Twisted Ivy

Chapter 5: SHOWER GLANCE

I met Daphne Farnsworth on my second full day at Saint Ivy, which already felt like it had been two weeks in hell’s honor dorms. She had black nails, a platinum buzzcut, a septum ring, and a smile like she knew exactly how many girls in the room wanted her to ruin their lives. I liked her instantly.

She sat next to me in Sociology of Power and Authority, which was ironic considering she gave off the exact energy of someone who had none, wanted none, and would still find a way to have everyone submit. She looked at me like she was debating if I was worth the trouble. Then she leaned over, nodded at the professor’s shoes, and whispered, “He’s definitely into piss play.”

I choked on my spit. She winked. And just like that, we were friends.

Daphne didn’t like men. Not in the funny, flirty, teehee way that Saint Ivy girls pretended to be queer when they drank enough. She didn’t like men the way fire doesn’t like wet things. The way wolves don’t like leashes. She had rules. Boundaries. A f**k-you attitude and a strap-on in her top drawer she had already offered to show me.

I said no. But not because I wasn’t curious.

She had a girlfriend. Jane something. Blonde. Soft. One of those girls who always looked like they were about to cry during s*x. And the first time I saw them together, I was just trying to get my laundry from the shared washroom in the girl’s dorm, not witness a goddamn porno with full Dolby surround moaning echoing off tiled walls.

But there they were.

Daphne was on her knees, fully clothed, combat boots braced against the drain like she had done this a hundred times. Jane was on the washing machine, panties shoved aside, shirt bunched under her throat. She was crying. Or moaning. Maybe both. Her legs were spread so wide I could see everything.

Daphne’s tongue was buried so deep in Jane's p***y, it looked like worship.

And Jane? Jane had both hands in her own hair like she was trying to rip the shame out by the roots. Her knees were shaking. Her whole body twitching with every pass of Daphne’s mouth, every wet sound, every whisper of, “You like that, baby? Want more?”

I stood there, frozen, one sock in my hand, brain short-circuiting.

I should’ve left.

I didn’t.

Because Jane looked right at me.

Eyes wild. Mouth open. Chest heaving. She didn’t scream. Didn’t panic. She just held my gaze while Daphne kept going like she knew she had an audience now and wanted to put on a f*****g show.

Jane came like that.

Legs trembling. Panties soaked. Staring straight into my face like she wanted me to know exactly what I was missing.

I went back to my room and fingered myself so hard I left scratches on my thighs. That was the kind of school this was. That was the kind of people I was surrounded by. Everyone beautiful and f****d up and loud about it.

Even me.

Maybe especially me.

I hadn’t seen Jasper since the hallway incident. He hadn’t messaged. Hadn’t looked at me. But I felt him anyway. In the air. In the goddamn walls. In my panties when I tried to sleep.

So I went to shower.

Too early for anyone normal. The steam room was practically mine. I needed to clean myself. Wash off the guilt. Wash off the f*****g memory of Jane’s face and Daphne’s mouth and my own fingers.

But of course, he was there.

I should have known. I should have known the steam wouldn’t protect me. That no matter how early I came here, no matter how silent I walked or how long I lingered behind the first row of lockers, it wouldn’t matter. Because he was always there. Jasper Blackwell didn’t appear, he haunted. He didn’t enter rooms... he devoured them.

He was already in the shower when I rounded the corner. Fog thick. Lights low. Water slicing the silence like it owed him something. I saw his back first. Broad. Soaked. Scapula sharp like wings that wanted to rip out. He was facing the wall, head bowed, one arm braced against the tile. Steam kissed every inch of him. And his cock... God, his c**k hung like sin between his thighs, not even hard yet and still enough to make my knees threaten mutiny.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t grab a towel or shift away. He just stayed there. Naked. Present. Real.

I didn’t mean to stare.

I didn’t even mean to be there. But something in my body… something low and pulsing and ruined… held me in place like an invisible leash.

I took one more step.

The steam parted like breath.

He turned.

Slow. Controlled.

Jasper faced me like he’d been waiting. Like he knew the moment I entered the building. Like this was rehearsed. And his c**k was half hard now, heavier, darker, thickening with every heartbeat between us. I don’t know if I gasped or whimpered or simply just held my breath.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t cover.

He just stood there, water trailing over his chest, gliding down the ridges of his stomach and over the obscene length between his thighs like it had memorized the path.

And me? I didn’t look away.

My body clenched. My n*****s stiffened under my towel. My breath hitched and stuttered and failed.

I was soaked.

Not just from the air. Not from the heat. I was dripping... inside and out... because he was a vision I had already come to once in a dream and now here he was… crueler in the flesh.

His eyes moved.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Until they found the slit in my towel.

The edge had slipped. My thigh was bare. My shoulder exposed. He drank it in like it was a wine he’d poured himself.

“You’re still curious,” he said. Quiet. Low. A hum beneath the steam.

I didn’t answer.

Because yes.

Fuck yes.

His c**k twitched. Full now. Heavy. Proud. My mouth watered and my cunt throbbed and I hated that I wanted to see what it tasted like.

“Say something,” he said again, this time slower. Darker.

I tried. I opened my mouth. But no sound came. Just breath. Just heat.

He stepped forward.

Just once.

Water clung to him. Dripped off his jaw. His eyes were darker than the room and his chest rose slow and deliberate like he was feeding off my silence.

“I could make you come right here,” he said.

Still no smirk. Still no jokes.

Just fact.

I shook my head, but it wasn’t a no. It was a tremble. A warning. A whisper of the chaos crawling up my spine.

He stepped closer.

Now he was inches away. Water from his body misting onto mine. And his c**k was right there... bold and blatant and f*****g perfect. If I leaned forward, I could breathe him in. If I knelt, he wouldn’t stop me. He might not even speak. He’d just let me sin in silence.

I swallowed.

And then he leaned in.

Lips near my ear.

“You keep looking like that…” he whispered. “I’ll forget you’re not mine.”

I clenched so hard I saw stars.

He didn’t touch me.

But my towel dropped.

It slid right off my shoulder. Pooled at my waist. My n*****s peaked into the air, damp and flushed and begging. His gaze dropped. He didn’t hide it. He didn’t look away.

His c**k twitched again.

We were both breathing too loud.

“If you want it...,” he said, backing away, “Just beg.”

He turned.

Walked back under the spray.

And I stayed there, bare and throbbing, watching water roll down his spine like something that belonged to me.

And I didn’t blink.

Not once.

Because I didn’t want to miss a single drop.

I didn’t kneel.

Didn’t reach for him. Didn’t taste what every cell in my ruined little body was screaming for.

Instead, I turned.

Barefoot. Towel abandoned. Chest flushed. n*****s stiff and wet. And I walked out of that steam room like I still owned my name.

Liar.

Saint Ivy’s architecture didn’t give a f**k about boundaries. Everything here was designed for tension. For accident. For scandal. The shower halls were unisex. Not on paper... but in practice. A wide corridor split two glassed-off showers, male and female... or supposedly. One pipe system. One heat line. One rule: you shouldn’t be here alone before 6 a.m.

I came at five-ten.

Jasper came at five.

Maybe that was the trap.

Maybe I had known.

I walked back to my room on trembling legs, p***y aching, mouth dry, guilt sticky behind my knees. I wanted to moan. I wanted to scream. I wanted to drop to the floor and spread my legs wide and cry Jasper’s name until my voice cracked open.

But I didn’t.

I sat on the edge of my bed and did nothing.

Let the tension live inside my skin. Let the heat crawl down my spine and settle in the raw slick place between my thighs. I wasn’t going to touch myself this time. Not yet.

I had promised I wouldn’t.

Not after that voice note.

“Touch yourself again without permission, and I’ll make sure you never finish next time.”

I believed him.

I laid back against the bed. Closed my eyes. Bit my lower lip until I tasted blood. That wasn’t better. But it was something.

My door opened.

Not a knock.

Just a click.

Daphne.

She didn’t ask. She never did.

She tossed her bag onto the floor and kicked her boots off like she was walking into her own apartment. Her lip was bruised. Her neck dotted with two small purple bites.

She looked happy.

“I heard you got steam-f****d in the shower hallway,” she said, peeling off her jacket.

I didn’t look at her.

“Nothing happened.”

“Of course not,” she smirked. “That’s why you’re clenching like your p***y’s holding national secrets.”

I rolled my eyes.

Daphne lit a cigarette she wasn’t supposed to have and sprawled across the foot of my bed, legs still booted, one arm flung across her eyes like a girl in a Greek tragedy.

“He’s gonna break you,” she said.

“I know.”

She let the smoke curl toward the ceiling before adding, “You’ll like it.”

I didn’t respond.

She closed her eyes.

“I saw Jane with Cassia last night.”

My stomach turned.

“Again?”

“She said it wasn’t cheating. She said it was spiritual.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Daphne sat up. Stretched. Her shirt rode up and I saw the hickey low on her stomach, just above her waistband. It looked like a bruise from a mouth that didn’t know mercy.

“She begged,” Daphne said, like she was talking about weather. “Like... sobbed. Clawed the floor. Came so hard she bit the inside of her cheek and I tasted blood.”

I looked at her. Really looked.

She was smiling.

“She asked me to choke her.”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Then?”

“I did.”

Her eyes glittered.

I didn’t ask why. I didn’t need to. We were all sick here. All cracked open in ways no one was going to fix.

“Did she cry after?”

“No,” Daphne said, soft now. “She laughed.”

She pulled out her phone. Opened the gallery. Showed me the video.

It was blurry. Dim. Caught from the edge of a bed.

Jane was on all fours. Completely naked. Back arched. Hair pulled.

Daphne behind her, holding her by the throat.

Jane was sobbing. Loud. Raw. Face red.

And then... she came.

Hard.

Loud.

A scream. A collapse. Her face hit the mattress.

The video ended there.

I stared.

Daphne stared at me.

“She wants to do it again.”

I couldn’t speak.

Daphne leaned closer.

“She said she wants to be watched next time.”

My body twitched.

And then we both looked up...

Because the door creaked.

Someone was outside.

And a voice slid through the crack like a secret...

“Aria?”

Jasper.

My thighs clenched so hard I saw white.

I looked at Daphne.

She raised one brow.

“Go,” she whispered.

I stood.

Reached for the door.

Opened it... and found Leo standing there with a killer's look.