Colton: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 2 (The Wordsmith Chronicles)

by Christopher Harlan

  “What?” he asks.

  “Take advantage of you.”

  I pause my story to let what I’m saying sink in. I don’t want to just blurt out, I was the school slut, Colton, do you understand? I let any guy looking to get off use and abuse me just so, maybe, someone would like me. But that’s exactly what happened.

  “Oh,” he says once he fully understands what I’m saying.

  “Yeah. You know how guys are, especially at that age.”

  “They’re basically monkeys in clothing. Total block heads with only one thing on their minds.”

  “Right. And I gave them that one thing they were looking for, whenever they were looking for it, just because I thought I didn’t deserve any more than that.”

  “Fuck, Harley, I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I learned a lot about myself going through that and ultimately getting past it. The only thing I regret is not getting past it sooner than I did. Sooner than college.”

  “What happened?”

  “Like I told you, by the time I hit college I didn’t look like I did in high school. I lost over 75 pounds, and no one except the people closest to me had any idea about my weight issues. But I still knew. And just because you shed some pounds doesn’t mean that you gain back your self-esteem. I learned that the hard way.”

  “I’m getting the picture now,” Colt says. “You did become that sorority girl. The one with the bad reputation?”

  “Basically, only in college that kind of thing isn’t as frowned upon as it is in high school. Everyone has a lot of partners and everyone screws around—it wasn’t just that, even though I was doing too much of that also.”

  “Then what?”

  “There was one guy my sophomore year—his name was Bryan. We met like I met a lot of guys, at the Alpha house during a party. We met when both of us were drunk, and like so many other times before that, I ended up in an upstairs bedroom with a guy I’d just met.”

  “Okay. So what made Bryan any different?”

  “I had this moment when we were fooling around on the bed on top of a heap of jackets. I don’t know where it came from, and I’ve never had a thought like it since. But there was this voice that sounded like mine, speaking in my head in such a clear tone. It told me to stop what I was doing. It told me that I was only letting this creep get on top of me because I hated myself, and that I needed to stop.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “Nothing,” I say, looking down at the ground. “I let him do what he wanted to do. I barely moved. I barely did anything. He didn’t seem to care.”

  “Did you tell him that you didn’t want to?”

  “No. I just lay there. Any normal, non-drunk guy would have asked me what the hell was wrong, but he just kept going, and I let him.”

  “Harley, that’s rape.”

  “Not exactly,” I say, sensing that he might take it there. “I don’t think of myself as a rape victim, Colt, and I’m not going to start now. I didn’t say no.”

  “You said no with your body.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but I honestly don’t think that Bryan understood or even thought of that. We were both hammered, and it was me who led him upstairs, and I didn’t say a single word that would have communicated that I didn’t want him to finish.”

  “That’s a fucked up situation,” he says.

  “Yeah, it was. It was the last of a long line of fucked up situations in my life. I never hated or blamed Bryan for anything that happened after—hell, I’m still ‘friends’ with the guy on social media.”

  “What? How?”

  “Relax, Colt, he’s not the point. He was just a dumb, horny, drunk kid. If I wanted to stop him I could have. I chose not to. That’s the point of the story. And, of course, what happened after.”

  “What did happen after?”

  “I lost my shit. Slowly at first, and then rapidly. I kept seeing Bryan all over campus, and even though I didn’t blame him for what happened, he was a constant reminder of my own weakness—of the fact that I thought of myself like a piece of shit. I couldn’t take it. Everleigh and Rowan tried to get me to see a therapist. So did Mom and Dad. But I was stubborn, and eventually I just had to leave school.”

  “Jesus, Harley, I’m so sorry all of that happened.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I learned from it.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course you can. I was kinda hoping you would. I’m sick of hearing my own voice.”

  “How did you. . .how did you get past all that? I know we’re still getting to know one another, but none of this sounds like the Harley I know.”

  “It’s not. Not anymore.”

  “So what’s changed?”

  “I don’t even know what to call it. Self-reflection. Soul searching. Deep introspection. Not sure what the right phrase is, but after a few difficult conversations with my parents about the whole college thing, and a couple of really bad therapy sessions that they forced me to, I eventually just started asking myself some really difficult questions. The kind of questions that make you either double down on your own behavior—which I wasn’t about to do—or change, which I did. Eventually I finished classes online, got my degree, and moved on with my life in a more positive way.”

  “That’s an amazing story, Harley. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “There’s never a good time to burst out that I was the town slut. The fat town slut at that.”

  “Hey, look at me,” he says. “Don’t ever say that about yourself—not even the old you. I wish I could do what you did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We all have demons, Harley. All of us. Some are worse than others, and some visit a little more often, but we’re all haunted by them, myself included. I wish I could just look in the mirror and force myself to change. Look at me—it took a fucking judge and the threat of prison time to even get me into a therapist’s chair to talk. You’re much stronger than I am. I’ve always found you hot, and I always liked you, but now I respect the fuck out you. You’re an inspiration.”

  That’s about the last word I’ve ever associated with my past. But I can tell he’s sincere. The look in his eyes is intense, and the tone in his voice is one of complete admiration. His reaction is the best surprise I could receive. There’s no one around, and I do what’s in my heart to do. I don’t want our first time to be in a public park, but I need to feel him right now.

  We go back to kissing once we’re in the clear, but at the same time it’s fucking hot to think about someone seeing us, someone catching us in the act of giving zero fucks because we want each other so badly. We aren’t so much kissing as our mouths are wrestling with one another—the hard and pressured intensity that only this kind of desire can produce. Our lips crash and rub, buying us precious seconds until our tongues can do the same—and they do, passionately.

  I feel rushed, but not because we’re in public, because he has me so fucking turned on just by being him. He planned the day meticulously just so I would be happy, on top of everything else he has going on in his hectic life. That stole my heart, but if I’m being honest right now, it’s his body that’s making me wet.

  As we’re kissing frantically, like two people who can’t keep their hands off one another, I reach under his shirt and run my hands up and down his chest. My hands are like tires on bumpy terrain, my fingers hitting every contour of his heavily muscled chest and six pack abs. I rub up and down, again and again, hitting every bump of his chest along the way, getting so wet as I do that I can feel the moist sensation.

  My hand runs the length of his chest one last time, plunging southwards until I’m at his waistline. I don’t stop there. I tease my hand on the outside, and with both hands I grab onto his belt and quickly undo it. He has his hand behind my head, pulling me into him as I get his pants open, and neither of us is bothering to look around to see who’s watching.

  My hand doesn’t have to travel lo
ng before it’s wrapped around the giant snake in his pants. This thing is huge—bigger than I’ve ever felt before. It fills my entire hand and it’s hard as stone. I grip it, squeezing as I roll my hand up and down, from his shaft to his giant head. His eyes roll back involuntarily as I move up and down his huge cock, and I get pleasure in seeing how turned on he is. I start to go a little faster, and I see his fists start to ball up.

  “Fuck, Harley, that feels good, don’t stop.”

  “I’m not stopping,” I assure him. Not only am I not going to stop, but I move my hand even faster, twisting and pulling while I bury my mouth in his neck and start sucking. He’s moaning, and that only encourages me to keep going.

  “God damn, I’m close Harley.”

  He didn’t come yet, it’s now time to finish, and he’s not going to finish like this. “Pull them down,” I say, and he shimmies his hips so that his pants come down below his hips, exposing his tight black boxer briefs that are pulling away from his body as his cock extends forward.

  I slide inside the slit, pull his massive girth out, and take him in my mouth. I’ve never had a cock this big, but I hold on to his shaft as I run my lips and tongue up and down. He moans again as his eyes disappear once more in the back of his head. I’m between his legs on my knees, looking up at him as I suck him off. A mix of my saliva and his juices starts to spill out from the side of my mouth, dripping gently onto the ground between his legs.

  My hands rest on his thighs and my head is buried in between. I take him down to the back of my throat, again and again, bringing my hand into the party to get him there even faster. The feeling of his long, thick cock filling my mouth is turning me on, but right now it’s all about him.

  He grabs onto my arms with his hands and thrusts his hips upward—he’s about to come and he can’t control himself any longer. I pull his cock out of my mouth and keep stroking with my hand. I keep my face close to the redness of his head, and then he explodes like something out of a porn film, coming everywhere as he yells my name and grips the ground beneath him.

  The sight of his cum is a celebration, a victory, confirmation that his body can’t hold it inside when I’m around. I know some women who’d get offended by a guy telling them they get a hard on just thinking of them, but that’s never how I see it. To me there’s nothing hotter than a man’s body responding to me because when that happens it means that he has no more control, and that his mind is completely fixated on you.

  That’s what no one ever bothers to think—arousal happens in the mind first, and then the body just responds in turn. Tell me, what’s sexier than knowing a man’s mind is so obsessed with thoughts of you that his body has no choice but to react? And right now Colton is reacting.

  When he’s done I feel his body relax. His eyes are still closed and he’s resting his head against the tree behind him. I pull away as he tucks himself back inside his underwear and pulls his pants up. “Oh. My. God!” he says. It makes me feel amazing.

  Then all of a sudden I remember that we’re in Central Park in the late afternoon and I start looking around. I’m obviously adventurous, but I don’t want to get arrested. I start laughing and Colton looks at me. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I joke. “I just imagined us getting handcuffed by some random NYPD cops for indecent exposure or something.” I look around like a crazy person but luckily there’s still no one here but us.

  “That would do wonders for my career! Listen, I know you were opposed to dinner, but how about. . .”

  “You take me to get food right away? I think that’s a brilliant idea. Let’s go.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Let’s do it.”

  We jump up off the ground and dust ourselves off, and I realize something that got lost in the last few minutes. “Hey,” I say. “I didn’t get to hear the excerpt from your WIP!”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, looking deep into my eyes. “You will.”

  Colton takes my hand again as we start to walk, and I feel like the luckiest woman in the world for some reason. I have a great man, and even though we’re not yet something that can be defined, I know that we’re walking towards something great. I can’t wait to see where it’s all going.

  But first, I can’t wait to eat!

  17

  Colton

  An old memory.

  A bad dream.

  Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. It doesn’t matter much, does it? I guess when you’re asleep it’s a bad dream, but what’s a dream but an unconscious memory—a way for your brain to remember something that’s too painful to remember when you’re awake. In any event it drags me into consciousness—the sweat covering my forehead, dripping down into my eyes. My heart is racing, and my hand is balled so tightly into a fist that I can feel my finger nails digging into my palm. It takes a second to realize that I’m not in that place anymore.

  I haven’t lived there in over a decade, but when I close my eyes it’s like I’m that boy again, pressing my little body against the door, hoping in vain that my weight will be enough to keep him out. I can hear the ruckus from outside the door that’s about to be swung open despite all my efforts to force it shut. I pretend like it’s not getting closer—like he’s not getting closer. But of course he is.

  When he pushes the door open I change in my dream. I’m not the little boy anymore, but everything else is the same. I’m a young man. My body isn’t frail like it used to be, unable to fight back against him. Now I’m strong, muscled, as big as him. And I can fight. Ironically it was him who insisted on that being the case. He forced me to learn how to fight because no son of his was going to be a ‘pussy’.

  Now he’s coming at me again, only this time I’m going to turn his lessons around on him, and let him know with my fists what I could never make him understand with my words—that he’s never going to put his hands on me again. My fists are my protectors. My fists keep me safe.

  He’ll never touch me again.

  18

  Colton

  RAAC

  It was another long drive for the Wordsmiths!

  And what did we do on our long drive, besides post way too many updates on social media, sleep when we could, and take turns driving through the scenery-less roads? We had a really highbrow literary conversation that would have made our Creative Writing professors proud to hear.

  “I like ‘cock’, personally.”

  Mike made the mistake of starting with that. He said it so seamlessly that I almost think he missed the laundry list of jokes that were just waiting for him when he’d finished the last syllable of the sentence.

  “Oh I know you do, Knight. I’ve known for a long time.”

  “You know what I mean!” he said back to me.

  “I sure do,” I said. “Gray and I both do. I’m glad you’re finally admitting it to us. You know this is a safe space, that makes me feel good.”

  Gray, ignoring my stupid, locker room jokes, jumped in without missing a beat. “Sometimes I just go with ‘penis’ myself. Sometimes literal is better, in my opinion. Why use all the stupid euphemisms?”

  “Penis?” I asked. “You’re a writer, dude, get more creative than that. And plus, women like the euphemisms, don’t give them an anatomy lesson.”

  “Alright, you’re the expert in all things penis,” Mike said, getting me back for a minute ago by stealing my joke. “What do you use?”

  “Cock is fine, but you have to add a modifier to give it a pop,” I said.

  “Jesus, there are too many jokes in everything we’re saying. Too many.”

  “I realize that, but check out what I mean. Cock is okay by itself, but if it’s a ‘throbbing cock’, or a ‘swollen cock’, then you have a more vivid image for the readers. It’s all about visualization with this genre. If they can’t see the throbbing cock, then you’ll never be a best seller.” I felt like I was dropping some real knowledge on them, but they both fought me like the Philistines they are.

  “That’s all you g
ot?” Gray asked. “Throbbing? Come on, dude, a first semester English student could do that one. How about engorged! That’s a better word.”

  “Wait, wait,” I said, indignant at his criticism. “So a first semester English student could do my example, but you’re gonna sit there pretending that the word ‘engorged’ is reserved for Ph.D’s or something? Asshole, that same first semester student could write yours also, as long as he had a fuckin’ thesaurus app on his phone. Nice try.”

  “How did we get on this modifier bullshit?” Mike asked. “Because I was referring to different versions of the word itself. Nouns, not adjectives.”

  “All right,” I answered. “Hit me with your best shot.”

  “Stop it!” Gray yelled from the passenger seat. “Jokes! Too many!”

  “Gray, stop interrupting,” Mike joked. “Colton wants me to shoot all over him. But before that I’m gonna school him in the ways of a bestselling romance author.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I said.

  “Ready? Alright. So never ‘dick’, I like to stay away from it unless it’s what I’m calling you.”

  “Jeez, thanks,” I joked, waiting with bated breath for his next penis euphemism.

  “So if we eliminate dick and leave cock to only the occasional usage, that forces us to get more creative with it. Some of my top alternative choice are: meat rocket, member, and Acorn Andy.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I yell, interrupting his ridiculous list. “You’ve never, in your life, used the expression Acorn Andy. I call bullshit.”

  “I did. I swear,” he defended.

  “Prove it. I need to see this piece of brilliance.”

  “Fine,” Mike said. “Check it out.” He put his phone in front of me and searched his own book on his Kindle. As a side note, all authors buy their own books so we can say at least we had a single sale of that thing we poured our blood, sweat and tears into. Once Mike opened one of his he did a quick word search for the phrase “Acorn Andy” and, I’ll be damned, he used that shit on page 78 in what was probably the worst sex scene ever committed to paper.