Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
It’s not appropriate to grin right now, but I let myself give in just a little. Cass is still clutching my hands, and maybe it’s not the fantasy that’s doing it for my dick. Maybe it’s her touch alone.
“Alright. We can talk as we walk.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to pry. I don’t want you to feel like you were forced or coerced into telling me, and I don’t want to make anything worse for you. I don’t want to make you feel bad, or what do they call it? Triggered?”
“I’m good,” I reassure her as I squeeze her hands back. That’s the kind of thing people say, isn’t it? But I actually feel it, though not good in the sense that I feel physically good. Because I don’t. I always feel varying degrees of sick, mind-numbing horror when I think about the past, but right now? I know I can get through it because this isn’t just for me. I’m not alone right now. I’m with Cass.
Watch out for flying pianos. Jesus. Very funny. Very. Very. Funny. Apparently, my internal voice is a douchebag. No, that’s all you, baby.
It shouldn’t feel right or natural, but when Cass drops one of my hands and keeps the other threaded through hers and starts walking beside me again, I don’t have a meltdown about the contact. It feels good, actually, even if it is the first time I can ever recall not knowing what to do with the rest of myself. I’m so big all over, and while Cass is tall, she feels tiny compared to me, and that tininess extends all the way to her hand, from the fine bones of her knuckles to her slender fingers. Feminine fingers.
Okay, so this might be the first time I’ve ever held someone’s hand. Like really held it. I’m not a mushy kind of guy, and for me, hand-holding is right up there with tickling a hairy spider. I don’t like hairy spiders. I will never admit to being afraid, but I seriously don’t like them.
Cass doesn’t ask me any more questions. She just walks, her pace matching mine because I’ve slowed down, and she has very long, shapely, wonderful legs that I would like to taste—what? She walks beside me. That’s what she’s doing. And it works. We work like this. Not saying anything more than that.
She doesn’t feel the need to ask a thousand questions or try and fill the silence with words so that it feels less awkward and uncomfortable. We walk. And walk. We walk past the buildings and stores lining the street, most of them with bars at the window, past a daycare with kids racing around like crazy in the front yard, and past a string of houses that look a little shudder worthy, then past one that is well kept, with a pink door, pink shutters, and purple siding.
“The people who biologically had me—I don’t use the word parents—were drug dealers.”
Cass squeezes my hand but says nothing. She’s smart. She doesn’t offer any condolences or pity, and so far, that’s good and very much needed.
“They basically raised me because they found it advantageous to have a small person who most people wouldn’t suspect of doing bad things. Not that I ever knew I was doing them. I was mostly an adolescent drug mule. My sphincter wasn’t nearly big enough, and they weren’t very good with surgical implements, thank fucking goodness, so they had to get creative in other ways. They’d sew bags of drugs into stuffed animals and have me carry that. They’d also sew drugs into the lining of little backpacks or tiny, adorable suitcases and the seams of my clothes. Sometimes it was powder, sometimes pills.
“They were the kind of drug addicts who lived in an extremely nasty, run-down house in a bad neighborhood and sampled their own products. Way too often. They weren’t into spanking when I displeased them. They were so much more creative. They smoked worse than twin chimneys, and one of them always had a lit cigarette. If I did anything wrong, even look at them, or exist, they’d feel free to burn me. They had a lighter in their piece of shit car, and they’d use it when they really wanted to get their point across. They never got more creative than that. They were too lazy and never picked up anything to beat me with, although they did smack me around fairly often, but not with objects. With their hands. They never hit me in the face and never burned me in a place where anyone could see. I always wore long-sleeved shirts and pants. My arms were the worst of it because they were the most easily accessible, but sometimes, when they were particularly nasty, they’d make me lift up my shirt and give them a fresh target.”