Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
RomanticSadistLL: Also, I'm jamming “Islands in the Stream” as I lift 😂 just letting it ride.
WillDive4Plants: 😳 seriously?! 😢 Guess what my first BDSM book was about 😐
I laugh at the image he paints, the handsome, burly man covered in tattoos and a salt-and-pepper beard who looks like he could snap someone’s neck with his bare hands, up there pumping iron to a Dolly Parton song.
WillDive4Plants: 🎶 that is what we are… No one in between🎶 My Daddy had that record 😂
WillDive4Plants: Now when I see you over on the big boy equipment when I’m on the pussy machines, I’ll wonder if you’re listening to like… ABBA when all the other dudes—and I—are listening to metal 😂😘
RomanticSadistLL: LOL I was feeling 80s pop and that came on. But IDGAF 😉
WillDive4Plants: You're pretty fucking dreamy, huh?
WillDive4Plants: Anyhoo, I just decided I'm changing what I plan to write for the final scene where she finally fulfills his fantasy, which was going to be just hot indoor voyeuristic sex. Instead, and this actually fits the plot way better anyway, with hints about her I didn't realize I was even dropping. It's going to fulfill both their fantasies. He still gets to watch, but he'll be watching her CNC scene.
RomanticSadistLL: Your pussy muddy be amazing if you're always on the pussy machines 🤔
WillDive4Plants: LMAO! I don't know what made me laugh harder, what you said, or what you meant to say before typos got you.😂
WillDive4Plants: While I am a crazy plant lady and enjoy getting super dirty in my garden, I don't believe it would be good for my pH balance to give my pussy a mud bath. 😜
RomanticSadistLL: LOL often I just leave the typos because well why not 😉
WillDive4Plants: As a full-time author, I've gotten good at translating my own typos and autocorrect, so meh
* * *
Nine hours later, I sigh with resignation and open Kik to see I haven’t gotten a message from him in all the time.
WillDive4Plants: Well, I did not finish before my deadline. But! I uploaded a placeholder I can replace the second my book goes live on release day. So at least I won't lose all my pre-orders.
WillDive4Plants: Also, bright idea writing a freaking CNC scene in public. Now I have to wait for these other chicks to leave so they don’t see the puddle I’m no doubt leaving in this damn chair 😂
When I haven’t heard from him in another hour, I decide I’m done writing for the day since I now have four more to complete the book.
With nothing else to do, since I don’t want to get on Amazon or TikTok, which would certainly lead to me signing up for retail therapy, I decide to brave my email inbox.
I’ve been emptying it for close to twenty minutes when I come upon an email from Club Alias that arrived three days ago. I click on it and see it’s from the social media site one of the owners created for the club a while back. Vi had signed me up for the beta version, to play around on the site and app and to report any glitches, but once it was opened up to all the members and I saw everyone’s profiles, most of them happily paired off and linked to their partner’s profile, I signed out and haven’t been on but maybe a time or two since. Just to see if anyone new joined or if there were any interesting events coming up.
But this email, it’s a notification saying someone from the club wants to be friends. And because Seth is an evil genius, he didn’t allow any hints of who that member might be, which forces traffic to the actual site if you want to find anything out.
“Dirty bastard,” I grumble, clicking on the link and signing back in to my account, which thankfully is effortless, since my computer remembers and fills in all my log-in information.
I see the little silhouette at the top has a 3 in a little flag, so I click on it to see who sent me a friend request.
And I can’t even put a name to the sound that leaves my mouth when I read who the members are.
It’s not Dixie, the sweet bartender at the club, who makes my peripheral vision go fuzzy.
It’s not Evie, the high school librarian who put on my very first solo author signing at Club Alias when I published my first book.
No. It’s not my friendly acquaintances with other subs from our lifestyle club who sent their requests months ago.
It’s the request sent three days ago from a blacked-out profile picture with two words next to it, while the Accept and Reject buttons sit beneath them.
SIR JEREMY.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
SIENNA
One month later
* * *
There’s a big argument online about who first put the words “if these walls could talk” together in a published sentence. But who said it first and whether it was a poem, a movie title, or even song lyrics isn’t important. What that phrase means to me now is.