Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“I’ll show you wet, motherfucker!” I scream as I tighten my thighs around his head, clamping him in place with my vise-like gash, and force all of the sticky, undulating, rolling river of cum and squirt I have inside of me all over his face and bathe him in the forbidden and unholy secretions of my womanliness as he gurgles it down, suffocating in the raging sea of me that I force him to drink as though he has been lost in the desert for a thousand days and the cooling, restorative nectar of my pussy juice is the only thing that might ever quench his ceaseless thirst. “Yeah! Take it all,” I bellow.
And he does, every last drop, before pushing his way free of my triangle of passion, pulling back so that I can see his saturated visage staring at me in wonder, and flipping me over onto my stomach without ceremony so that he can enter me from behind.
And, as he thrusts himself violently into me, I feel not only him but the seed he is planting inside my fertile garden as the wedding veil I’m still wearing covers my vision and allows me to peer through its diaphanous filter at a future that will surely be only and ever this. Joy and happiness and passion and want and satisfaction and fulfillment coupled with filth and urgency and a soupçon of spanking. And we will name our child… Eterna. For eternal is what we are.
“I fucking love you, Mrs. Trance Hammersmith!” Trance shouts as he pounds his thick, meaty cock into me from behind.
And, for the first time, I don’t care who fucking hears.
THE END
I fall back in the desk chair in my suite, probably (but not quite) as spent as Trance and Chantilly, and stare at the computer screen.
Thirty thousand words. A proper novella. Or a really healthy short story. Five hours—one hundred words a minute—of what I believe is the perfect romance.
Or… not what I believe necessarily. But what I now know people want. A bestseller. It has to be. It must be. It must.
Pacing. I need to pace. I always feel better when I’m pacing.
I pop open my—one, two, three, four, five, six—seventh Red Bull and walk the suite, thinking. I wonder if there’s an all-night printer in town. There has to be. It’s fuckin’ Vegas, baby! I’ll pull some stock art for a cover, print a bunch of copies of this mamma jamma up, and hand them out tomorrow instead of Filling the Gap. Yessir! That’s what I’ll do! I’ll be the buzz of the whole convention!
“Did you hear what Cynthia Lear did?”
“No. What?”
“She wrote a novella in one afternoon.”
“A whole novella?”
“Or a really healthy short story. Whatever. Not the point. The point is… it’s amazing. A-MAY-zing! She cracked the code!”
“She cracked the code?”
“She cracked the muthafuckin’ code!”
Ha! Take that, Mom!
Knock, knock.
Ah! Who’s that? At the door? Is that the door?
“Cord?” Britney’s voice. From the other side. Britney’s here. Good. I need her to read what I’ve written. “Cord? Are you in there?”
I down the rest of the Red Bull and scamper to the door, giddy from the contact high that accompanies great achievement. The last time I shared something with Brit, she said, “You can’t publish it.” Well, let’s just see what she has to say about this one! Haha!
I open the door and see that she looks worried. She’s been giving me a lot of looks lately and all of them seem to be some version of concern or encouragement.
“Are you okay?”
“What? Why? Whaddayou mean?”
“For the second time in twenty-four hours I’ve been texting and calling and you haven’t picked up.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, I had my phone on work mode.”
“Work mode?”
“Yes! Because I’ve been working!” I pop over the desk where my computer and a half-dozen discarded Red Bulls sit about.
“Did you… did you drink all these?” Britney asks. I nod, enthusiastically. “That’s… Cord, that’s, like, a lot of caffeine.” She picks up one of the cans and looks at the ingredients label. “Jesus, Cord. That’s like a lot of caffeine.”
“Yeah, I know. Here, read this.” I grab her by the shoulders and plant her in the desk chair.
“Wha—what am I reading?”
“My novella!”
“Novella?”
“Or really healthy short story, whatever. Just read it!”
“Did you write this this morning?”
“Mm-hm,” I hum, Cheshire Cat grin on my face. “And I’m going to find a place to get it printed and hand it out tomorrow and it’s gonna be fuckin’ FYE-UH!” I kind of sing-song ‘fire’ in a weirdly pitched voice that isn’t my own.
“Is this… is this what I sounded like earlier?” Britney’s look of concern now blossoms into full-tilt worry. But she doesn’t need to worry. She just needs to read what I’ve written and tell me I’m not crazy and that it’s the bomb-diggity.
“Read it, read it,” I prompt. Then, suddenly, I taste the inside of my mouth. It tastes like Red Bull and adrenaline, which is a bit of a sour combo. “I’m going to brush my teeth. Start reading. Tell me what you think. K? K.” I blow kisses at her and head into the bathroom.