THAT NO GOOD, LYING, SON of Satan, piece of shit!
I throw myself onto my bed, resting my head on my pillow. The sun is just coming up, and I’m exhausted. Defeated, crabby, completely sated, but mostly, exhausted. I’m surprised Christine isn’t home, but also thankful I don’t have to explain where I was all night. Showing up at dawn wearing a dress that costs more than my monthly tuition and lipstick that screams I’ve been up to no good doesn’t really coincide with the “I’ve been at the library studying all night” excuse.
It took everything in me not to murder the spawn of Satan in his own office. One month? He was insane. To even think I would put up with all his messed-up club craziness for a whole flippin’ month? Super loco. Insane in the membrane. Wackadoodle! Plus, I didn’t have a month. I needed that contract now. More like, hours ago.
My phone has a ton of missed text messages. The mean girls club asking where I am, giving me deadlines before they destroy my best friend’s dreams. I feared coming home empty-handed, but I wasn’t going to agree to spend another second under the claws of that sadist jackass.
I toss onto my side, beating my pillow to fluff it and curl into the fetal position. My vagina is still super sensitive, and embarrassment sets in thick. What in God’s name was I thinking? Had I gone temporarily insane to go along with all that? Okay, I’ll admit, I was intrigued. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve always heard about those types of places, but never truly believed them to be real. Because who willingly does that shit? Apparently, a whole underground society of sickos. So…maybe it wasn’t totally sick. Those people truly looked like they were enjoying themselves. And if I were honest, I wasn’t completely put off watching either.
I groan, throwing my fleece blanket over my head. What’s wrong with me? Even further, what’s wrong with him? We had a deal, and he completely screwed me. Ugh. If I wanted to get technical, I got screwed twice—once by a vibrating chair, the other by that jerk-off who totally lied to me. He said one night. I stuck to my end, and he jerked me over.
I don’t feel at all bad or embarrassed by the fit I threw in his office. If you ask me, he deserved the kick to the nuts, and he’s lucky I missed when trying to stab him with his own damn pen. Unfortunately, I found myself quickly bent over his desk with his, what I’m going to guess was a very large gun in his pocket, grinding into my butt cheeks. I didn’t mean to lose focus. Once he let me up, I had planned on stabbing his eyes out for cheating me. But that asshole got me to allow his hand up my dress and fuck me with his fingers until I was agreeing to his new contract!
I flop onto my back, whipping the blanket off me. My skin is on fire, and I can’t stop remembering the way his thick fingers knew exactly how to get me to break. Because he’s a sex master, dummy.
Ughhh.
It’s like, for the first time in my entire existence, someone else was making decisions for me. That being my vagina. I could barely catch my breath. I felt like I could just float away, I was so free. With each orgasm he gave me, it was as if he possessed my vagina who now had control of all future decisions. She agreed to the month, then decided it was okay to let him pull my dress up and suck on my privates until I was crying, yes crying, in ecstasy! Who the hell cries after an orgasm?
I take my pillow and try to suffocate myself with it. If the embarrassment hasn’t killed me yet, hopefully this pillow will. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to try using it on Satan’s spawn. As long as he doesn’t live long enough to tell anyone what happened tonight…
What am I going to do? I can’t go back there. That guy has some major issues. More than Jay-Z and his ninety-nine problems. My phone buzzes for the billionth time. I debate on checking it, but I know who it is. Those vultures won’t leave me alone.
Using all my muscles, I push the pillow harder over my face and hold it down. It seems to work in the movies. A solid ten seconds pass, but I’m still alive. The vibration of that damn phone is distracting my attempt to kick it. I give up, tossing my pillow. I dig into my purse and grab for my phone, but there are no waiting text messages. I unlock my phone just in time to hear the vibrations again. But it’s not my phone that’s vibrating. I look back in my purse. Something lights up at the bottom. Reaching down, I wrap my hand around a phone. “What the…?” I pull out a black iPhone and stare at it, confused. Could someone have dropped their phone in my purse by mistake? I scan the usual apps—the stock apps, Skype, phone tracker, the basic phone, email, and text. It’s then I notice the little red number one by the green text bubble. Whoever’s phone it is has a text message.
I open the app and read the message.
Damien: This phone is to stay with you at all times. When I need you, I’ll text. Don’t ever keep me waiting.
My eyes go wide as saucers. The urge to murder skyrockets. And my vagina nods, whispering, “10-4, buddy.”
That…that…I begin firing off a reply when the phone vibrates in my hands, another message popping up.
Damien: Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.
“Get some rest, you’re gonna need it,” I mock. Can someone be any cockier? Geez. I decide not to reply. It would just be fueling the fire. And right now, I need to figure out what I’m really going to do about the shitstorm I’ve gotten myself in to. I look at the clock and decide sleep isn’t going to happen since I have class in two hours. I toss the phone back in my purse and grab my stuff to shower, but not before changing a certain someone’s contact info in my brand-new bat phone.
I’m walking through the busy quad resembling a serial killer. My black hoodie is over my head, covering most of my face. It’s hot outside for September, and I’m probably making myself stand out more than blend in, but I just need to make it across campus to my Psych class without being noticed. Christine still wasn’t home by the time I left, so I sent her a text making sure she’s okay. Her response made me cringe, telling me she had a sleepover at the sorority house with Brittany and Sylvia.
My anxiety spikes as I pass a group of giggling girls all decked out in Greek letters huddled on the steps of the Union building. I lower my head and veer right, taking a detour to class. What are those girls’ real intentions with Christine anyway? Are they even interested in her as a person? Or is this just a game to mess with me and get what they want? In the end, they could also screw me and not offer her a spot in their cult. God, I feel like I’m getting screwed from all angles.
“Are you trying to become the campus freak?”
I jump to the side, almost tripping over my untied shoelace. I look up to see Sylvia not more than two feet away from me.
Dammit.
“Uh, what’d you say? Sorry, I don’t speak bitch.” She flinches, and I smile inwardly.
“Are you always so foul?” she responds.
Ugh, kinda. “What can I do for you, Sylvia? Clearly you’re not here to invite me to tea and crumpets at the Queen’s palace.”
She walks closer. “Clearly.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Not why I’m here. Curious, more like it.” She sticks out her hand, passing me a tiny card. I’m hesitant to take it. It’s probably laced with poison or something. “Oh, just take it. It’s technically addressed to you anyway. Not that we all haven’t already read it.”
Read what exactly? “What is it?” I reach out and grab the card.
“Of course, we kept the flowers. Being pink and all, it fit best in our house rather than your dungeon dorm room.” I give her my best “get fucked” look. “Let’s just say I didn’t think you had it in you.”
What in the world is she talking about? I open the card and read the handwritten message.
Welcome to Exquisite, Ms. Stone. Your membership and future dedication to my club is more than appreciated.
-D Cross
“What the fuck?” I turn the letter over and back. I read the message again, making sure I’m seeing this right. Why in God’s name did he send me flowers? When did he have time to? And why the fuck did he send them to the house of horrors?
Or whores.
Either way.
I shake my head, looking back at Sylvia.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “So, I guess congratulations are in order. You weren’t lying about getting into those clubs, even though I’m still dying to know how.” She eyes me with contempt.
“Yeah well, you know, someone out there has a fetish for campus freaks.” I toss the card at her, which she barely attempts to catch. “So, great, I fulfilled your silly dare. I look forward to my friend’s initiation into your cult of cunts for the next four years.” I don’t bother to hear her response. I give her my back and start walking up the steps of Haller Hall.
“Not so fast, Plain Jane. We’re not done. Change of plans.”
Jesus, what is it with everyone? I stop and face her.
“I want in.”
“In what? Aren’t you like the Queen Bee of the Pink Palace?”
“No, you dimwit. The club. I want in the club. And you’re gonna make it happen.”
I stare at her in shock. I had to have heard her wrong. “Yeah, I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me. I want in. I want to become a member. Make it happen, or I blackball your bestie. Your choice.”
Am I missing something here? Is it a full moon? Everyone blackmail Jensen week? I look around, checking for hidden cameras, praying I’m being Punk’d and this isn’t for real happening.
Nope.
No cameras.
Just a snotty sorority girl standing in front of me, tapping her ugly ass pink heels. I take the steps down two at a time. I’m in her face so fast, she stumbles backward.
“I fulfilled my stupid dare with you. We’re done. And you ever think to try to threaten me into doing something again, I’ll fucking ruin—”
“Hey, ladies!” We both turn as Christine practically bounces up to us.
Shit.
I take a quick glance at Sylvia, who’s masked her deviance with a fake smile. She’s a loose cannon. I have no idea what she’s truly capable of.
Christine reaches me and gives me a tight hug. “Hey! Missed you yesterday. How was the library?”
Sylvia snickers, catching Christine’s attention. “Hey, Sylvia.” She smiles nervously around her soon-to-be-master. They hug, and Christine steps back, offering me her attention. “So, what are you two chatting about?” She looks from side to side, waiting for one of us to answer.
I open my mouth to tell her Sylvia was just confiding in me about her rapid rash and herpes outbreak on her ass, but Sylvia beats me to the punch.
“Oh, Jensen was just offering to help me with some of our Psych homework. Weren’t you, Jensen?”
Homework, my ass. “Actually, more like black—”
“History,” she cuts me off. “You know, like how some of us will be if we don’t follow instructions?”
She smiles at me, and I narrow my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about murder so much in a twenty-four-hour period. Or ever. Not ever. I take a few seconds to weigh my options. I won’t let someone like Sylvia Who-Cares-What-Her-Last-Name-Is control me. If I don’t stand up to her now, she’ll just come back wanting more. I turn to Christine, ready to confess, tell her what her precious sorority sister is up to, but when I look at her, she’s beaming back at Sylvia.
Crap.
Craaaap.
I’ve had more mature moments in my life than right now, where I start to stomp my feet on the ground and cuss. “Goddammit. Shit. Fuck. Dammit. Dammmmit!”
“Jensen, what’s wrong? Everything okay?” Christine brings her attention to me, her comforting hand resting on my shoulder. Actually no, everything’s not okay. Your sister is a blackmailing whore. Not only has she gotten me suckered into a month-long contract with the son of Satan, now she wants to join me in hell!
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I just remembered I left my notebook in our room. Anywho! I gotta get to class. I’ll leave you two to discuss and debate how many colors of pink exist in the world.” I smile at my friend and give my back to the enemy. I start walking up the steps when Sylvia calls for me.
“So, I’ll hear from you soon, okay, Jen!”
I don’t bother turning around to respond. I raise my hand and offer a dainty wave in return. I may also have stalled, leaving up my middle finger a bit longer than necessary.
“…and in retrospect, the mind tells us with repetition comes conviction…” Ms. Phillips, my psychology professor, ends, turning and writing a brain chart on the board. I’m sitting in the way back of the large auditorium. The video screen allows me to see well enough to take the proper notes. Even though I should still be sitting in front, my lack of sleep made being in the back a better call since I’ve head-bobbed twice already, giving myself whiplash every time I accidentally fall asleep.
I should know better. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are my busiest class load. I wanted to fill my days to the rim in hopes to graduate early. Make the most out of college. Now, I’m regretting being a student altogether. My eyes feel like hundred-pound weights are holding them down. Stay open. Stay open. Stay—
“Ms. Stone?”
My head is up, eyes open. “Because the negative behavior coincides with the reaction. The dog just wants the treat.” What? Everyone is staring at me. “Um sorry, can you repeat the question?”
“Ms. Stone, I wasn’t asking a question. This man has a package for you.”
My eyes dart to the man standing next to her by the door. He’s carrying a box with a red bow. This cannot be happening to me right now. I pray my seat eats me whole. “Are you…uh, sure it’s for me?” A girl can only hope.
“Unless we have more than one Jensen Stone, come on down.”
Kill me now.
Students start laughing and whistling, and howling fills the packed auditorium as I stand and forcefully make my way the billion steps down to the ground level. It’s when I get up front and am being handed the box, I recognize the man. It’s one of Satan’s Henchmen. That son of a—
“If you’re done receiving presents, can we get back to class, Ms. Stone?”
Right. “Yes, sorry.” I give up staring down the handler and turn to make my way back to my chair, but not before I notice Sylvia’s beady eyes. How did I not know she was in my Psych class? Because there are almost three hundred people in this class? True. Settling back in my seat, I drop the box on the floor, showing no immediate interest in opening it, and pretend my Psych notes take precedence over whatever’s in the damn box.
But let’s be honest, we all know what it is. The same thing that was in the box the other night. An overpriced outfit so Satan’s spawn can dress me up like his little doll. When I came home, I wanted to tear the dress off me and burn it. But I also knew it was very expensive by the label and decided to hang it nicely in my closet with plans to resell it for extra school money.
I tap my pencil on the desk, trying to focus on the lecture and act interested in whatever it is Ms. Phillips is talking about. I’m also fighting hard not to look to my left at a set of eyes staring me down. She’s not going to let this go. Maybe I should give her the box and phone. Tell her exactly what’s in store for her and wish her the best. That would certainly get Damien out of my hair, along with the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pains in My Asses off my back.
The sound of buzzing from my purse alerts me I have a text. Of course, it’s coming from my stalker bat phone. I wait till Ms. Phillips turns to the board and bend down to scoop the phone up and read the new message.
Son of Satan: Be here at nine sharp.
I huff loudly, breaking the concentration of the guy next to me. “Sorry,” I apologize, then fire off a reply.
Me: Who the hell do you think you are sending your henchmen to my school?!
Son of Satan: I expect you to dress appropriately.
Me: You have some nerve, you know that? I don’t take orders from anyone!
Son of Satan: The red lipstick is also a requirement.
The nerve!
Me: Fat chance. Have fun waiting…
Son of Satan: See you soon, Ms. Stone.
Who the hell does this guy think he—
“Is there a problem, Ms. Stone?”
I whip my head up, noticing Ms. Phillips, along with half the class, staring at me. Shit! “Uh, no, sorry.”
I drop the phone back in my purse, jam my pen in my hand, and give my complete focus to the overhead screen. I do my best to listen and take in Ms. Phillips’ words about Ivan and his dog, but I have a battle going on in my head. While I try to learn about the Russian Scientist and his pet training, my mind wants to dissect those messages and murder the person who sent them, all while wondering what kind of clothing he sent me this time. I assume it’s clothing. The elegant box with the Bloomingdales logo on it basically gives it away. I’m not a dress-up kind of girl. My wardrobe is basic, and I like it that way. I would rather spend my money on a band t-shirt than a fancy anything.
But that dress the other night…after fighting with myself over refusing to give in and put it on, it felt…I felt beautiful in it. The material slid down my back, fitting perfectly as if it were made just for me. I hated myself for even thinking it since it all sounded super fairytale-ish, which my situation was far from.
In reality, I was being blackmailed by one blackmailer to please my other blackmailer. Damien Cross was a no-good jerk who apparently needed to force women to be with him. Which shocks me since he’s an attractive man. Maybe attractive isn’t the right word. His presence takes my breath away. He stole it the first time I saw him, then again in his office, even though that may have been caused by scaring me half to death. But last night, the way he looked at me, the way his breath hit my skin…the excitement that rushed through my body each time he asked me to explain every carnal visual before me.
A part of me was freaked out by my reaction. How was something so lewd turning me on? It was wrong to be watching a private moment between two people, or three. Standing there, watching all those lascivious things happen, catching myself fighting not to squeeze my thighs together. I was turned on. Ashamed that I couldn’t look away. And intrigued. I wanted to know how it felt to have the thin fur whip against my skin. Fear the sudden rush of pain but be rewarded by the sexual release. The woman’s face was filled with emotion. Need, pain, lust. Watching her release was…hot, beautiful, disturbing, confusing. This was all new to me. I went from being inexperienced in all things male species to level bazillion in sexual knowledge. I was in the minors, who barely knew much about third base, but there I was watching someone pitch for the major leagues, taking notes.
When we entered the final room, my eyes almost fell out of their sockets. The number of objects hanging before me. My walls immediately went up. Watching was one thing. Participating? I decided in that moment it was not something I wanted to do. I was going to tell him the deal was off. No way was I going to get whipped and tied up. I had respect for myself. But my words failed me when I found myself bent over the bed, fulfilling my curiosity. The touch of the whip felt even better then what I imagined. The rush every time it flicked against my clit. I could feel the rush of wetness between my legs proving how aroused I was. Embarrassed by my response to it all, but I was becoming too far gone to care. I couldn’t even explain how turned on I was. It was intense. New to me. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it never to end. But then he did stop. I wanted to cry. Take my hand to myself and rub roughly until whatever he had built inside me freed.
I left his office close to dawn having had two of the best orgasms of my life. Strangely none of them due to us actually having sex. I wasn’t terribly disappointed. I mean, from what I felt, I’m not sure I would enjoy him and his large gun up my stuff anyway. I’m a small person, not made for large objects. But then again, I wondered why he never even attempted. Not once did he force me, or coerce me to do anything to him. I left wobbly and light on my feet, whereas he, he looked so on edge he was going to go slay a whole colony.
Should I have offered? Being the polite thing to do? Okay, dumb question, no. He was blackmailing me! I owed him nothing. Even if it was kind of rude to receive and not give. And it’s not like I was asking for any of this. So there. He gets nothing.
I shake my head, trying to fight off all these thoughts. Dog. Focus on the dog. Classic conditioning. Blah, blah, blah. I don’t know why I even bother trying to dissect what happened. It’s not happening again. If he thinks I’m going to obey him and show up in whatever’s in that box, he’s nuts.
Don’t open that box.
Open it. I bet it’s pretty.
Who cares! It’s from a deranged control freak who needs to lure women in by fancy things and bribery.
I still bet it’s pretty.
I bet it is too.
Sitting Indian style in the middle of my dorm room, I try to convince myself I can still open the box and see what’s inside without putting it on and showing up at Exquisite. He’ll never know I did. I can just peek, then send it back. With a sigh of defeat, I pull at the lace and unwrap the bow, pretending the excitement swirling in my stomach is due to turkey fritter night in the cafeteria.
The second the top is off, I gasp. My hands fight between covering my mouth in shock or touching the vibrant green silk.
“This is so ugly. Put the top back on, Jensen.” I will once I just have a little touch. My fingers brush over the silky material. I pick up the dress and rub it between my fingertips. Before I can stop it, the dress is out of the box and I’m up, holding it up against my body.
Standing in front of our full-length mirror, I stare back at myself. The dress is absolutely stunning. And, of course, completely open in the back. I twirl it around a few times, knowing I can’t keep it, but imagine myself in it, feeling just as beautiful as the dress itself.
“You cannot keep her. Put her down and go eat your heart out in turkey fritters. You love turkey fritters. Love them. The mashed potatoes with gravy. Best part of Wednesday. Focus on Wednesday.”
I can do this. Focus on Wednesday.