Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
The guard, Morris, has returned to his throne: chair tipped, boots up, arms crossed, face as blank as the walls. Every few minutes, he glances up. Each time, he looks at me just a little longer.
I try not to look back. I scroll my phone anyway, as if I could will a signal into existence. My hands shake. My heart pounds so hard I can feel the pulse in my gums.
I don’t want to be here when dawn comes.
I don’t want my stepbrother to see me like this—dress torn, makeup running, hair a greasy pelt. But I also can’t think of any way out.
I consider what Stella did. I picture myself doing a striptease. The thought makes me want to puke.
For a while, I just sit and let the horror marinate. My knees locked together, my heels digging into the bench for leverage. The air tastes like pennies.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes. It’s not great. It’s not something I want to do, but maybe it’ll get me out of this hellhole. I stand and approach the bars. Morris glances up, all lazy interest.
I say, “I have something better than a striptease.”
He uncrosses his arms. “Yeah?”
I swallow. “I have photos. On my phone.”
His eyebrows climb a notch, then he stands and walks over, slow. The metal of his keys rattles against his thigh. “Photos of what?” He’s close enough now to see the sweat on my hairline.
“Dirty ones,” I whisper, instantly wishing I hadn’t said it. “X-rated to the max. I’ll show you, if you let me out.”
He grins, a mouth full of teeth. “Really.”
I nod, then turn my phone to face him and tap my Photos file icon. At first, it’s just the regular selfies. Me in my room, lit by string lights, face all blush and gloss. Then the ones in the mirror: dress pulled tight, my tits squashed and mouth half-open, hair in wild blonde spirals. I swipe quickly, skipping the chaste ones, until I land on my “Homework” folder. This is the naughty batch.
Morris leans closer. His shadow blocks half the corridor, and I can smell cheap cologne mixed with sweat. Eew. But I take a deep breath and steel myself because I have to do this.
The next shot is me: on my bed, braless, one hand lifting a big breast, the nipple almost the color of my lips. The next: me, nude, legs spread a little, my fingers parting the pink of my pussy just enough to show a peep of my clit. I can’t breathe. I keep swiping. The photos get worse: me with a huge clear dildo, pout in a perfect O as I stroke the girthy shaft; me sucking it, lips stretched around the fake cock, eyes half-lidded; me lying back, the toy just a tad inside, one hand cupping a giant breast as I moan aloud.
Morris lets out a low grunt, almost a laugh.
“Jesus,” he says. “You really know how to show off, don’t you? Where do you girls come from? Fucking sluts.”
I can’t look at him as my cheeks flame with shame. I keep my eyes on the phone, watching myself parade by. The thing is, in the moment, I liked making them. I liked being someone else. I liked seeing what Trevor might see. Now, though, I want to crawl into a drain and die.
He lingers on a shot where I’m on all fours, hair over my eyes, dildo in my mouth and two fingers in my pussy. “You ever do this for real, or just with toys?” he asks, not like he cares about the answer.
My cheeks are so hot I might combust, and I try to dodge his question. “Can I go now?” I say.
He thinks about it. “Send them to me.”
I almost say no, but instead I say in a trembling voice, “What’s your number?”
He tells it to me, digit by digit. I type it in. My hands shake so badly I almost hit the wrong buttons, but I manage. I attach the worst of the photos—if I’m going to do it, I’ll do it all the way. I hit send. We both wait. The phone spins and spins, then errors out: “Message failed. Retry?”
“It won’t go through,” I say, desperate. “There’s no signal in here.”
He frowns, checks his own phone, and snorts. “Fucking metal roof,” he says. “This place is a Faraday cage. Nothing gets in or out.”
He slips his phone back into his pocket, and the look he gives me is hungry but bored, the way you might look at a half-finished sandwich.
“Guess you’ll have to do what your friend did,” he says. “If you want out.”
I stare at him. “You said I could show you pictures. I did. That’s the deal.”
He shrugs. “I’m a visual man, sweetheart, and I’ve decided I want more. Show me the real thing.”