Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
But I have to admit that I miss it.
And tonight I miss it with an ache that I haven’t felt in the two fucking years since I quit.
If I still wrote, I’d probably write about her hair.
How it’s spread out on my pillow. How the moonlight catches on it and makes it look like it’s spun from gold and sugar. Everything about her is made of sugar, by the way. Which I’m not gonna get into right now because I’m waxing poetic about her hair, but still.
Anyway, I’d write about how I kept playing with it tonight, as she lay in my arms, all spent and pink from her epic orgasm.
Another slight detour here: Jesus Christ but my Bubblegum’s a squirter.
Who the fuck knew?
Who the fuck knew that I was holding a goddamn miracle in my hands.
Plus she’s tasty too. Her pussy juice is like ambrosia.
Back to her hair though.
So I kept playing with it and then she looked at me with pretty sleepy eyes and untied her ribbon. So I could really, actually get at it. So I could untie her braid and run my fingers through the silk-like strands, make a fist out of them, rub them on my mouth, my nose.
Fucking rub them all over my body.
I’d write about how I did all that and she let me.
With a sweet, drowsy smile.
Then, I’d write about her dress.
Pink and flowery with those ribbon-y straps. That she wore tonight.
Fuck me, but those ribbon-like straps do something to me. They do something to my already perverse head. Actually, all her dresses do something to my dirty, horny mind but those ribbon straps take the cake.
And then I’d write about how I made her sleep naked.
She wanted to put on her clothes, not the pink dress but the one that she’d brought with her.
In her pink little girly overnight bag.
A white dress; I saw.
I bet it was probably one of her jacked-up reasons. About white being the color of peace.
Because she came here to find it, didn’t she?
She came here to end the fucking suffering. The pain. To end this connection between us.
Stupid girl. Brave girl.
Coming to me like that.
Sleeping in my bed like that. All innocent and trusting.
While I sit in my chair and watch her.
While I imagine violating her body in a thousand different ways.
In all the ways that I’ve thought about over the years.
So many, many ways that it gets me hard again.
Not that I wasn’t before.
I’ve been oscillating between a semi and a full hard-on from the minute after we finished.
And since I’m her Bandit, big and bad, I palm my cock and start jacking off.
I start fucking my fist as I watch her sleeping body. Her flickering eyelids, her parted mouth. Her chest rising and falling gently. Delicately. Beautifully. That shining anklet on her leg.
My beautiful brave girl.
Only she isn’t my girl, is she?
But that doesn’t stop me from jacking off to her until I come all over my stomach with a low grunt.
And then I wait.
Like I’ve been waiting for hours and hours, again from the minute after we finished.
For all the things that she said would happen if I took her cherry.
All the laundry fucking list of things she’d promised would come to pass.
I wait and wait.
But nothing happens.
Except the clock strikes midnight, alerting me that my time’s up.
She’s his now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I couldn’t sleep at all last night.
I kept writing in my diary until the sun came up.
Although if anyone asked me what I wrote, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. I wouldn’t be able to tell them when I stopped writing either. Or what I did all day.
Up until this moment.
When I’m sitting in my best friend’s car, parked at the edge of the woods.
Where yet another party is in full swing.
My parents think that I’m still at my sleepover with Jupiter and I kinda am. Only like last night, I’m taking a slight detour.
“You sure about this?”
Just like last night, Jupiter’s face is hidden in the dark interior of her car. But I can clearly see her concern. “You know, you asked me the same thing last night.”
“I know.” She sighs. “But I’m asking again.”
Because she’s a good friend. She’s the best friend a girl could ask for.
I’m lucky to have her.
So lucky that I might start crying right here, right now. I might crumple under this pressure in my chest. But I don’t want to.
Because it’s a happy day.
It’s the day of my freedom, my independence.
It’s the day I go back to the boy I fell in love with when I was only fourteen.
“I’m sure,” I tell her, my voice catching in my throat.
Which I guess she notices. “Because you don’t sound sure. You haven’t sounded sure all day. You haven’t looked sure all day either. In fact, you haven’t looked okay all day.”