Page 7 of Monstrous

Please.

They’re begging me.

Pleading with me to let them pleasure my body until I come again, screaming and begging and panting for more. They whisper to me of the happiness they’ll provide. How they’ve proven to me they can keep me happy, be my protectors.

I want it.

But those kinds of things only exist in dreams, because I’ve surely never found another man to do the same for me in reality. Let alone three.

I mean, honestly, I’m pretty good at multitasking, but even I’d have issues with more than one dick. Where do they all go? Do they have to take turns or is there like some kind of draw where the lucky one gets to pick where they go?

I have no clue!

Would you have to draw up a schedule as to who gets what on which day? Sharing is caring, people.

The shower helps me shrug off the last of the exhaustion and the moment I step out, I catch sight of the empty pill bottle still sitting on the edge of my sink. Like a glaring reminder that I’d brought the whole situation on myself by flushing my meds away.

Maybe I should have tried to slowly wean myself off of them instead of going cold turkey all at once. I mean, I stopped taking them three days ago, but I’d had them readily available in case my mind started running away from me.

Like last night…

No, it can’t happen so quickly, can it? The pills probably aren’t even out of my system yet. I grab the bottle and run my hand over the tiny script on the side with my name and the dosage amount.

Take one pill in the morning and one at night with water. Yup, I’ve been following the same routine for years. Might have been a little hasty in dumping them because not only did the voices come back strong, they came back horny.

Then again, I’ve seen stranger things. I’ve lived them.

One more night, I promise myself. I plan to give this whole thing one more night, and if the voices return again—or if I fall asleep and have another dream-induced orgasm or three—then I’ll go to the pharmacy after work and get more pills.

The decision lightens a bit of stress I hadn’t realized I was carrying.

At least I’m practically due for a refill on my prescription. If I get really out of sorts and feel even an itch of what I felt back in the day, then I’ll head in and make up some excuse as to why I’m out.

The bottle fell out of my purse running away from a mugger!

Sure, it sounds plausible.

I swipe a hand across the mirror and a glance shows me looking exactly the same. Tired brown eyes stare at me, emphasized by the sharpness of my jawline and the full cheekbones. Twenty-eight and I feel eighty-three. At least I don’t look eighty-three. I tug at the fine lines around my eyes, flipping dark wet hair over my shoulders.

Thank goodness for small blessings. I’ve got good skin, but that doesn’t ease the knot of tension lodged beneath my sternum. Because I can make as many excuses as I want but, deep down, I know something is wrong with me.

Staring at my reflection, I give myself a nice tap on the cheek to bring my attention to the present, followed by another tap on the opposite cheek for symmetry.

“It’s all well and good and absolutely fine, Marianna,” I tell myself with false confidence. “This is the next best step for you. You’re an adult, and if you think you don’t need your pills anymore, then you’re the only one who can make the decision. Got it?”

I don’t look convinced. Which means the pep talk didn’t do the trick.

I point a finger at the mirror because I mean business. “The pills are gone, and you are walking into the future with your eyes open and your mind clear. So what if a clear mind also brings with it three fantasy lovers and a whole lot of dream orgasms? So what? That’s the kind of thing most people wish they had. Maybe instead of freaking out you can be a little more grateful. Be grateful!”

Okay, I pay a little bit more attention to myself the second round, and square my shoulders with a small grin.

Better.

At least I’m a little more prepared than I was a few minutes ago.

I completely ignore the calendar on my way into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, holding up a hand so I don’t see the date. Again. The memorial is today but I never planned on going anyway. I’ll remember Walker in my own way and focus on doing the one thing he would want me to do—work on myself.

Heal. Build a brighter future. All those good things.

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