by Mia Asher
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Quote
Part One
One
Two
Three
Part Two
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgements
Extras
Published by Mia Asher
Copyright © 2013 by Mia Asher
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editor: Jennifer Roberts-Hall
Cover Designer: Regina Wamba, Mae I Design
Interior Designer: Kassi's Kandids-Formatting
Proofreader: Ryn Hughes
If nothing saves us from death, may love at least save us from life.
~Pablo Neruda.
WHAT IS LOVE?
I don’t know.
I’ve never had it.
Is it even real?
No, I don’t think so. I mean, how can I believe in love when I’ve never witnessed it? When it seems to only exist in books and films, or in the lives of people more fortunate than me? Trust me, I know.
Love is my personal chimera.
I am gazing at brown eyes, admiring the richness of the color, the beauty of the man to whom they belong.
“You’re so beautiful, Blaire … so wet,” he murmurs, his hand going between my legs as he begins to rub me. The soft invasion of his fingers spreads me open, tuning my body to his wants and needs, preparing me to be taken as the hot friction of his touch lights a wildfire within my body. It’s not the first time he has touched me like this, but each time feels better and better—the sensations all consuming and heady.
One finger.
Two fingers.
One finger.
Two fingers.
Over and over again.
His invasion is fast and slow, deep and shallow. His touch is soiled heaven.
As I open my legs wider for him, I wonder if it feels this good because of him, or because I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to me and making it mine.
“Don’t stop … it feels so good,” I breathe.
Okay, maybe it’s because at this moment in time this man thinks he loves me and no one else but me, however false his proclamation may be.
I close my eyes as his lips land on mine. He kisses me gently, as if I’m made out of glass. He kisses me with that familiar mouth I’ve seen smile tenderly at me so many times before. The assault of his tongue debilitates me but doesn’t incapacitate me.
“It’s four dollars, gorgeous,” the cute barista says, smiling at me.
I’m about to pay for my cappuccino when I hear a deep, manly voice say, “Let me get that for you.”
A man wearing a beige suit comes forward, standing next to me as he hands the barista some bills. “I’ve seen you around … you’re Paige’s friend.”
I smile, licking my suddenly dry lips. “Thank you, and yes … I know Paige.”
The smile on his handsome face seems to freeze as his gaze follows the tip of my tongue, the spark of hunger brightening his eyes. Inwardly, I smile because who knew it was so easy to make men desire me, particularly when I went without attention for so long.
“My pleasure. Are you”—he coughs—“here with someone else?”
I shake my head and look at him through fluttering eyelashes. “No, I’m here by myself.” I pause, touching his arm invitingly, and smile. “Would you like to join me?”
He looks around the coffee shop, probably considering if he should, if it’s proper to do so, but less than five seconds later, he’s staring at me once again. “Sure.”
Yes, just like that.
The beige walls are spinning.
The clock is ticking.
The bed springs creak as the moon shines outside the motel window.
And the man above me kisses me while he fingers me, preparing me for him. Gotta love such a thoughtful man.
I can taste his sweet saliva mixing with mine, and I love it.
“Please,” I beg against his lips, reaching for his hard cock and wrapping my fingers around it. “I’m ready.”
I feel his mouth leave mine as he begins to make his way down my partially dressed body. “Are you sure, Blaire? Are you sure you want to do this with me?”
I open my eyes to witness what I think I want him to do. No, what I’m sure I want him to do. I can’t help the smile I feel playing on my lips as I see him struggling with his conscience. He asks me if I’m sure when he has already fucked my mouth with his cock countless number of times, when his fingers have filled every orifice of my body. Should I laugh? No … I decide to take pity instead.
“I’m sure, so sure,” I say, letting my arms land like dead weight on the bed, the cheap fabric rough against my skin.
“All right.”
When I feel the bed dip between my legs, I instinctively open them for him and watch as he brings a condom package to his mouth. As he rips it open with his teeth, I admire his perfect full lips that emphasize how good-looking he is.
I feel pleased with myself.
So fucking pleased because he wants me.
Mr. Callahan wants me. Me. Can you believe it? Chubby Blaire. Ugly and awkward Blaire.
Unlovable Blaire.
I guess I’m not that ugly anymore. My body? What was considered fat as a child is now called boobs and ass. Guys want it. They want me. They want to touch me, grope me, feel me … they want to screw me. And it feels good to be wanted … so good. It makes me feel powerful, and like a potent drug spreading inside your bloodstream, I want more.
I need more.
“Hurry up,” I say, not bothering to be shy or coy about it. I mean, he brought me here to have sex, right?
“Fuck, give me a second, Blaire. Trying to get the damn condom on my dick.”
As he rolls the rubber down his hard shaft, his eyes wander over my bare chest, my face, my spread legs. Shaking his head as if trying to clear his mind, he mutters, “You’re so beautiful. I want you so much.”
That’s not the first time I’ve heard those words come out of a man’s mouth. Josh tells me all the time how beautiful I am, how perfect I am, how much he wants me. But he’s just a guy I randomly make out with. The words kind of lose their meaning when it’s the same person saying them to you over and over again.
“Show me.”
Those two words are all it takes for him to spread my legs wider with his hands and finally enter me. Pain shoots through my body, and a groan escapes my mouth when he covers my body with his. I
feel his whole length inside me in one deep thrust.
“Christ, you’re so tight.”
He lifts both my legs, wrapping them around his lean waist and starts to thrust. Hard. It hurts. But I like the pain. It sobers me.
“Oh God … I love you, Blaire. I love you … I love you …” he pants in my ear.
And that’s when reality comes crashing down on me. It hits me with the speed and blinding power of a torpedo, making me realize what I’m doing. What I’m giving away. And the man doesn’t even know it.
What the hell am I doing?
Proving that you are your mother’s daughter.
Making her proud.
The room is filled with the noises of the man grunting his pleasure and the wet slapping of our skin; it makes me want to gag. I want to throw up. Maybe it’s the alcohol I drank.
Maybe it’s self-disgust.
The initial pain is gone and now I just feel sore. And strange, like an out of body experience.
He lowers his face, his lips about to connect with mine, and I feel the bile rise inside my throat. I turn my face to the side, his kiss landing on my cheek. My eyes watch the way the lights in the bathroom illuminate all its used and dirty ugliness.
“Oh God, I’m going to come … I’m going to come … I’m going to come,” he continues to pant in my ear, pumping in and out of my body. Before I know what’s happening, he half screams and half groans, his body going tense on top of mine.
And just like that it’s over. In less than five minutes I’ve managed to kill a part of me.
Our breathing evens and he pulls out, moving to stand up. I push myself up on my elbows to see him inspect his condom. It still glistens. By the time he lifts his eyes, connecting with mine, I’ve already wrapped my body with the duvet cover.
Confusion, shock, and pleasure reflect in those brown eyes. “I—I didn’t know … I …” His hands go to his hair as we stare at each other. “I didn’t know you were a virgin.”
I shrug my shoulder carelessly, causing the duvet to slide down, exposing my bare breasts to him. His eyes immediately flare with lust. “It doesn’t matter … I wanted it to be you.”
And that’s the truth.
“But—”
“But nothing. If it bothers you, then forget it happened. I already did,” I say, ending the conversation.
This is my body. I will have the last word. Not him. Not anyone. This is my life. This is my decision.
Without giving myself a chance to doubt my next words, I turn to look at him in all his naked beauty, the gold wedding ring on his finger catching my attention. “Don’t worry, Mr. Callahan … I won’t tell your daughter that you fucked her classmate.”
And with that, I seal my destiny.
I DIDN’T HAVE AN ABUSIVE CHILDHOOD. My parents didn’t beat me, didn’t yell at me—they just weren’t there. I was the lonely child who talked to her animals and dolls. But in my case, the absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder. With time, and after many tears shed and unheard prayers to a deaf God, absence made my heart grow bitter and hard. It froze me from the inside out.
I didn’t have love, but I never lacked beautiful things without a heartbeat.
My parents gave me gifts, not love ... or was it their love that was offered with each tangible gift?
Maybe those things were just substitutes for their love and their presence.
Maybe that’s why I associate happiness with possessions?
As a child, I didn’t hunger for any of those things. I hungered for the love of my parents. For a motherly caress or a sweet pat on the shoulder as they told me that they were proud of me. I longed for a tender embrace in my darkest hours …
But I had nothing.
I was nothing.
I’m still nothing.
And I don’t care anymore.
That chubby girl who cried herself to sleep every night … the same girl who kneeled by her bed and prayed to the skies above for a happy family—for someone to see her …
That chubby girl is gone forever.
And in her stead is me—beautiful, shiny, empty Blaire. Attention-loving Blaire. Really, after so many years without anyone noticing me, I now thrive on the feeling I get when all eyes are on me. Men or women, I don’t care as long as they see me. As long as they follow me whenever I step into a room.
I’m in the midst of rolling the waistband of my plaid skirt to make it shorter when I hear the soft vibration of my phone. Walking away from the tall mahogany dresser, I make my way to the bed where my phone is lying amongst a pile of yellow fluffy pillows. Throwing myself on the bed, I feel the mattress bounce underneath me and smile when I see the name of the caller.
Mr. Callahan.
Just because I feel like fucking around with his mind, I wait to answer for a couple more rings.
“Hi, Matthew.” Mr. Callahan’s name feels like a dirty secret on my lips.
“Hello, Blaire … I thought you weren’t going to answer,” he teases.
“Maybe …”
“You little tease. Can you sneak out of school during your lunch hour? My schedule cleared up for the afternoon, and I want to see you again.”
I bite my lip and rub my legs together; the soreness is gone since a week has already passed. I picture us back in the same seedy motel room with its dirty yellow-colored curtains and avocado furniture, and the memory alone makes the smells of his sweat and the moldy rug fill my nose once more. It would be nice to meet at a respectable hotel in town instead of our usual place, but keeping our affair anonymous is paramount for him.
“Tut-tut,” I say. “Asking a senior in high school to skip school, Matthew?”
He chuckles. “It’s the only time I’ll be able to see you and be alone with you until next week. Besides, I bought you something that I think you might like.”
“Oh, yeah? What did you get me?”
“Well, if you want to find out you’ll have to come and meet me.”
I giggle like the seventeen-year-old girl that I am. “Matthew! Please tell me!”
“I knew I’d be able to find your weakness … so you like presents, huh?”
“Not usually, but I guess I do now.”
He chuckles once more. “Send me a picture of yourself and I’ll tell you what it is.”
“What kind of picture do you want?” I ask flirtatiously.
“Whatever you want to send me, Blaire. I just want to see your pretty face—I miss you,” he says, his voice growing deeper.
His words sink in my head, the real meaning hidden between the lines. I can almost picture him sitting in his office chair behind the desk looking pristine in his silvery-grey suit, waiting to jerk off to anything I send him.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Good … I’ll be waiting.”
After I hang up, I continue to lie on my bed and stare at my light-blue ceiling while my fingers play with my cellphone. I wonder briefly why it feels like I’m selling my soul, but I dismiss the thought as quickly as it comes.
Shimmying out of my skirt, the waistband touching my skin as it goes down, I’m left wearing only my white shirt and navy blue vest and a pair of white cotton panties. I open the camera application on my phone and lift an arm in the air so I can take a picture of myself lying on the bed.
I can feel some loose wisps of hair tickling my chin as I lower my hand and place it inside my underwear. My heartbeat accelerates in anticipation and my breath shortens as I begin to rub myself slowly, imagining the soft, wet caress of his tongue inside me, licking, lapping … fucking me.
My cheeks burn a rosy pink as I feel my lips swell. Closer. Much closer. A moan escapes and I’m there, snapping a picture for Mr. Callahan at the same time my body floats high on ecstasy and bright colors twirl in my head.
There … that should do.
Once I’m satisfied with the shot—a shot that showcases a voluptuous girl with hair the color of coal and skin as pale as the moonlight, touching herself for her lover on a bed
covered in daisies, her blue eyes sparkling with a feverish light that promises the forbidden—I send it. Not a minute goes by before I receive a text message from him. When the image has fully loaded, a tarnished smile touches my lips as I stare at the ice-blue box wrapped in an elaborate white bow.
Maybe that voice inside my head wasn’t wrong after all.
I am selling my soul.
And the sad part is …
I don’t care.
I’m walking through the halls of my high school with my back erect and my chin held high like a regal queen. Fear of my classmates’ scorn is pushed so far back in the recesses of my heart that I’ve almost forgotten it exists—almost—but the slight tremble in my hands tells me otherwise. Fuck.
Looking around, but not making eye contact with anyone, I sense the way crowds open to let me through as if I’m some animal carrying a contagious disease. Or maybe it’s because they just want to get a better look at my ass in my short plaid skirt. Same difference if you ask me because I don’t mind either—I enjoy both.
There are no girlfriends waiting for me by my locker with a ready smile on their faces and today’s gossip on the tips of their tongues. No best friend about to link her arm with mine as we make our way to first period English while chatting about our weekend and boys. There’s no one … at least no one that counts.
Growing up in a home with no siblings and self-absorbed parents was a lonely way to live life for a child. However, loneliness taught me to be comfortable being alone … or maybe it just hardened me?
It was the same way in school, too—it still is. I have no friends. It all goes back to the day I found out the reason no one wanted to be friends with me.
We were only nine years old.
It was lunchtime on a cool spring day. The sun was warm on my skin, but the air still sent a chill running through my body. I was making my way to an empty bench far away from the playground when I saw Paige and her posse approaching me. It was too late to avoid them. I remember lowering my eyes to the ground, pretending that I didn’t see them and hoping to get them to ignore me, but I wasn’t that lucky. As soon as I was close enough, I heard Paige, who was flawless, say to her friends, “She’s so fat. I wonder if she eats in her sleep.” There was snickering and then someone added, “Did you know that her mom left her and her dad for another man when she was like two years old but then came back? My mom told me to never be friends with her because her mom steals daddies, and her dad is always drunk.”
