Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I knew the real one would look different, but I never anticipated the thrill it gave me to watch her muscles seize, to watch her hands move faster over her body. My balls still ache from the power of my own orgasm from watching her pleasure herself. My lips tingle with the urge to praise her because I saw the reaction she had when I did it in the bathroom.
The guilt I saw swimming in her eyes was also part of the reward. She did it because I told her to. She enjoyed it because she couldn’t help herself and then she hated me for it. Each aspect of the entire interaction pleased me.
“Eat something,” I tell her, pointing to the tray of food situated between us before reaching for the remote on the bedside table.
Raya doesn’t look impressed. She doesn’t ooh and ahh when I press a button, making the television glide upward toward the ceiling, out of the footboard. Expensive things, top-notch technology, isn’t something new for her. She’s lived a life of leisure and excess. Despite having all the things that I have now, it pisses me off the life she’s been handed.
She’s not the type of person who has ever had to worry where she’s going to sleep at night. She hasn’t had to concern herself with where her next meal is going to come from or what she would have to do to earn it. Hell, she probably thinks she’s roughing it, to spend a night in line, waiting for concert tickets with a group of her friends. Her bodyguard would be there of course. They’d never leave her unprotected.
She’d be exhausted the next day and make a social media post about the trials and tribulations she suffered. She’s nothing like me. She couldn’t comprehend the things I’ve been through. The things I’ve had to do just to survive. I have no doubt Raya Reed is the type of person who would make a monetary donation to a women’s shelter, brag about it to the people in her life, and honestly feel like she has made a damn difference in the world.
What I have now looks nothing like what I had fifteen years ago when I had to scratch and scrape and make sacrifices and give up bits and pieces of my soul to have what I have.
I take pride in my home. I take pride in the things I’ve worked so hard for. I haven’t gotten them in the most legal way but I have fought hard to have everything I possess. Blood sweat and tears. Isn’t that how the saying goes? Granted, it’s not always been my blood, my sweat, my tears, that have earned me the things that I have.
But it takes a certain kind of person, with a certain level of dedication to hurt others in order to get what you want and what you need. No one batted an eye when I was the person screaming and crying and bleeding for them to get us a leg up. Why should I care if I earned the things I have in the same way?
I point the remote at the television, scanning slowly through every channel. I pause and read the description of each and every pornographic movie on the listing. I don’t want to watch porn. It wouldn’t make this situation any better and being in the bed beside her with the echoes of skin slapping against skin wouldn’t end well for either of us. Just as I expect, she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t tell me that she refuses to watch anything that I would choose. She doesn’t make a suggestion. She doesn’t ask for a certain show. She just sits quietly like a little church mouse, hoping not to be noticed.
I settle on a syndicated television show, starting with season one episode one, before dropping the remote to the bed. She doesn’t pick up something to eat from the tray until I do. Although it annoys me that all she’s doing is mimicking my exact behaviors much the same way she did in the bathroom, only touching herself harder, only moving her fingers faster when I did the same, I don’t say anything. She has to eat. I may be a depraved monster that has abducted her and forced her to come on her own fingers, but I don’t want her to waste away into nothing.
She doesn’t eat with the same gusto that I do. Maybe she doesn’t feel like she’s starving after an intense orgasm the way I do.
I’m in a generous mood, so when I notice her favoring the strawberries over the grapes, I eat the grapes, leaving the fruit she desires for her.
The television rattles on, neither one of us speaking even as I climb out of the bed and place the now empty food tray on the table across the room.