Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I can’t stop.
I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.
There is another side to the man talking, though. One a podcast and some online news stories will never come close to. He’d have them closed down if they tried.
Reuben Sinclair is a sadistic, degrading, hardcore beast of utter filth. The things I’ve done with him, along with the other Agency founders would scale the heights of any naughty list there could be.
That’s one of the reasons it’s so fucked up exciting.
Yin and Yang swirl endlessly, the two sides of Reuben’s coin unfathomable, and it only makes the man more stunning.
I start chewing on my nail extensions.
Santa.
I need to see Santa.
I need to see him, and hear him, and touch him, and play for him.
I need to play for Reuben.
Yeah. I’m fucked.
I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.
Dawn is breaking through my apartment windows when I break myself out of the stupid spell. I’ve been obsessing for hours. For once in my career, I haven’t even checked out my review from earlier – my only known time of not giving a shit how I performed.
I drag myself to the bathroom and get ready for bed, giving my used pussy a good soaping, even though it makes me wince. I should have taken some time out between proposals, but oh well, fuck it. I’ve been in considerably worse states. Even with sore pussy syndrome, the inevitable happens when I get under the covers. My used pussy gets another round as I imagine all the things Reuben Sinclair could do to me, and remember all the things he has done to me. I wouldn’t want to be hooded… or anonymous. I want to look him right in the eye as he takes me however he wants to.
His voice is still on loop.
I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.
One orgasm about Reuben should be more than enough to send me right off to dreamland, but my head is too wound up. I drift in and out – my hand sliding down between my legs whenever I picture my perfect Santa. I must be on round three by the time afternoon hits, and I can’t stand it anymore. Sleep is lost to me. So is my fucking mind.
I know what I have to do. Call it wacko autopilot.
I go for basic makeup since my hands are too wired to work their magic on contouring. I do decent catflicks and slap on some heavy duty lashes, and freshen up the waves in my hair.
I don’t want to go hoodie and jeans today. I grab a purple dress with fishnets and lace up my trusty big spiky boots. I wrap myself up in a fluffy leopard print coat, like I’m Cruella de Creamgirl. Kind of suits me.
I look good in the mirror. Memorable.
As always.
I almost break and message Josh once I’m out in the open and about to hop on the tube. My fingers hover over the message icon, but I can’t do it. I know full well he’ll talk some sense into me, and I don’t want sense, I want the world of crazy. It’s screaming my name.
I’m a fucking idiot on a dangerous mission, stalking Santa, but I don’t care. It feels like destiny calling – but it’s just me, sky high in fantasy land.
Stalking Santa hardly sounds like a romcom with a cutesy happy ever after at the end of it, but Santa was the one who started it in the first place. He was the one in the club last night with a wine glass in his hand.
Central Parade is rammed, with kids everywhere, but my edginess around happily families hardly touches me as I head for the grotto. I take a seat at one of the indoor benches with a decent view of the grotto. I could join the queue myself, and the temptation calls, but it’s Reuben Sinclair I want to see today. Not just Santa.
The grotto closes at five, so I’ve got forty-five minutes of phone scrolling before I stand a chance of getting a glimpse of him. I barely look at the bullshit on my feed, because I’m too transfixed by the door at the grotto exit.
With only twenty minutes left to go, I give up pretending altogether. I let myself fantasise like a crazy.