Read Online Girl In Pieces by Jordan Bell - Free Book Online
Authors: Jordan Bell
Tags: Barnes & Noble
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. I wore size 14 on a good day, 16 when it wasn’t a good day. Was I BBW?
I adored the ads from men who were looking for this in a woman, but it was the women’s ads proclaiming themselves proudly as this thing we weren’t supposed to be if we wanted to be loved that really got to me. Who were these women who recognized who they were and then had the strength to step out and say I’m fantastic, baby. Like it or Leave it, that’s up to you .
RTS - Real Time Sex. What the hell did that mean? Was there such a thing as not real time sex? I imagined the writer of the ad was actually a time traveler and that he was looking for another time travel to spend the night with. I bet it got lonely having sex in the past or the future but never the present.
NSA - No Strings Attached. BHM - Bald Headed Man. FS - Financially Secure. P - Petite. HWP - Height Weight Proportional. I took back every snorting roll of my eyes I’d ever given personal ads and dating websites. Here was the fool-proof way to order up your perfect date. No guess work. No disappointment. There seemed to be an acronym for every eventuality, every character trait. I could avoid heartache with an NSA. I could weed out the unattractive with a VGL - Very Good Looking.
I could order up my very own erotic romance novel. FS B&D.
B&D. Finally an acronym I knew.
Everyone started packing it in around four when the late day sun had disappeared behind the Giovanni tower across town, turning our bright office into a dark little dungeon. That was when I saw it. My last ad for the day.
I am new, she said, and am looking to be mentored so that one day I can commit - and submit - to a Dom of my own. I will only meet someone in public with a friend nearby, and I won’t go anywhere alone with you until I’m comfortable. I’m skittish, but curious. If you think you can work with that, email me.
I stared at the ad for, I don’t know how long. Long enough for most of the room to clear out. Long enough that I only barely heard Gwen’s cheerful goodbye as she swept out of the room to meet Max-Who-is-Perfect.
I had to clasp my own hands to keep them from shaking and not for a million dollars could I look away.
I am new.
I knew this girl. She was me. I was her. We’d passed a hundred times on the street looking normal, or next to normal, while beneath the surface we thought about what it might feel like to have our hair pulled.
I am curious.
For three weeks I’d forbidden myself from thinking about the night of the party. I’d successfully kept myself from rehashing the details, daydreaming through the memories. Every thought bent towards forgetting Josh and erasing what I’d done with him. My brain knew better than to unlock that trapdoor and fall through. I’d go mad with wanting and I couldn’t bear to go through the heartbreak over and over again. No good could come of it.
But this strange and familiar girl had turned a key and all at once I flushed with memory and pleasure. I felt it in my bones, fingers first, wrapped around leather wrist cuffs and clawing at cotton sheets. I felt it in my toes, curling during orgasm, then in my trembling knees, stomach, chest, throat. I felt Josh’s fingers in my hair, wrapping and twisting blonde and pink strands into his fist, felt him pulling back, harder, harder, harder , until it hurt so much I could think again. He’d pulled my hair until I finally felt in control of myself.
When he’d tied me up, adored me, protected me, bound me to him, I’d gone somewhere else. I’d fallen down the rabbit hole into space where I could touch stardust and taste moonlight. I’d loved Josh endlessly in that place and I’d been absolutely sure he loved me too.
I’d felt safe there. Blissful. I hadn’t wanted to come back to earth. I’d wanted to feel endless forever.
When he’d grabbed my hair and pulled it hard and back so that he was all I could see and all I could feel was the pain he inflicted, somehow
I adored the ads from men who were looking for this in a woman, but it was the women’s ads proclaiming themselves proudly as this thing we weren’t supposed to be if we wanted to be loved that really got to me. Who were these women who recognized who they were and then had the strength to step out and say I’m fantastic, baby. Like it or Leave it, that’s up to you .
RTS - Real Time Sex. What the hell did that mean? Was there such a thing as not real time sex? I imagined the writer of the ad was actually a time traveler and that he was looking for another time travel to spend the night with. I bet it got lonely having sex in the past or the future but never the present.
NSA - No Strings Attached. BHM - Bald Headed Man. FS - Financially Secure. P - Petite. HWP - Height Weight Proportional. I took back every snorting roll of my eyes I’d ever given personal ads and dating websites. Here was the fool-proof way to order up your perfect date. No guess work. No disappointment. There seemed to be an acronym for every eventuality, every character trait. I could avoid heartache with an NSA. I could weed out the unattractive with a VGL - Very Good Looking.
I could order up my very own erotic romance novel. FS B&D.
B&D. Finally an acronym I knew.
Everyone started packing it in around four when the late day sun had disappeared behind the Giovanni tower across town, turning our bright office into a dark little dungeon. That was when I saw it. My last ad for the day.
I am new, she said, and am looking to be mentored so that one day I can commit - and submit - to a Dom of my own. I will only meet someone in public with a friend nearby, and I won’t go anywhere alone with you until I’m comfortable. I’m skittish, but curious. If you think you can work with that, email me.
I stared at the ad for, I don’t know how long. Long enough for most of the room to clear out. Long enough that I only barely heard Gwen’s cheerful goodbye as she swept out of the room to meet Max-Who-is-Perfect.
I had to clasp my own hands to keep them from shaking and not for a million dollars could I look away.
I am new.
I knew this girl. She was me. I was her. We’d passed a hundred times on the street looking normal, or next to normal, while beneath the surface we thought about what it might feel like to have our hair pulled.
I am curious.
For three weeks I’d forbidden myself from thinking about the night of the party. I’d successfully kept myself from rehashing the details, daydreaming through the memories. Every thought bent towards forgetting Josh and erasing what I’d done with him. My brain knew better than to unlock that trapdoor and fall through. I’d go mad with wanting and I couldn’t bear to go through the heartbreak over and over again. No good could come of it.
But this strange and familiar girl had turned a key and all at once I flushed with memory and pleasure. I felt it in my bones, fingers first, wrapped around leather wrist cuffs and clawing at cotton sheets. I felt it in my toes, curling during orgasm, then in my trembling knees, stomach, chest, throat. I felt Josh’s fingers in my hair, wrapping and twisting blonde and pink strands into his fist, felt him pulling back, harder, harder, harder , until it hurt so much I could think again. He’d pulled my hair until I finally felt in control of myself.
When he’d tied me up, adored me, protected me, bound me to him, I’d gone somewhere else. I’d fallen down the rabbit hole into space where I could touch stardust and taste moonlight. I’d loved Josh endlessly in that place and I’d been absolutely sure he loved me too.
I’d felt safe there. Blissful. I hadn’t wanted to come back to earth. I’d wanted to feel endless forever.
When he’d grabbed my hair and pulled it hard and back so that he was all I could see and all I could feel was the pain he inflicted, somehow
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