Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“Yep,” I say, discreetly putting my gun into the waistband of my pants as I place Spikezilla down on the hallway table. Clearly this isn’t about to turn into a wild shoot-out, and Spikezilla and I get to live another day. Hell, I can almost imagine what Raiden would have thought coming home after work to find me dead in my apartment. He probably would have continued his nightly Fuck-lympics and assumed I broke down and got a hotel room. I don’t want to think about how long it would have taken him to notice my rotting corpse next door.
“Sign here,” the kid says, indicating with his chin to the device balanced on top of the massive box.
Grabbing the device, I quickly sign for the package, and he awkwardly tries to hand me the box while I juggle the device. After what feels like way too long, I finally have the package in my hands.
The delivery driver skulks away, dragging his feet back down the hallway without another word, and I kick the door closed before dropping the massive box on my kitchen counter. Not loving the feeling of having a gun stashed in the back of my pajama shorts, I put it down beside the box and look over the baby purple gift wrapping.
There are streamers and mini balloons sticking out the top in every shade of purple, and it’s clear that whoever put this together put a lot of effort into it.
There’s a tiny note on top, and as I reach for it, my hands freeze.
Just because the delivery driver was some random kid doesn’t mean that whatever is in this box is innocent. There could be a bomb, or a motion-detected dart mechanism that’ll trigger the moment I open the lid. Hell, there could even be a slow-burning chemical release that’ll kill me the second I breathe it in.
Yet it’s still a gift-wrapped box that looks pretty.
Damn it. Why do I have to be so curious about this shit?
Sparing a glance at Spikezilla on my hallway table, I let out a nervous laugh as I reach for the note and pluck it off the box. “Prepare yourself, Spikezilla. This could get ugly.”
Then, with the note in my hand, I glance down and read over the words.
Dearest Firecracker in 304,
How’s that friction burn healing up? Blistering yet?
Wanted to applaud you on your thorough railing this morning . . . or lack thereof.
It was very entertaining. Especially the part where you threw yourself against the wall over and over again just to convince me that you actually had someone in there with you.
Your enthusiasm for the cause is commendable. Love the commitment and that stamina! However, next time, for authenticity, consider variation in your faked orgasms. Maybe a mattress squeak here or there. Gotta consider those acoustics.
Be sure to eat a big breakfast. I bet you burned a lot of calories with that performance. Imagine how many you would have burned if you actually got to come.
In the meantime, I think this box should help pass the time until you can actually find another human being who’s willing to fuck you despite your attitude.
Yours sincerely,
Someone actually capable of getting laid.
P.S. - Drink some tea for your throat. Faking it at that volume is bound to put a strain on your voice. Hydration is key!
P.P.S. - Perhaps a chat with my new sex psychologist could help you work through why you feel the need to have fake screaming orgasms up against your bedroom wall.
I fucking hate him.
Tossing the note aside, I tear the lid off the pretty box and let it fly across my modest kitchen. Inside, the box is filled to the brim with every sex toy under the sun. Dildos of every shape, color, and size. There are vibrators galore. Small ones, and something that can only be described as a medieval torture device. Butt plugs. Nipple clamps. Chains and whips, along with a lifetime supply of edible lube.
Anything Raiden could have possibly thought up in that little pea-sized brain of his has been packed into this box, including a mega dildo that looks as though it was sliced directly off some kind of dragon. I gotta be honest, I’m not entirely disappointed about it.
Frustration burns through me. Not only at having this box on my kitchen counter, but at the fact that once again, Raiden Kane has won.
There’s no breaking this man. He’s impossible, and no matter how low I sink or how much glitter I shove in his car, he just keeps asking for more. Hell, the fact that he knew I was faking it this morning and took it upon himself to send me a gift basket simply for the purpose of laughing at me . . . fuck.
He is, without a single doubt in my mind, the most aggressively annoying man on the planet. He’s the human equivalent of a recurring notification you can’t mute. If the world could chew him up and regurgitate him, it would.