Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
The aftertaste is half salt, half sweetness, and all mine.
I set the spiral-bound diary on my thigh, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm. My room is blue-lit and fake-cozy, the air sharp with the ghost of microwave popcorn, and through the thin wall I can hear my next-door neighbor blasting some true crime podcast about murdered Midwesterners. It’s almost midnight, but the hallway outside is full of distant laughter, random feet thudding, some couple making up and breaking up all at once. I try to focus on the page, pen in hand, but my mind slides everywhere except the words. My flannel pajama bottoms are soft and loose, a pattern of red and black checks that looks wholesome from the outside, but I keep catching myself rubbing my thighs together under the covers. The skin there is oversensitive, like my body can’t stop remembering every detail from earlier, the constant, throbbing ache I brought home as a souvenir.
I turn on my tiny lamp. Its yellow glow doesn’t warm the room, but it makes me feel less naked in the dark.
I lick my lips again. There’s nothing there, but Liam’s taste lingers. I want to say it’s gross, but honestly, it’s not. It’s yummy, to be frank, and I lick my lips sensuously again. I think of him - his broad shoulders, the dark flush on his sharp cheekbones, and my nipples go hard under my t-shirt, the fabric doing nothing to hide how turned on I still am.
I write:
“Dear Diary, today I sucked off my professor. There’s not a how-to guide for this, but I feel like I nailed it. In more ways than one.”
I snort, immediately hate the joke, scratch it out, and start over. The pen leaves a tiny black trench on the page.
I write again:
“It’s not like the porn I’ve seen, but maybe better. He tasted like male musk and clean sweat. I wanted to please him. I wanted him to lose control. I made him come so hard he forgot where he was. I swallowed every drop.”
The words look a little silly on the page, but I keep going, because I’m suddenly hungry to relive the whole thing.
“His cock was huge. Like, I get it now, the rumors about porn stars and mouthfuls. I could barely fit him in, but when I gagged he groaned and said ‘good girl.’ I never wanted anything more in my life than to be good for him. Afterwards, he called me baby, and I almost died.”
My hand shakes. I shift on the bed, the fabric of my pajamas damp between my thighs. My clit pulses with every heartbeat. I want to touch myself, but I’m afraid to, like it’ll break the spell, or make it real in a way I can’t handle yet.
Instead, I write:
“I think I’m addicted. I want to see him again, now, tonight, even if it means he’ll use my body and never talk to me again. I want to make him lose control every single time.”
My hand slows. The campus night is very quiet, except for the scraping of my pen and the harsh sound of my own breathing.
I rest the pen, stare at my hands. They’re slim and dainty, the nails a shiny pink. I close my eyes and remember the size of Liam’s hand engulfing mine, the heat of his palm on my bare back. He could have broken me in half.
I want that. The utter ruin.
The urge is physical, so raw it’s almost pain. I run my tongue along my teeth and imagine it’s him, his thumb in my mouth, his fingers curling under my jaw. My body answers his call automatically: nipples hard, pussy clenching, a fresh wetness blooming between my thighs.
I write, messier this time:
“I can still taste him. I love it. I’m disgusting. I love that, too.”
A courtesy knock at the door and then the sound of the key in the lock.
I snap the diary shut, shove it under my pillow, and pull the covers up high. The sudden adrenaline blast flattens my libido, for a second anyway. The door opens a crack.
“Simone? You up?” It’s Andie, my roommate. Her voice is sticky with laughter and whatever she’s been drinking.
“Yeah. Come in,” I say, trying for normal, but my voice cracks on the first syllable.
Andie slides into the room, hair wild and cheeks flushed. She’s in a huge Century College sweatshirt and a cute denim miniskirt, her feet in white sneakers with hearts on the sides. She flops onto her own bed, sighs dramatically, and flings an arm over her eyes. “Fucking Christ, Pam and I just closed down the the Tavern. You should’ve come, babe. I texted like three times.”
I pretend to yawn. “Was dead to the world. Sorry. I have a headache.”
She snorts. “You? You never get headaches. You get existential crises and weird essay assignments, but not headaches.”