by Jayce, Aven
If he only knew.
“Divine Hallowell,” his voice is soft and suggestive as his lips brush against my ear. I close my eyes and inhale. “I bet you fuck like a wild animal.”
Mehhh.
I’m a taster. I like to nibble and chew... and he’s not coming inside just yet. In my house (ever) or in my vagina (right now).
I retreat, turn the deadbolt and exhale then slide down the back of my door and listen for his footsteps. It seems like an eternity before he walks away and I can finally take another deep breath. Do I know how to pick ‘em, or what? He could be in one of my novels, or better yet, I could be a character in one of Kimmy Firestorm’s books.
Except I won’t wait until the end (the last scene) to fuck Dan. It will happen soon. I make a mental note to buy a jar of caramel.
The remainder of my beer is poured down the kitchen drain before I crawl back into bed with my laptop. I want to tell the Dick Sluts about him, my new man, but the posts can only be book related. Damn. Instead, I post on my regular newsfeed as Div, knowing my thirty-or-so friends don’t give a shit. And sure as I’m caking my ass with body butter, waiting for a response, staring at the screen for ten minutes, the post gets zero likes.
Porn is better than Facebook anyway. I haven’t forgotten that. It was what I was going to watch after I finished my beer, but there’s no escaping it now, not after seeing Dan all wet and drippy on my front porch.
You think I should’ve fucked him, right? And sometimes when I say you, I’m referring to Violet Cuddlecock. The only other person, or I should say, the other presence in my life. You would’ve fucked him, I know.
Yep. Sucked and fucked within the first two hours of our date.
Violet and I are not the classic alter ego duo you’d read about in a book, not even close to the good and evil split persona you’d expect. We’re both fucked up in our own way; she’s just more honest about it. If she wanted to kill someone, she’d do it, where I’d only fantasize about it. If she wanted to fuck Dan within an hour of meeting him, she’d tell him flat out. She might just say that to him soon, and it might come out of my mouth when she does. Every so often, that side of me, my old self that I can’t let go, reappears. I call her my pen name because the content in my books are based on a time in my life when she was real, a younger and wilder me.
And no, I don’t have a split personality. Violet’s just the little voice in my head, a voice that’s been with me since my mother died, and one that gives me strength and power to do the things Div can’t do on her own. I’m not crazy. I mean, everyone has an inner voice, mine may be stronger and more abrasive than others, a bit pestering at times, but it’s not uncommon and I am getting better at pushing her aside. Maybe. I think.
So the porn... I need visuals, images; that’s why I love these online sites. But I can’t find a video that will turn me on enough to climax. Years ago it was quick. After a minute or two I was done. Everything back then was hot. Now I feel as though I’ve seen all the videos ever made. Nothing gets me off anymore. I sit in bed with my fingers over my clit, moving slowly, scrolling through site after site, but it doesn’t happen. Every once in a while a video will surprise me. The guy’s loud, talkative, he grunts and shows his best cum face... and then it ends. It never lasts long enough.
Yeah, I know the videos are like ten or fifteen minutes in length, but who in their right mind watches the entire thing? I guarantee you everyone’s just like me, you slide the video to the end, just before the cum shot. That’s the good part, the part that should cause a quick arousal.
An hour passes, and I’m still searching for something new and exciting.
Bride fucked by best man
Fire station ho’s
Cum shot compilation
I came across one a week ago that was incredible. It was a young guy fucking an overweight hooker in a hotel room on a hidden cam. And then I noticed it was a series. The hooker taped all of her “clients.” Same room, same outfit, same camera angle, same position, different guy. But now I can’t find any of them. I forgot to bookmark it.
That’s something I shouldn’t do anyway, bookmark porn sites. Someone would be bound to come across it if I died. I’m unsure who that would be, but someone. That’s why my vibrator is at the very bottom of my box of pads. No one in their right mind would dig through feminine products if they were called in to clean out a dead woman’s house. The box, along with my vibrator, would get tossed. And by the way, I bought that toy with my Christmas bonus last year. Every faculty member receives a whopping thirty bucks, and there’s no better way to spend that money than on fake dick.
I smile, thinking that Violet would never hide it. She’d leave it out for everyone to see. As a-matter-of-fact, she’d leave it inside herself so when she was undressed at the coroner’s office, a big dick-shaped device would be jutting out of her hole.
I guess the problem with this porn thing is I’m always looking for something different. Just one more click, one more video, one more search and I’ll find it. And it’s not anything hardcore either. I’m not big on viewing BDSM or rape videos when I masturbate.
Nothing works tonight.
It’s frustrating.
I can’t do it.
Even the vibrator isn’t doing the trick.
Fuck!
But yet I stare at my laptop, my eyes glazed over after hours of watching the screen. I love the imagery, the motion, the sounds, it’s all consuming.
I’m going to fuck Daniel. He’ll be able to make me come. He’s the type. Tomorrow.
My Div Hallowell Facebook site still shows zero likes on my post. Screw my friends. I’m going back to the Dick Sluts. The Sluts are always posting, always commenting, every few seconds there’s a new question, a new pic, and a new...
Someone doesn’t like my book... another author... wait, wait... let me read this...
Hayden Night (Author)
Have you Sluts read Violet Cuddlecock’s novel? What did you think? I found it slow and dry, not as good as some of the others in the genre. Have you guys read mine? It’s much darker and dirtier... cheaper too!
94 people like this.
No fucking way. That bitch! The nerve of her to use my book to market her own. Don’t fuck with me.
I sign into Amazon and debate whether or not to give her book a one-star review, but I’m not like her. I’m not going to damage another author’s ratings. But, that was low, what she did was fucking low. My street team appears and comments on her post.
I really enjoyed Violet’s book.
Cuddlecock’s book is one of my favorites of the year.
Where are the admins? Someone should delete this post.
Her post disappears, either by an administrator of the site or because my street team drove her away. Bitch.
A message appears while I’m signed in as Violet. Shit, it’s Kimmy Firestorm. What the fuck does she want?
Hi Violet! I’m an author on the Dick Sluts and I was wondering if you saw Hayden’s post about your book? I found it very rude and inappropriate behavior for an author to do that. I hope you’re okay and it didn’t hurt your feelings too much! If you want a happy book to read to lift your spirits then here’s a link to my new release - HOLDING OUT. XXOO!
Oh, my fucking Lord. These authors are crazier than I am. I’d like to say go fuck yourself, Kimmy, for pimping your books in a private message to my author, but unfortunately I have no choice but to be nice to everyone; these are the women who buy my books, well, their fans are, and one wrong move... one mistake, one enemy, and my career as a writer could be over and then I’m stuck at the university forever. I’d have to change my pen name and start again.
I need a publisher, damn it... and it’s time to call it a night.
My final online activity at the end of each day is to check my school email. Not my favorite thing to do, but it’s a requirement to respond to students and colleagues in a timely manner. Sometimes Margaret Cole sends me a dumbass question, like W
hy don’t we have any majors? Or Do you think I should tell anyone that I’m going out of town for a week? I never answer, but I’ve received a few that have kept me awake at night. One that mentioned she had heard my students weren’t learning anything. But nothing, nothing could prepare me for the one I received tonight. It’s from a student. Sorority girl.
Professor Hallowell,
I wanted to let you know that I find your classes too structured with no freedom for creativity or expression. I’ve enjoyed making crafts since the first grade and I believe I could do a better job teaching at the university level than you have. I have brought my concerns to the attention of Professor Cole, and with her help, I have crafted a petition to have you removed from your position. It will be turned into the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences tomorrow morning.
I am documenting this in an email because I’m not ashamed to come forward and let you know where the petition originated. It will not be anonymous.
I am also requesting that a different professor, Professor Cole, grade my final work of the semester and that the grade on my transcript come from her. This seems only fair, considering the circumstances.
- Hannah
Sorority girl Hannah is dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sometime past midnight I walked to Daniel’s row house and looked in his bedroom window. The room was dark, no movement, nothing. I slept sporadically, and now I have to go to school and teach twenty pee-holes how to use some fairly complicated software.
I pace in my living room before I leave for work, making animal noises once more. Mehhh, mehhh. You think I’m cracked, I know you do, but it’s only to scare the shit out of people. I hope anyone who hears me is afraid.
“Listen, it’s coming from Div Hallowell’s place. It sounds like she has a dying lamb inside.”
I don’t want anyone coming in or out of my home.
I dress in blue, just in case I’m called into the Dean’s office. In the land of color, blue gives people the sense that you’re a calm, loyal, and honest person. So I have on my light blue sweater, my dark blue skirt, and a pair of white Keds. I look as pure and wholesome as Laura Ingalls. They’ll never fire me. I’m the pretty one.
After a trip to Starbucks (part of Dan’s list was correct) and a ride through the overly expensive carwash, I approach campus and see a crowd of students outside of one of the dorms as I park in the faculty lot. That can only mean one of two things. Either someone’s passed out by the front door after a night of heavy drinking, or a dryer vent caught on fire and set off one of the alarms. Both happen on a regular basis.
But when a police car appears I know something else is up. The real police, not campus security; an actual cop is here. I walk over and take note of sorority girl Hannah, crying in the arms of one of her friends. That’s odd, considering her sorority house is all the way on the other side of campus.
There are plenty of whispers as I approach and luckily I can tell that this time they’re not about my colleague and me. I hear the words bike ride and missing, and then someone says he left his cell.
Everyone knows only one student on campus is an avid cyclist, Big Boy, sorority girl Hannah’s boyfriend. I call him that because he looks just like that fast food chain’s advertising figure. Only he has a mustache and he wears glasses. Add those two things to a Big Boy mascot and you’ve got Hannah’s boyfriend.
The guy’s been in one of my classes, but I haven’t a clue as to his real name. I’m just not very good with names. I have nicknames for all of them, my students; it makes it easier for honest grading without worrying about grade inflation. If I become too attached, get to know them, where they’re from, what they enjoy, the music they listen to, then they might end up with a higher grade. Grade inflation. I like you, so you get an A! That’s asinine.
Hannah frowns when she sees me and then starts to sob again. I notice her sweatpants have grass stains on the knees and there’s mud on her ass and back. I’d say she probably gave her boyfriend or some random guy head last night, or early this morning, then sat back and did some dry humping.
I know I’m being a jerk, but that fucking email was bullshit.
“Hallowell!”
My boss. The Chair of my department waves me over to the side. He’s a nice guy, but a little naive. A man who’s got a long blonde pony-tail and is shaped like a pear, always in khaki and plaid, and often referred to as the creepy uncle by the students.
“Richard,” I smile. “Do you know what happened?”
We watch Hannah being led into a police car and driven away.
“Campus security mentioned there was a ‘lover’s quarrel’ in the middle of the night and a student reported his roommate never returned from a late night bike ride. From the way the girl looks, I’d say she was assaulted in some way, and the guy knows he’s gonna get caught so he took off.”
“Is that what you would do? You’d disappear?” Oh Div, why do you ask such stupid questions? Is that what you would do? Richard, thankfully, ignores my words as he watches the crowd, keeping his hands in his pockets and his eyes everywhere but on me. He’s a man who’ll never look a woman in the eye. I think we, women in general, terrify him.
“Div? Have you spoken with any of your colleagues lately? Anyone in or outside of the department?”
Why is he asking me this? Why now? “No.”
“Some friendly advice...”
Oh, here we go, the friendly advice lecture.
“Stop hiding out...”
I fold my arms in defense as he speaks.
“You need to get out of your office and classroom more. Why don’t you invite a colleague to coffee or lunch? Or go out to the bar with some of us on Friday nights? A few people have come to me and have mentioned...”
“People? And invite what colleague to coffee? Anyone specific?”
“You and Margaret...”
Fuckin’ A, here we go.
“The two of you need to come to terms or the Board of Trustees may consider eliminating the department. There can’t be so much tension between the two of you. The students can sense that something’s off, you know? Remember, we exist in these positions because of them, and for them.”
“Trust me, I know.” My heart’s racing. He’s heard about the petition. I just know he’s heard about the petition.
“I want you to try harder.”
I roll my eyes. I didn’t mean to, but I did.
“Div, listen to me. You’re going to have a hard time getting tenure if the two of you can’t get along. I’m trying to help you out,” he sighs.
“Okay.”
He looks at me; he turns and actually looks at me with a doubtful expression.
“You do realize that plenty of people have quit because of her. I haven’t done anything wrong. She makes...”
“It’s her word against yours and I hear different things from different people,” he says.
Fuck you, Richard. From now on, I’m referring to you as dick. “I’ll try.”
I head to my office with my Grande Mocha Frappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, frothy cream on my lips and thoughts racing on how I could possibly make things work with my colleague. She’s trying to take me down, Margaret Cole, but it won’t be a quiet collapse. I’ll bring her with me if she doesn’t let up. Making an effort on my part is what I’ve tried for years... years.
At least Hannah’s too busy this morning to meet with the Dean. A smile appears and there’s a spring in my step. This might turn out to be a good day. I whistle while I work.
My office is the only one on the top floor of the oldest building on campus. A stone three-story with the American flag flapping its pretty stars and stripes in the wind each day. Margaret once joked that I should take the stairs to the roof, stand next to it, and call out “I surrender.” Her British humor never amuses me.
The third floor also consists of my classroom, just outside my office door, and the close proximity (no need to leave the building) is
why I never see or interact with colleagues. I walk in, work, watch porn, teach, and then travel home. No one else is on this floor.
Richard’s right, I could make an effort; ask someone to lunch, but my feeling is that people should make the effort to come over and see me, and not the other way around. Do I have to do everything?
It’s that simple.
And if anyone ever did make their way into my land, they’d see just how amazing I am. My office is decorated like my home, full of oddities and rare books. I’m proud to say I own the largest collection of erotic pop-up books in the world, keeping them spread out in my spare bedroom with the pages open to my favorite three-dimensional displays. These books are fucking awesome. Everyone should own at least one.
But I don’t think my pop-ups would go over well at the university, so instead I’ve displayed a collection of over a hundred vintage carnival chalkware figurines on the wall.
My office is dark when I’m alone. My two windows are covered with grey velvet curtains. The only lights come from my desktop and a candle that smells like Tunisian Amber. I also burn Nag Champa incense on a daily basis in an attempt to maintain a calm state before I walk into the classroom. It helps.
I think I have a scent-smell-sniff addiction. My skin, clothes, and the spaces I live in are pleasant. Always. I make sure of it. But if people around me give off an unpleasant odor, they’re toast. I have many students who I never talk to or even go near because the smell of shit flows out of their mouths or asses. They either eat shit, or they don’t know how to wipe themselves after taking a shit.
“Professor Hallowell?”
A student. I smile as he opens my door without asking. Everyone on this campus believes that after you knock, you’re allowed to open the door and strut right in without waiting for a response. I’m glad I wasn’t scratching my ass or anything like that.
“Professor, can I talk to you?”
I point to the empty chair in front of my desk. A football player, one of our top freshmen recruits this year, and a kid who’s failing my graphic design class.
