Wicked Allure

This is an entry into the 750-word project, which is a challenge for writers to manage a complete story in exactly 750 words. Let me know how I did. My story starts below

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I knew you were watching.

Sitting across the way and down a bit. You pulled over then slid across the bench seat of that old beater of a thing you call a truck. I denied your advances all night; you huffed about it. Your cheeks flushed red with what I assumed was anger.

I only went on that date to shut your brother up. If only he knew what you were up to.

You aren't at all awkward, you're simply a raging, entitled asshole. You came quite close to getting your hand broken tonight. Not by me, but by the waiter who spilled coffee on your lap when you grabbed my jaw after I bluntly said I wouldn't kiss you. I believe he may be next.

All night you tried to force me to bend to your will. All fucking night you thought you could take me. Your hands pried my legs apart at the movie, you ripped my shirt and smacked me before I got out of your truck. Wouldn't have killed you if you'd made me want you instead of assuming I was yours for the taking.

I kept the light in my bedroom on and, from behind the thin lace covering my window, I unbuttoned my top and let it fall from my shoulders. Do you like what you see? Of course you do. They all do.

Peeling my tank top off, I pulled it over my head and revealed what you already knew; I hadn't worn a bra beneath. Maybe I would've, but I'd been led to believe you were one of the "good ones". I expected you to stare, maybe cop a feel after a while. But you chose violence; I reciprocated.

I turned, my profile illuminated in the window; the ideal silhouette. I knew you saw, because I could see you.

Enticing, yes?

You got out of your truck and looked up at me, my breasts on display just for you. See, guys like you are easily riled and guided into action. So caught up in arousal and need that you never recognize you're being led. But I hold your leash as I'm held by another.

What kills me is you aren't unattractive. You have beautiful eyes, and that smile you offered when I hopped into your truck was genuine. I thought it would be a fun night for us. It could've been great.

Just a touch of charm and you'd have your pick of women. But you don't want any woman, you want a young supermodel with no choice in the matter. You slither along the edge of my house, amongst the shadows. I see you because they can.

You think you're being clever, getting the jump on me. But no one ever does. The unlocked door screams trap, but you see it as an invitation. It can be both.

I brush my long auburn hair over my creamy skin as I wait. I've been down this road before. Many, many times.

Anger and lust distorted your mind.

You stood in the door to my bedroom, reflected in the mirror, and I smiled at you. Then I stood up and shimmied out of my tight denim skirt, bending at the waist to show off my pink lace panties.

"Are you going to hurt me?" I asked without averting my gaze. My faux worry was obvious to me, but you drank it in with sadistic glee.

You stood taller and began your approach. I turned, my thumbs in the waistband of my panties stopped you in your tracks, and you watched me reveal myself to you. I took a step sideways as you moved forward.

It was a dance I'd done many times. You advanced, I stepped back or to the side, moving ever so slightly toward my bed.

"I paid for everything tonight, bitch. You owe me," you said, raising your finger in a chiding manner toward me.

I crawled up onto my bed, giving you a good peek. "Okay. Just don't hurt me, please?"

Y'all never see the clawed hands slink from beneath my bed, but I do. The look of shock is always the same; you fall backwards and disappear beneath my bed with a mere gasp. I peer over the edge. I wonder what goes on under there.

Then, just like last time, the clawed hand comes back out and strokes my cheek.

"Good girl," it says, tugging the chain at my neck.

Your screams make for such pleasant dreams.