Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
But I’m rambling. There was the internet thing which started this whole thing, even though I’m blaming Sasha and her teasing. See, it started with this post on a hugely popular girls swim Facebook group I’m in. In it, this girl was claiming that there were new scientific studies out there backing up this idea that girls who… well, had experience, did better at sports.
No, really.
Basically, she was claiming that getting laid, especially if you were a virgin, could do wonders to open up your pelvis, giving you more flexibility and in our case with swimming, shave entire seconds off your best times. I read it, I decided it was pseudo-science bullshit, and moved on.
…And then I came back to it. Over, and over, and over again. I knew it was dumb, and that there was no way any of it was true, but I couldn’t stop wondering about it. I mean, what if it was true? When you’re at my level, you’re already doing everything possible to shave milliseconds off your time. NASA-designed swimsuits that cut down on drag, taping down your tits for the same reason, shaving everything, religiously, south of your eyebrows. Not to mention the grueling workouts, practices, lifting, conditioning, and dieting.
But yeah, I’ve never had sex. Big whoop.
It’s not like I’m some sort of social outcast or anything. It’s just that swim has always come first, and it takes up every second of my free time outside of school. But, if this girl’s bullshit happened to be true, where was the harm? So, yeah, I turned eighteen, and basically went online that very night and downloaded the crazy popular anonymous dating app. You can post pictures of your face, but most people don’t. So, neither did I. And neither did he.
Him.
The man I’ve been, well, sexting for a week now. The man I’ve been having filthy daydreams about at school, counting down the seconds until a class is over so that I can check my phone and see what sort of filthy, toe-curlingly hot stuff he’s texted me. Or even what sort of pictures he’s sent.
Last night, we were supposed to meet. For the first time. And that’s not the only first planned for last night. He didn’t exactly know that particular detail, but I’d decided that I wasn’t going to tell him. I mean, I knew he was older—even older than the twenty-two I claimed to be on the app. And I didn’t see a need to freak him out about some crazy, clingy virgin.
Except, here’s the twist.
I wish—and I really do wish—that I could say I just went on Sparkr, found some hot random guy, and took it from there. But that’s just the lie I’ve told Brynn and Sasha. The horrible, terrible, incredibly fucked up part of it is, though, is that he wasn’t random at all. In fact, he was the very reason I joined the app in the first place, after seeing his phone lying open with Sparkr open on it and his screen name clearly visible. I chose him, because I want him. And actually, I’ve wanted him for a very, very long time.
I’m not sure what I was thinking. I guess I never saw it through in my head, past that first meeting. Maybe I imagined he’d figure me out and go with it anyways? Which sounds batshit nuts now—now that it all blew up in my face when we did finally meet face to face last night.
One kiss. One fierce, wild, Lord-take-me-now-because-it-does-not-get-better-than-this kiss. Then we opened our eyes, and then he saw who I was, and ran.
And that brings us to now, where I’m stretching before swim practice, trying to shrug off what happened last night to my friends while absolutely burning up inside.
Because my mystery man? The hot older guy I’d picked to pluck my cherry? Well, like I said, he wasn’t exactly random. Not at all.
I swallow, turning hesitantly and shooting a quick look over my shoulder. Coach Kirby is barking some directions to some of the guys from the boys’ team at the far end of the pool. But suddenly, like he knows, he suddenly stands upright, turns, and his eyes burn right into mine. I gasp, my face going red as I quickly turn back into my stretch.
Yeah, so, in case it wasn’t painfully obvious? The “mystery man” from Sparkr? The guy I’ve been sexting dirty, dirty pictures to, who’s texted me pictures of his huge cock, and told me all the filthy ways he wants to make me his “bad girl”? The man I’ve been touching myself to for, well, a lot longer than just the last week of text conversations? The man who I dressed up to the nines for last night, in strappy heels, the world’s most scandalous little red cocktail dress, and zero panties for? The man who walked into that bar like a force of nature, came up behind me, whirled me around and kissed me hard, kissed me fierce, and kissed me like I was his, before he pulled back and the realization came crashing over him?