Red: 1000 Ways to Sin

My bully and 1 3

The first time after the storage room, Jessica told herself it wouldn’t happen again. She lasted four days.

Four days of clenched thighs in the back row of history class while Miles sat two seats over, legs sprawled, one hand drumming lazy circles on his desk like he knew exactly what those circles reminded her of. Four days of catching his eye in the hallway and feeling her pulse drop straight between her legs. Four days of lying in bed at night, fingers sliding down her stomach, chasing the ghost of his mouth and coming so hard she had to bite her pillow to keep quiet.

On the fifth night she texted him one word.

*Gym.*

He was already there when she slipped out the side door after dark—black Jeep idling behind the old equipment shed, headlights off, engine rumbling low like a threat. She climbed into the passenger seat without a word. The door hadn’t even clicked shut before his hand was in her hair, yanking her mouth to his. No hello. No pretense. Just tongue and teeth and the metallic taste of want.

They didn’t make it to the backseat that first time. He shoved the seat back as far as it would go, dragged her across the console until she was straddling him, skirt shoved up, panties yanked to the side. She sank down onto him in one desperate slide, both of them groaning like they’d been holding their breath for weeks. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, guiding her as she rode him—fast, frantic, the Jeep rocking on its suspension. Windows fogged in minutes. Her nails scored red lines down his neck. He bit her shoulder through her hoodie when he came, muffling the sound of her name like it hurt to say it.

She came right after, clenching around him so tight he swore under his breath. Then silence except for their ragged breathing and the tick of the cooling engine.

She climbed off without looking at him, fixed her clothes, and left. He didn’t stop her.

But the next time was in Mr. Harlan’s empty chem lab during lunch. Door locked from the inside. Her back against the demonstration bench, skirt around her waist, his head between her thighs while she tried not to knock over beakers. He licked into her like he was trying to memorize the taste, slow drags of his tongue that made her thighs tremble. When she started to shake he stood, spun her around, bent her over the cold surface, and f****d her from behind—deep, punishing strokes that made the metal legs of the table scrape the tile. She braced on her forearms, forehead pressed to the bench, biting her own arm to keep quiet while he growled filthy things against her ear. “This what you needed, huh? My c**k splitting you open while everyone else eats f*****g sandwiches?”

She came so hard her knees buckled. He followed, grinding deep, spilling inside the condom with a choked sound that almost sounded like her name.

They didn’t speak after. She wiped between her legs with paper towels from the sink, tossed them in the trash like evidence, and walked out first. He stayed behind to unlock the door.

It kept happening.

A cheap motel off the highway one Saturday when the itch got too bad to wait for school. Cash on the counter, no ID, no questions. They barely made it inside before he had her against the door—her legs wrapped around his waist, his jeans shoved to his thighs, f*****g her standing up while the cheap wood rattled in the frame. Later, on the bed, he looped his belt around her wrists, tied them to the headboard, and took her slow from behind. Slow enough that every drag of him inside her felt deliberate, torturous. He slapped her ass once—sharp, stinging—and she arched back for more. “Harder,” she hissed. He obliged until the headboard banged the wall in rhythm and she was begging in broken gasps. When she came it was loud enough that someone in the next room banged on the wall. Neither of them cared.

Another night at his house—parents gone for the weekend. Kitchen counter. She hopped up, spread her legs; he dropped to his knees between them like it was instinct. His tongue worked her until she was dripping down his chin, then he stood, shoved inside her, and f****d her right there among the mail and car keys. She gripped the edge so hard her knuckles bleached white, head thrown back, moaning his name like a curse. He pulled out just long enough to flip her over, bend her across the granite, and take her again—deeper, harder, one hand fisted in her hair to arch her back. “You’re such a f*****g asshole,” she gasped when he hit that spot that made stars burst behind her eyes.

“And you love it,” he answered, voice wrecked, hips snapping forward with bruising force.

She did. God help her, she did.

They pushed further every time. His fingers in her mouth while he f****d her in the backseat of his car, windows cracked just enough to let the night air cool sweat-slick skin. Her on top in the driver’s seat, grinding slow circles until he was begging—actually begging—for her to move faster. Him pinning her facedown on his bed, one hand between her shoulder blades, the other working her c**t in ruthless circles while he drove into her from behind until she sobbed with how good it felt.

The hate never left. It just changed shape. It lived in the way she scratched down his back hard enough to draw blood. The way he bit her throat until the mark lasted days. The whispered insults that sounded more like love letters now—“f*****g tease,” “greedy little slut,” “mine”—each one making her clench tighter around him.

No one knew. Not their friends. Not their families. They passed in the halls like strangers—cold nods, averted eyes—while underneath it all the pull tightened like a noose. Every glance was foreplay. Every accidental brush in the crowd was a promise.

They didn’t talk about what it meant. Didn’t ask where it was going. There were no soft kisses goodbye, no lingering touches after. Just the raw scrape of need, bodies crashing together until they were both wrecked and sated, then pulling apart until the hunger built again.

And it always built again.

Faster each time.

Hotter.

Until the line between hate and hunger disappeared completely, leaving only this: skin on skin, mouths on mouths, the constant, unbreakable pull dragging them back together like gravity.

Like they’d never get enough.

Like they didn’t want to.