The Bunny Gets Her Revenge

The party pulses around you, a sweaty, drunken mess of cheap costumes and cheaper beer. You’re laughing with your boys, the fight with your girlfriend already fading into the background haze. That is, until a sharp tap on your shoulder makes you turn. The noise around you seems to mute. Alison stands there, a vision of pale skin and black lace under the dim basement lights. The bunny ears are almost laughable. The rest of her is not. Her smile is all innocence, but her eyes are pure sin.

“Hey there... you’re exactly who I was looking for,” she purrs, her voice cutting through the bass. Her gaze drags down your body and back up, slow and deliberate. Your friends’ conversations stutter to a halt. One of them whistles low under his breath. Alison doesn’t even glance his way. Her entire world, right now, is you.

She steps closer, the scent of her perfume—something expensive and dark—wrapping around you. “I heard you had a rough night,” she says, her finger tracing a meaningless pattern on your forearm. The touch is electric. “Seems a shame to waste a good party being sad.” Her thumb strokes your skin. “Let me cheer you up.”

You should walk away. You know you should. But your feet are rooted to the sticky floor. “Alison, I—”

“Shhh.” She presses that same finger to your lips. Her eyes drop to your mouth. “Don’t think. Just come with me.” She leans in, her breath warm against your ear. “I know where it’s quiet.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes your hand and pulls you through the crowd.

She leads you down a dim hallway, away from the music, to a shut bedroom door. She tests the handle—it’s unlocked—and pulls you inside, clicking the lock behind you. The room is dark, lit only by a streetlamp outside the window. It paints her in stripes of pale gold.

“See?” she whispers, turning to face you. “Quiet.” She leans back against the door, putting her incredible body on full display. Her breasts rise and fall with her breath. “No one to interrupt us.”

The tension is a live wire. She pushes off the door and closes the space between you. Her hands come up to your chest, flat against your shirt. “You’re still thinking about her,” she murmurs, not a question. “Don’t.” Then her mouth is on yours.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s hungry and deep, all tongue and heat. Her body presses flush against you, and you can feel every curve through your clothes. She moans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you.

Her hands slide down your chest to the hem of your shirt. In one smooth motion, she pulls it up and over your head, tossing it aside. Her palms are hot on your bare skin. “My turn,” she breathes.

She takes your hands and places them on her hips, on the smooth skin just above the band of her thong. “Go on,” she dares you. Your thumbs hook under the black lace. You slide it down her legs. She steps out of it, kicking it aside with a heel.

Now she’s just in stockings, heels, the choker, and those two cruel strips of black tape. She watches you look at her. With a wicked grin, she reaches up and slowly, so slowly, peels one piece of tape off. Then the other.

Her breasts are freed, full and heavy, her nipples hard in the cool air. “Better?” she asks, her voice husky. She takes your hand again and brings it to her breast. You squeeze, and she gasps, arching into your touch. “God, yes. Just like that.”

“I need you,” she pants, her hands fumbling with your belt. She gets it open, then your zipper. Your cock springs out, hard and aching. Her eyes go wide. “Fuck,” she whispers, wrapping her fingers around you. She strokes you once, twice, her grip perfect.

Then she turns and bends over the edge of the bed, looking back at you over her shoulder. The view is obscene—her perfect ass, the dark wetness between her thighs. “Don’t make me wait,” she says.

You line up and push inside her with one deep, smooth thrust. She cries out, a sharp, beautiful sound, her back arching. “Yes! Oh, fuck, yes!” she moans, pushing back against you.

You set a brutal pace, your hands gripping her hips. The room fills with the sound of skin slapping skin, her choked moans, your ragged breaths. “You feel so good,” she sobs. “So much better than her. You’re mine tonight.”

You feel the climax coiling in your gut. “Alison, I’m gonna—” “Do it,” she gasps. “Cum in me. I want to feel it.”

That’s all it takes. You slam into her one last time and explode, pulsing deep inside her warmth. She clenches around you, her own orgasm shuddering through her body with a broken cry.

You both collapse forward onto the bed, a tangled, sweaty heap.

For a long minute, there’s only the sound of your breathing slowing down. The distant thump of the party bass. Her skin is slick against yours. She shifts, turning her head to look at you. Her makeup is smudged, her hair a mess. She’s never looked more beautiful. A slow, satisfied smile spreads across her lips. She didn’t just get even. She won.