Plant Daddy (The Submissive Diaries #1) Read Online K.D. Robichaux

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: K.D. Robichaux Series: The Submissive Diaries Series by K.D. Robichaux
Advertisement1

Advertisement2


RomanticSadistLL:

Your pussy muddy be amazing if you're always on the pussy machines 🤔

WillDive4Plants:

LMAO! I don't know what made me laugh harder, what you said, or what you meant to say before typos got you.😂

While I am a crazy plant lady and enjoy getting super dirty in my garden, I don't believe it would be good for my pH balance to give my pussy a mud bath. 😜

RomanticSadistLL:

LOL often I just leave the typos because well why not 😉

WillDive4Plants:

As a full-time author, I've gotten good at translating my own typos and autocorrect, so meh

Nine hours later, I sigh with resignation and open Kik to see I haven’t gotten a message from him in all the time.

WillDive4Plants:

Well, I did not finish before my deadline. But! I uploaded a placeholder I can replace the second my book goes live on release day. So at least I won't lose all my pre-orders.

Also, bright idea writing a freaking CNC scene in public. Now I have to wait for these other chicks to leave so they don’t see the puddle I’m no doubt leaving in this damn chair 😂

When I haven’t heard from him in another hour, I decide I’m done writing for the day since I now have four more to complete the book.

With nothing else to do, since I don’t want to get on Amazon or TikTok, which would certainly lead to me signing up for retail therapy, I decide to brave my email inbox.

I’ve been emptying it for close to twenty minutes when I come upon an email from Club Alias that arrived three days ago. I click on it and see it’s from the social media site one of the owners created for the club a while back. Vi had signed me up for the beta version, to play around on the site and app and to report any glitches, but once it was opened up to all the members and I saw everyone’s profiles, most of them happily paired off and linked to their partner’s profile, I signed out and haven’t been on but maybe a time or two since. Just to see if anyone new joined or if there were any interesting events coming up.

But this email, it’s a notification saying someone from the club wants to be friends. And because Seth is an evil genius, he didn’t allow any hints of who that member might be, which forces traffic to the actual site if you want to find anything out.

“Dirty bastard,” I grumble, clicking on the link and signing back in to my account, which thankfully is effortless, since my computer remembers and fills in all my log-in information.

I see the little silhouette at the top has a 3 in a little flag, so I click on it to see who sent me a friend request.

And I can’t even put a name to the sound that leaves my mouth when I read who the members are.

It’s not Dixie, the sweet bartender at the club, who makes my peripheral vision go fuzzy.

It’s not Evie, the high school librarian who put on my very first solo author signing at Club Alias when I published my first book.

No. It’s not my friendly acquaintances with other subs from our lifestyle club who sent their requests months ago.

It’s the request sent three days ago from a blacked-out profile picture with two words next to it, while the Accept and Reject buttons sit beneath them.

SIR JEREMY.

Chapter Thirteen

SIENNA

One month later

There’s a big argument online about who first put the words “if these walls could talk” together in a published sentence. But who said it first and whether it was a poem, a movie title, or even song lyrics isn’t important. What that phrase means to me now is.

Because I now see the intrusive thoughts I’ve worked a lifetime to quiet as the voices everyone so wishes their walls possessed. In fact, my voices are the walls, ones built up inside me, around my heart and soul, and they’re fortified over and over again, strengthened every time they whisper their warnings and reminders.

I no longer see them as being unkind, as my own mind fucking with me.

They’ve been right far too many times now for me to have the desire to get rid of them anymore. While they bring me immeasurable pain with each repetition of their cruel words, I’ve learned that pain would be far worse had I not been fairly warned by my walls that talk to me.

They’re that certified “blunt and unfiltered” friend people warn you about before you meet them.

Other people might have similar walls that speak to them. Only they might call them “intuition” or “instinct” or a “hunch.”

They might “get a feeling,” a “feeling in one’s bones,” a “gut feeling,” or just feel “funny.”

If someone doesn’t care what anyone thinks about their word choice, or if they truly feel these voices are more than just their “Spidey sense” going off, then they might call it “divination” or “clairvoyance” or “second sight,” or that they’re having a premonition.


Advertisement3

Advertisement4