I vow. I crave. I give in.
I used to be a nice,
normal girl. I had dreams. Good, happy dreams of white picket fences,
2.5 kids, and a fairytale love that lasts forever. Nobody warned me the prince dies three weeks
before the wedding.
Like any addict, I swear this time is the last….
Now, I go through my days,
a shadow of my former self. I pretend I’m okay, and the people in my life
pretend to believe me. But, sometimes,
when I can no longer stand the craving my dead fiancée left behind, I roam an
underground sex club looking for my next hit.
It’s dirty and wrong, but I can’t stop, and my only line of defense
between them and me, is the rules I’ve designed to keep me safe. With free,
no-strings attached sex; men always abide by my rules. Until I meet him.
And, like any addict, I’m wrong.
I don’t question the
instincts that tell me to run. One look
at him, standing there, power radiating off him in waves, tells me all I need
to know. He will make me forget. And that’s not an option.
Eleven P.M.
Two months. Five days.
Twenty-one hours.
It’s my new record
although I have no sense of accomplishment. No, I’m resigned as I walk down the
dark, deserted alley. The heels of my knee-high, black patent boots click
against the cracked concrete in echo of my defeat. The distant sounds of the
bass thuds in my ears in time to the heavy beat of my heart.
My own personal staccato
of failure.
I’m not sure why it’s
always a surprise. Maybe because, at first, my conviction is so strong. By now
my pattern is long and established—I vow, I crave, I give in.
Rinse. Repeat.
But, like any good addict,
I always swear this time is the last.
Of course, I try. My
therapist has given me “management tools” to get me through the hard times, and
like a good patient, I follow her instructions to a tee—I meditate, do yoga,
and write all my crappy feelings in the journal she insists I keep.
Only, it’s backfired and
become part of the ritual. When the cycle starts, it’s a matter of time before
I end up here.
I’m sure when John brought
me to this underground club the first time, he’d never envisioned I’d be back
on my own, wandering through the crowds, looking for my next fix. The club
reminds me of him, and I wish I could go somewhere else so I wouldn’t be
confronted with my betrayal, but I don’t have a choice. There aren’t ads for
places like this. Or maybe there are and I don’t know where to look.
Swift and sudden, anger
clogs my throat, and for a split second I hate him for changing me so
irrevocably, and leaving me so permanently. Fast on the heels of anger, the
guilt wells, so powerful it brings a sting of tears to my eyes. In the pockets
of my black trench coat, my nails dig crescents into my palms.
I push away the emotions.
Exhaling harshly, my breath fogs the air as I spot a hint of the red door that
signals both my refuge and my hell. I hear the muffled hum of music that will
crescendo once I’m inside to pump through me like a heartbeat.
My pace quickens along
with my pulse.
As much as I hate giving
in, I can’t deny my relief. Once I step through that door, I don’t have to
pretend. I don’t have to be normal.
The tension, riding me all
day, distracting me in meetings, making me wander off in the middle of
conversations, ebbs. A twisted excitement slicks my thighs as the bare skin
under my skirt tingles.
I haven’t bothered with
panties. It makes things easier, quicker. Less about getting off and more about
taking care of business.
I have on my usual club
fare: short, black pleated skirt that leaves a stretch of thigh before my
stockings start. A sheer, white silk blouse that’s unbuttoned low enough to
show the lace of my red demi-bra. My lips are slicked with crimson and my dark
chestnut hair is a tumble of shiny waves down my back.
My outfit is carefully
orchestrated. I leave as little to chance as possible.
No leather or latex. I’m
not into bondage. Chains and rope do nothing but leave me cold. Once upon a
time I loved to be restrained by fingers wrapped tight around my wrists,
digging into my skin, but now I can’t handle even a hint of being bound.
I reveal plenty of smooth
ivory skin, my clue to guys into body modification or knife play to stay away.
I like fear, but not that kind. I want my bruises and scars hidden away, not
worn like a badge of honor for the world to see.
My wrists and neck are
free of jewelry so the Masters don’t confuse me with a slave girl. I tried that
scene once, thinking all their hard play and intense scenes would focus my
restless energy and make me forget, but there is no longer anything submissive
about me.
I don’t want to obey. I
want to fight.
I'm in the middle of the book and loving it so far, review coming soon!
Jennifer Dawson grew up in
the suburbs of Chicago and graduated from DePaul University with a degree in
psychology. She met her husband at the public library while they were studying.
To this day she still maintains she was NOT checking him out. Now, over twenty
years later they’re married living in a suburb right outside of Chicago with
two awesome kids and a crazy dog.
Despite going through a light FM, poem
writing phase in high school, Jennifer never grew up wanting to be a writer
(she had more practical aspirations of being an international super spy). Then
one day, suffering from boredom and disgruntled with a book she’d been reading,
she decided to put pen to paper. The rest, as they say, is history.
These days
Jennifer can be found sitting behind her computer writing her next novel,
chasing after her kids, keeping an ever watchful eye on her ever growing to-do
list, and NOT checking out her husband.
Jennifer also writes erotic romance under the name Julia Devlin.
Gift basket prize package contains:
Decorative reusable
storage trunk
Signed copy of CRAVE
$25 Barnes & Noble
Gift Card
4 Premium Chocolate
Truffles
Argan Oil Sugar Scrub
w/shower scrunchie
Pink & black Pillar
Candle
Black & Pink Chalk
Board Flower Pot
Hanging chalk board
Candle Holder with pink
sparkly battery votive
Thanks for hosting Jen, i look forward to hearing what you think!
ReplyDeleteRight now I CRAVE some chocolate, hah!
ReplyDelete