turn it off – she could still feel it's evil light across her eyes and forehead as she glared over her comforter blanket at it as if to stop time itself.

Nothing. Another failure, though somehow she suspected that failing to stop time wasn't entirely her fault.

"Uuuuugh..."

She'd been glaring daggers at the alarm clock for what felt like hours.

'No, not felt like; It had been hours...' she reminded herself. 'You should know, You've been staring at an alarm clock the whole time...'

With a grunt the lump finally moved and threw the heavy blanket in the style of an oversized Canadian flag off of herself and kicked it away. One might have thought that the resident lump held a particular love for her country, but - as was the case with her shoes, her lamp, her alarm clock, and her records - the blanket was simply a cheap, comfy option picked out from the shelves at her local thrift store.

Lump.

Useless at best, cancerous at worst.

That was how Viola had likened herself from the moment she had gone upstairs with her coffee. The self-loathing was strong with this one as she had spent the entire evening sitting on her creaky, metal-framed bed staring out the window onto the street. More than any she'd had before, she often found peace in the converted attic space.

Thankfully, despite the lack of space, it was enough for the few possessions that she had. Some old records, the guitar that had followed her around longer than she could remember, and a speaker amp to plug it into. Ezra had had a spare laundry hamper that doubled as a dresser given the lack of room for one, Paul had donated an old lamp he wasn't using anymore, and Jacob...

Well, Jacob had begrudgingly moved into the dining room and left some of his nerdy toys behind for lack of anywhere to put them. Beyond that, she'd found a few posters over the months to decorate with and had lit the room with a string of white Christmas lights around the edge of the ceiling. It wasn't always warm in the literal sense, but all said and done it was a cozy little hideaway with lots of exposed brick and built-in bookshelves to hold Jacob's crap until he got some shelves.

Tonight though, the room just felt cramped, drafty, lonely and entirely lacking in anything that could cheer her from her sullen mood, leaving it's sole occupant feeling trapped with her thoughts.

Moments like these were becoming more regular; creeping in anytime she found herself without a distraction to ward it away. Sometimes she could fight it, other times...

With a weary sigh, Viola clutched her pillow to her chest and turned over in her bed to face the window, and the now-empty pink mug sitting on the sill underneath it...

Her eyes lingered on it. Trailed along the explicit letters without reading what they said. A pair of molten gold rings peering through the darkness at nothing and everything... The doctors had called them a 'mutation' once.

Par for the course.

At least staring at the mug was a bit of a distraction. She followed the lines, noticed the tiniest of little chips in the lacquer paint against the moonlight outside. She could faintly see fingerprints, hers, and Matt's.

As she gazed, lost in thought there it was again; that tightness in her chest; that flush of embarrassment and anxiety she felt earlier before she left the kitchen that seemed to cut right through her to the bone.

She jammed her eyes shut and pulled her knees up against the pillow she clung against her chest. Her slim legs crossed tightly at the ankles, as if guarding against the monsters of her mind.

A second passed...

Two...

Three...

Viola slowly opened one of her mutant eyes of gold and peered over the side of the pillow. The mug was still there, so was the little chip she noticed. The snow was still falling outside of her window, and it was still absolutely, completely dead quiet...

She was still entirely alone.

Viola was used to alone; or at least, she thought she was. Sure, she'd had the other kids in the group home growing up, a little gang of near-do-wells, but she had always made her own way. Made her own choices, her own mistakes and earned her own successes as few as they were... Besides, it'd been three years since she had last seen any of them, for better or worse, and she was still going... right?

"Café."

Matthieu's voice rang in her head, interrupting the despondence, brought her back to the moonlit mug a few feet away and how delicious the coffee had tasted.

Warmth again flushed her freckled cheeks and turned them pink. She felt herself tense up, felt the tightness squeezing at her stomach leaving her breathless. Her legs squeezed against themselves and squirmed anxiously.

'He was just being nice...' She forced herself to think. 'He knew it was cold out, he knew I had a bad day, he was Just. Being. Nice...

Nice...

Why is he so nice to me... I don't deserve that, I'm useless... A burden.'

Her legs squirmed again, her thumping heart alternated from leaping to sinking, back and forth. Why was her heart beating so hard?

'He probably just pities me. Keeps me around to make himself feel better... Like a pet.'

...Squirm.

She could almost imagine it, sitting beside the couch, collared and leashed, fed and watered when it suited him, served with platitudes and treats to keep her happy. It made so much more sense that way... At least, it did to at that particular moment of... let's call it 'vulnerability'.

What good could I be then? Would he even bother to clothe me?'

...Squirm.

'Maybe I'd be lucky, maybe he'd let me sleep at the foot of his bed when I was good...'

Slowly, unconsciously, her hand began to drift away from her pillow and her eyes slid closed. Without trying she was starting to picture it...

'Would he call me a good girl?'

Her slender, nimble fingers pressed down along the pit of her flat stomach and teased along the elastic band of her plaid Hanes boy shorts. Her mind was a million miles away, rapidly losing itself to fantasy and her body now steered itself accordingly. With every passing second she sank herself in a fantasy world she had never been in, about a man she had never fantasized about, in ways that had never even occurred to her. She was slipping halfway between dream and reality, mixing what was real with what her broken mind thought was real and what her unconscious mind wanted to be real.

'I'd be his good girl... I'd take care of him, show him I'm worth keeping...'

She could see it in her mind now, clear as day. Saw herself tucked between his legs as he lay there, sleeping peacefully. Was she waking him? Was he falling asleep? It didn't matter, right then she could taste him... Felt her fingers wrap around him, knead him, work out his every stress.

'His good girl...'

Her spare hand rose to her face and brought her index finger to her lips, a pale mimicry of what she truly wanted against her puffed bottom lip. As her other hand reached further south and grazed softly against the warm hood of her clit she couldn't help but sigh a quiet, wanting moan into the silence of her room.

Her mind was filled with visions... Any worry to her actual worth melted away. Her rejection at the hands of the evil coffee corporation might as well have happened a lifetime ago. The mug on the window sill could have been a thousand shattered pieces of ceramic for all she cared. Right now the only thing on her mind – the only thing she wanted - was him.

Any structure to her thoughts soon started to fracture and collapse as she slid her fingers along her swelling cunt. Two, long slender fingers curled and plunged deep to the knuckles as she pictured her fantastical landlord and owner pushing himself into her. Her whole body grew outright hot, even without the weight of the red and white maple leaf over her body.

Even as she turned to lay on her back and splayed her legs wide she could see him clear as day, muscles rippling like Adonis as he lay over her. He was gripping her thighs like a vice, pinning her tiny frame down into her shitty, squeaky metal bed. He was pressing her ankles past her shoulders, forcing her to take him to point of ache. Every pump of his hips like a jackhammer, mimicked by her entirely inadequate right hand.

The silence of the room was beginning to be interrupted with the regular and quickening sound of two soaked fingers plunging into her sopping pussy. With every little graze of her thumb against her clit came a tiny, muffled yelp of pleasure barely audible through the pillow she forced against her face.

The visions became wordless, mindless smut. Now even the idea of being Matthieu's pet had devolved into a simple, feral need to be thoroughly and completely fucked through her mattress and into the faded wood floors underneath. So far gone was she that she didn't notice or care that her bed was gently and rhythmically creaking with every buck of her hips against her fingers, now three deep in a vain effort to replace the dream cock she was getting fucked with.

"Uhhhnnn... Hnnnn.... A-aaa... Mm-Maah..."

Shuddering moans turned into little vocalizations. In her mind she was begging for him, screaming his name in pure, torrential bliss, rising in pitch again and again and crackling apart as the pressure in the pit of her stomach started to ripple across her body like a thousand tiny lightning bolts.

"M...Maaah... Maaaatt~!" Was all she could whimper. All she could think. Her hips pushed all of their own accord up off her shitty mattress and into the air and all at once her lithe body tensed and froze in place. Her face was petrified in delighted agony, her mouth held wide as a noiseless scream of pleasure turned into a broken, croaking moan into her pillow. Her visions whited out completely and finally, as her orgasm pummeled her, she collapsed back onto the sweat-soaked bed with a... moderately loud creak and deep, gasping breaths.

Limply she lay with her pale skin glistening under the light of the moon. The drafty attic lent her a cool wind across her body and made it bristle with goosebumps.

As she lay still, staring at the ceiling in post-nut clarity, the deep, all-consuming silence began to creep in and her senses returned there was a brief worry about having made too much noise.

'What if he heard? What if everyone heard? Did I actually scream his name by accident...?'

Surely not.

Hours ago a thought like that would have led her down a long, winding path of terror. But, for once, she was lucky.

As she rolled once again onto her side the sheer exhaustion began to set in. Each worry started to fade in turn as her body finally allowed her to relax. Her tired eyes drifted closed, and as she cuddled-rather-than-clutched her pillow an idea occurred on the fringe of her mind, along with a tired, mischievous little smirk across her lips as she faded into a blissful sleep.

'I wonder if he'll accept pussy for rent...'

-