Page 123 of XOXO

Sexual Content

Binding

Mention of Sexual Assault (but none occurs on page)

Contents

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1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Chapter Twelve

About the Author

Chapter One

DALIA

“A shot of whiskey and silence. Happy fucking Valentine's Day.”

I’ll never be that girl. You know, the girl that walks into a bar, sees a hot guy and says. Fuck me, big boy. I’ll never allow myself to be that vulnerable or that stupid. I’ve been there and done that. Ask the fucker I was seeing last year around this time. But I’ll get back to that. Anyway, I’ll never be the girl who lets a man become her everything. I’ve seen how that works out, and it isn’t a good look. Okay, maybe it works out in very, very special cases. But I know the truth. I know the truth behind the pretty eyes and even prettier lies.

Men are pricks because they use their man bits as weapons. You can’t say I'm wrong. We’ve all been dickmitized in our lives at least once. Men are dickmitizing liars, which I’ve already said, but it’s worth repeating. Men are born manipulators and users who have no problem using your heart as a battering ram to beat you into submission. They promise you the world only to leave you swinging by their dicks, unsatisfied and wondering how you got there. I’m not a man-hater per se. I’m just not willing to end up with two-point-five kids, a dog named Jelly Bean, and a big house that isn’t a home but an unhappy yet beautiful prison. Men are the fucking worst. So they can fuck right off. Especially the fucker I left lying on his dining room floor, bleeding like a stuffed pig.

There I was going to surprise my whatever he was for V-day. Happily puttering along. I had my favorite Chinese food and movie because who doesn’t love Die Hard? It’s a classic. On that day, I even wore my comfy Netflix and chill outfit; sexy–I was not, but fuck sexy. I’m not about to get all gussied up for a Netflix and chill night. No thanks. I told whatever his name was that, I didn’t want to do anything. I guess he thought I meant I didn’t want to see him–at all. That slight miscommunication is why I caught him bumping uglies with some rando on his dining room table.

What got my hackles up were the lit candles and the house's ambiance, low jazz music played through the surround sound. And for some reason, I knew. For me, that fucker had always been a burger at a fast-food joint and let's pay half–zies kind of guy. I didn’t care, even though that should have been a warning enough. He didn’t see me, didn’t appreciate me. I know that now. He gave me a few decent orgasms. Maybe that’s why I let things slide. Maybe that is why I never called him out on his bullshit. Shaking my head. The one time I keep a guy to myself, he turns out to be a big old giant cheap-ass cheating prick.

I got played.

After finding them, I stood there watching because the two were going at it, like their lives depended on finding their release. I was shocked and slightly impressed by the minute man's stamina. I'm not saying he was a one-pump chuck, but I’m not–not saying he wasn’t. Whenever I was with the prick, he was as vanilla as they come. All missionary and wham bam, thank you, ma'am. My chuckling at the thought of our abysmal sex hadn’t caught either of their attention, not his, because the asshole was focused. And well, she couldn’t see me and was too busy squealing. You know how women do when we are faking it because a guy isn’t hitting the right spot, but we want to be nice and be done. At least, that’s what I do.

I couldn’t see her eyes because Mister, whatever his name was, had them covered, and her hands were bound behind her back. Freaky, and I liked it. If I wasn’t pissed, I probably would have watched more of the show. It was erotic as fuck. Whatever his name was, he had her bound hands in a white-knuckled grip and his other hand on the back of her neck. You ever hear the saying ass up, tits out? That’s exactly how she was positioned, her ass was up, belly flat on the table. As I said, very erotic stuff.

I watched them, him with his face as red as a red delicious apple and sweating like a stuffed pig. Something about her fake moans and his dog-like grunts made me chuckle–loudly. Which, of course, had the show coming to a halt. Words were exchanged, fists were thrown, threats were made, and I was taken out in cuffs.

After two hours in lock-up that night, I went home and iced my hands. Bruce the Willis and I had a fantastic night in my apartment with my battery-operated boyfriend, Tom. At least I can remember his name.

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