Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
The heat that covers my face could fry an egg in ten seconds flat as the muscles in his shoulders flex, his jaw hardens to stone, and God, wetness is streaming out of me under his gaze.
He scrubs one hand down his face, clearing his throat, and embarrassment burns at my lids.
“I’m made wrong,” I sputter, my voice crackling through the speakers, taunting me with the certainty that he’s horrified by my malformed lady business. The only time I’ve looked at porn was when I stole my mother’s cell phone after she’d had too many margaritas one day by the pool.
I thought something was different about me, but I needed to be sure, so I found a site and started to look at the women’s pictures with their legs open and all their anatomy on display.
They had little clits. Barely a quarter inch if they were on the bigger side. I maybe spent a few shaking minutes watching some of the men, too. Fascinated by the length of their man parts and how they were roughly jerking and tugging on themselves in order to find their own relief. It all looked so violent and desperate, but in the end, it was just confirmation that what God had given me in my own southern hemisphere was not normal.
Reuben’s other hand is still down by his hip, the fingers still loosely curled as a strangled sort of growl works its way out of his throat. He drops the hand from his face downward, and the muscles in his biceps and shoulders start to rhythmically flex and shift. It reminds me of the movement of the men in the videos that I saw when I looked at porn on my mom’s phone, but I’m too afraid to look down and see.
I curl my toes into the soft velvet, praying for the moment of my shame to end as the ache at the apex of my thighs starts to make me dizzy.
His nostrils flare, his face turns a dark red, and I can’t help it when my hips lift and pulse. My body needs something, and I can’t name it or ask for it, not from him. Not from the man I’ve grown up with, that I consider my father in all ways except blood.
“It’s wrong, isn’t it? Girls don’t look like me. They shouldn’t look like me. Do you think—” The words catch in my throat as tears spill down my cheeks. “Is there a doctor, maybe, who could fix me? Like a cosmetic surgery gyno, something? Does that exist?”
It does. I’ve looked it up. But it’s not like I could call and make an appointment. I couldn’t drive myself there or pay for it, let alone tell my mother. I can’t even imagine that conversation.
I do have a car. Reuben bought me my dream car for my sixteenth birthday, a Volvo XC40. It was the closest current model to what Edward Cullen drove in the Twilight movies because I have a secret guilty pleasure when it comes to those movies. I think Edward was my first crush, my tastes have changed for sure, but I always loved those cars he drove. It’s not sexy or flash, but I guess neither am I and it was something Rueben could get behind because it’s one of the safest cars on the market.
He worries too much, but I also secretly love that about him. I’m just too scared to drive alone, and I hate to admit it, but I like Joey. He’s fun, and none of the boys at school would think of putting a sign on my back when he’s around, because he’s also scary.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he answers with a hard stare, as wetness drips down into the crack of my buttocks. “You’re fucking perfect. A pussy a father can be proud of. It’s a masterpiece, baby.”
He shudders, and as much as I want to close my legs and have this be over, there’s a shimmer in his eyes that makes me feel like he’s looking at something precious. Rare.
Masterpiece, baby.
“Any man who got a peek at what you have would do what I’m doing now. Drop to his knees in worship, baby. There’s nothing fucking wrong with you. You’ve got the fucking jackpot of jackpots there between your legs, and let me be really fucking clear that no other man will ever, ever see you like this, do you understand?”
The question feels like a knife in my heart as my womanhood throbs and pulses. I’m shaking and fighting for air as I nod, confused, but my body releases more moisture, and my hips start to rise and fall without permission.
He blinks slowly, his hand moving between his legs, over the fabric of his jeans, as I swallow around the ball of turmoil in my throat.