It’s kind of hard to concentrate to math when you have an x-rated movie running through your head.
It was surprisingly easy to act as if nothing had happened when Logan came to the kitchen. He went to have a smoke and I followed him. I had to know if it really had been just some weird sexual escapade I had witnesses, not something spurred on by one of his nightmares. Eventually he sent me back to bed.
I had no weird dreams. It wasn’t until I was getting dressed at the next morning when the shock over what I had seen caught me.
I know Logan. One could say I know him maybe better than he himself. I have had him in my head once, right after the Statue of Liberty. I know he’s not a nice guy. He can be downright cruel at times. Even towards me if he’s in pissy mood. He drinks. He smokes. He roams around and fucks almost anything with working heart and pair of legs. He’s definitely not a nice guy, or even somebody to fantasize over. Mansion is filled with good-looking, fuckable male specimens. Logan’s too old, too mean and too hairy to star in my daydreams.
Yet when I’m supposed to learn how to calculate right angles, and listen carefully how Scott explains it to all of us, my mind is wandering around in Logan’s room.
Instead of sneaking out like a frightened little girl I’m walking in to his bathroom. Salty, coppery scent clings to me like a second skin. Logan’s still in the tub, his hooded gaze following my every move. He hasn’t finished yet. Tip of his cock is peeking through the surface of the crimson mixture of water and blood, leaking pre-cum. He doesn’t talk, just stares at me with his smoldering eyes and tilts his head, inviting me to join him with that small gesture. I’m already naked, and step in to the tub. It’s warm. Warm and slick from his blood…
I really have to get a grip from myself. Next class is physics. I really can’t face the Professor with that kind of filth floating around in my head. I know that he doesn’t go around reading peoples minds randomly, but I know I must be projecting my sick fantasy quite loudly. I don’t want to get in to trouble. I don’t want to get Logan in to trouble.
Oncoming headache. Lame excuse, but it’s the best I can come up with such short notice. I have to get my head straightened. Professor excuses me from the rest of the classes today and I’m free to go to my room and lock up the door.
I know about birds and bees. Fucking everybody knows about them. And I know about the darker stuff, too. Not because of Logan, but because of healthy amount of curiosity, and state of the art computers with access to Internet installed to the computer class. The stuff involving roses with thorns on them. Up until now I have thought that it really isn’t my cup of tea. I’m perfectly willing to admit there are people who get off from that stuff, but I haven’t really understood it. I still don’t. But I understand that I might be one of those people. And apparently Logan is.
It’s kind of weird. Nothing in my stolen memories from him hints to this direction. He really didn’t hold anything back at the Statue. He gave it all to me. I have personal, up-close info and knowledge how it feels to fuck different women in different ways, mouth, ass and vagina, between breasts… Logan can be very creative when he puts his mind in to something. And sex is something to him. A lot of something. Many times it’s everything to him. Positions and women change throughout his whole memory, but one thing is constant. There’s no pain or blood involved. Well, maybe some, but it’s mostly women scratching his back in throes of their orgasm. Nothing like he was doing last night.
Well, at least I know it’s something of my own. Not something I have picked up from him. Yay, me! I can be a pervert, all by myself! I should probably be worried. Worried and very, very ashamed. But it’s quite hard to be either, when image of Logan, sitting opposite me in the pool of his blood is the biggest turn-on I have ever stumbled upon.
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