Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
“Shepard—”
“So then what if I help you out and make things easy for you?” he goes on, digging his thumb in my fluttering jugular. “What if I spill your secret and show them? Show them all what a fucking whore you are for me. All I have to do is call you my good girl with my hand around your throat and you’re ready to come for me like the little slut you are.”
I tug on his t-shirt. “Shepard, I—"
His fingers shift, and then along with my neck he’s grabbing my jaw, his thumb digging into my cheek. “Stop talking.”
Even though it’s hard, I shake my head. “But—"
He leans even closer, his nose almost grazing mine, his large, sweaty, delicious body almost touching my trembling one. And then I feel a tug. Down below, on my belly. And I know, without even looking, that he’s hooked his pinkie in my belly ring, his favorite.
“I can smell you,” he says. “And no, I’m not talking about your fucking perfume.”
“W-what?”
He licks his lips and I feel it in my core as he rasps, “I can smell your pussy.”
I suck my belly in. “You c-can?”
“She’s all wet for me, isn’t she? She’s fucking leaking for me.”
I shake my head. “Stop. You need to—”
“If I stick my finger down there, I’ll come out dripping, won’t I?”
I clench my eyes shut because this is too much. He is too much. His touch. His words, and all I can do is whimper, “Yes.”
“It’s better than any perfume of yours,” he keeps going. “The smell of your pussy. It’s better than any perfume period.” He actually closes his shiny eyes and takes a whiff, a growl emanating from the center of his chest. A moan even, very low, very rough but unmistakable, and I think it makes me come a little bit. Or maybe it’s the words he speaks next.
“I wanna bottle it up and rub it on my body, your pussy juice. I wanna make you come”—he opens his eyes, his pupils looking all blown up, his cheeks flushed—“On my fingers. And then I wanna make you ride my thigh and hump my stomach. And if I’m doing all of that, I’m also going to make you sit on my face and ride my tongue. I’m going to make that pussy come and come and fucking come until I’m covered in you. Until I don’t have to rub you on my skin, you’re already seeping in. You’re already in my bloodstream. And then I’m gonna return the favor. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Yeah, you do. I have a list.”
“List of what?”
“Of all the places I wanna come on your body.”
My eyes go wide. “You…”
“And then I’ll do the same thing. I’ll come and come and fucking come until I don’t have to rub my cum in your skin. Until I’m already there, getting under it. Seeping into your bloodstream...”
He trails off as if he’s already imagining it. I don’t blame him because I’m doing the same thing. I’m imagining myself, all naked, lying on the floor. My hair all spread out, my freckled skin bared to his eyes as he kneels over me and covers me in his cum. As he paints me like a filthy painting, and I take it because who am I to stop an artist like him?
All obsessed and horny and crazy for me.
I clench my eyes shut for a second, trying to give myself a break, trying to think. He doesn’t let me rest though because, squeezing my cheek, he growls, “You dancing for anyone yet?”
I open my eyes, my breaths all choppy and broken.
When I don’t answer him right away, he taps my cheek to wake me up and repeats, “Answer me, baby. Any boys you’re dancing for?”
I shake my head, or more like roll it against the wall, and give him the same answer that I’ve been giving him since he started asking this question. After he asks me about my classes, reporters and if any boys are bothering me, he asks me if I like anyone in my class. If there’s a boy I’m interested in. “No.”
As always, he asks again. “You sure about that?”
I lick my dry lips. “Just you.”
A wave of satisfaction passes over his features and my belly flutters. Or maybe it’s his finger pulling on the ring again. Whatever it is, it makes me melt, pleasing him. Being his personal dancer.
Because I do dance for him.
A few days ago, while cleaning his mom’s room, I found a boom box. An old-fashioned red one with a CD collection. And it gave me an idea. He told me my dancing made him focus, didn’t he? And since I’m on a mission to help him, I checked to see if the boom box worked, selected a bunch of CDs, and took it out into the backyard. And every night since then, I put on the music, and I dance. And every night he watches me, standing at the threshold of the back door, or gripping the railing of the porch as if trying to stop himself from pouncing on me. Sometimes he’ll sit, but only for a few moments before going back to stand behind the railing, as if he doesn’t trust himself so out in the open.