Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I don’t feel at all bad or embarrassed by the fit I threw in his office. If you ask me, he deserved the kick to the nuts, and he’s lucky I missed when trying to stab him with his own damn pen. Unfortunately, I found myself quickly bent over his desk with his, what I’m going to guess was a very large gun in his pocket, grinding into my butt cheeks. I didn’t mean to lose focus. Once he let me up, I had planned on stabbing his eyes out for cheating me. But that asshole got me to allow his hand up my dress and fuck me with his fingers until I was agreeing to his new contract!
I flop onto my back, whipping the blanket off me. My skin is on fire, and I can’t stop remembering the way his thick fingers knew exactly how to get me to break. Because he’s a sex master, dummy.
Ughhh.
It’s like, for the first time in my entire existence, someone else was making decisions for me. That being my vagina. I could barely catch my breath. I felt like I could just float away, I was so free. With each orgasm he gave me, it was as if he possessed my vagina who now had control of all future decisions. She agreed to the month, then decided it was okay to let him pull my dress up and suck on my privates until I was crying, yes crying, in ecstasy! Who the hell cries after an orgasm?
I take my pillow and try to suffocate myself with it. If the embarrassment hasn’t killed me yet, hopefully this pillow will. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to try using it on Satan’s spawn. As long as he doesn’t live long enough to tell anyone what happened tonight…
What am I going to do? I can’t go back there. That guy has some major issues. More than Jay-Z and his ninety-nine problems. My phone buzzes for the billionth time. I debate on checking it, but I know who it is. Those vultures won’t leave me alone.
Using all my muscles, I push the pillow harder over my face and hold it down. It seems to work in the movies. A solid ten seconds pass, but I’m still alive. The vibration of that damn phone is distracting my attempt to kick it. I give up, tossing my pillow. I dig into my purse and grab for my phone, but there are no waiting text messages. I unlock my phone just in time to hear the vibrations again. But it’s not my phone that’s vibrating. I look back in my purse. Something lights up at the bottom. Reaching down, I wrap my hand around a phone. “What the…?” I pull out a black iPhone and stare at it, confused. Could someone have dropped their phone in my purse by mistake? I scan the usual apps—the stock apps, Skype, phone tracker, the basic phone, email, and text. It’s then I notice the little red number one by the green text bubble. Whoever’s phone it is has a text message.
I open the app and read the message.
Damien: This phone is to stay with you at all times. When I need you, I’ll text. Don’t ever keep me waiting.
My eyes go wide as saucers. The urge to murder skyrockets. And my vagina nods, whispering, “10-4, buddy.”
That…that…I begin firing off a reply when the phone vibrates in my hands, another message popping up.
Damien: Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.
“Get some rest, you’re gonna need it,” I mock. Can someone be any cockier? Geez. I decide not to reply. It would just be fueling the fire. And right now, I need to figure out what I’m really going to do about the shitstorm I’ve gotten myself in to. I look at the clock and decide sleep isn’t going to happen since I have class in two hours. I toss the phone back in my purse and grab my stuff to shower, but not before changing a certain someone’s contact info in my brand-new bat phone.
I’m walking through the busy quad resembling a serial killer. My black hoodie is over my head, covering most of my face. It’s hot outside for September, and I’m probably making myself stand out more than blend in, but I just need to make it across campus to my Psych class without being noticed. Christine still wasn’t home by the time I left, so I sent her a text making sure she’s okay. Her response made me cringe, telling me she had a sleepover at the sorority house with Brittany and Sylvia.
My anxiety spikes as I pass a group of giggling girls all decked out in Greek letters huddled on the steps of the Union building. I lower my head and veer right, taking a detour to class. What are those girls’ real intentions with Christine anyway? Are they even interested in her as a person? Or is this just a game to mess with me and get what they want? In the end, they could also screw me and not offer her a spot in their cult. God, I feel like I’m getting screwed from all angles.