by Jayce, Aven
DIVINE
AVEN JAYCE
DIVINE
Copyright © 2015 Aven Jayce
A&M Michigan Editing
Cover Image - foldyart1980
Cover and Book Design - Triple J Marketing
Published by Mirror Call Press
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
No part of this book can be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Purchase only authorized editions. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
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Note - This novel contains adult language and scenes of descriptive sex. If you’re expecting something dark and violent like my other books - sorry, you won’t find it here. However, I’m very much like the character Divine Hallowell and while she’s not a pitch-black evil woman, she’s still a little crazy.
- Aven Jayce
Second Note: Although I used to be a college professor, I make no claims that any part of this story is true. The plot’s invented and meant to entertain, nothing more.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
About the Author
PROLOGUE
It’s official. I’m one of the Sluts.
A week ago I joined a Facebook site called the Dick Sluts. It’s full of photos of half-naked men with tight abs, posts about newly released books - erotica, freebies and giveaways, plus advice on what to read next. It’s a place where authors can pimp their latest and greatest Kindle creations, or Kindle erections (yes, pun intended). The site is dick, books, dick, books, and more dicks. And after a week, I can’t get enough.
But I’m not the only one who joined the site. Most of my street team is with me; a group of faithful fans that help with ads, post about my books, push them to others, and comment under my Facebook posts about how wonderful the books truly are.
Best book evah!
You Dick Sluts HAVE to read this, you won’t be disappointed!
I’m wrecked. This book’s gonna take a long time to get over.
Reading it right now. OMG! Love it!
These people do enjoy my books. It’s not bogus in any way, but it is a marketing ploy. Post a link to the book, add a hot photo of some guy with his shirt off, write a brief blurb, get the street team to comment on how much they enjoyed it, and bam... pick up some sales.
There’re thousands of Indie authors and thousands of street team members, some bigger, better, and trendier than mine, but I’m working on it. It will build into something great. I just know it. It has to. I need to make some money so I can quit my shitty-ass job.
You see, I’m not a writer; I’m a college professor. But after work and online I can be whoever the fuck I want.
My author is my other half. Not necessarily my better half, just other. She has a lot of confidence in herself and is an outgoing, approachable, animated, woman who will talk about fucking at the drop of a hat - someone who knows how to flash a smile. She’s a fiery bitch. And she wants to be top slut on the Dick Sluts page. Actually, she’s going to suggest to the administrators that they create a top slut. One that changes from time to time, like employee of the month.
But the real me, I’m not as social. I’d rather curl up in bed with a good book than go out to a bar. I have some issues with anger too, but I hide my emotions pretty well, better than most. I tend to let things gnaw away at me until I can no longer take the stresses of everyday life, and then instead of trying to work through my problems, I run and hide in a closet.
My author side and the real me do agree on one thing though; that the Dick Sluts make us happy. Yeah, that may sound ridiculous, but it’s fun interacting with people you’ll never encounter outside of the digital world. It’s a good escape from reality. Unfortunately, when I walk away from my laptop I’m reminded... no, not reminded, smacked - smacked across the face by my troublesome life as a professor.
My fellow colleagues would sneer at me if they ever found out I wrote books so dark and filthy.
That’s because the characters in my books like to fuck. A lot. It’s been a while since I’ve read them, but I’m pretty sure one of my sex scenes is two chapters in length.
God, I could make a great dick joke out of that last sentence.
It’s not high academic writing. Nothing scholarly. Shit. I’d probably be fired for writing such trash.
I use that word lovingly. Trash.
So people buy my dark erotic novels and they either love ‘em or hate ‘em, but either way I make money. Hopefully, it will be a shitload soon so I can leave this fucked-up job at the small, private, east coast liberal arts institution that I’ve called home for years.
Get rich quick. Overnight.
Tomorrow I’ll wake up to a thousand sales, even more the next day.
Update Facebook status.
What’s on your mind?
Violet Cuddlecock
.99 Special! Buy my fucking books, you Sluts!
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CHAPTER ONE
Most people are morons.
My colleague is an evil, conniving shrew. She has plans to take me down, wipe me out of my job, and ruin my career while she remains in her pretty office decorated with pretty thank you cards from her pretty and precious students; students who hate me just because she tells them to. Yeah, she has that much control over these young minds that enter into her building each year. That’s right, her building. The bitch has a building all to herself. It was probably necessary, an idea or suggestion drummed up by the administration to keep her away from the rest of us loyal, hard-working, competent, faculty members. The woman’s toxic.
I like to think that I’m the sane one, the one who will hold it together until she retires. And it’s true; I’m waiting for my award, a plaque, a trophy, or a pin for lasting a few years longer than the twelve faculty members who came before me. But I’m not going to make it, am I?
I broke down and lost my shit the other day. I’m too sensitive. Too worried about pleasing everyone, doing everything “by the book,” and stubborn as a mule. These aren’t bad things when you work at a university, I mean; someone has to be the one who actually gives assignments, grades, and expects students to do a little work… to get an education.
But my colleague’s all about being number one. The best-ever-deep-dish-pizza of the bunch. I’m the best, she tells her students.
The best.
She’s going to destroy me.
I haven’t been to her building in some time, but I remember her office doesn’t have dead flies like mine.
I clean my windowsill every Monday, but by Friday they’re back. A pile of fifty or so little dead bugs. If that’s not a sign of what my life is like, I don’t know what is. And
the maintenance crew doesn’t come in to take them away, they won’t touch the flies, only the trash; no it’s my job. I’m a professor, an introvert, an author... and I clean dead flies once a week off my windowsill.
I collect them too. Yep. The flies are in a brown paper bag and at the end of the year I’m going to dump them in front of my colleague’s office door or on top of her car. Is that illegal? I’ll have to research it first. I don’t want to get arrested for anything, but I have plans, just like she has plans for me. I may be sensitive, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fight dirty.
I should also mention that I’m addicted to porn. Yeah, that came out of nowhere, didn’t it? I think I watch it to maintain my sanity, but I’m unsure if that makes any sense or how exactly it helps me, and it could even be that my author side enjoys it most. That seems more likely. She’s the type. And not many women would admit they have a porn addiction because it’s kinda, sorta, icky to other women, like the ones I’m surrounded by each day. But men dig it when I tell them. Alright, I’m making that up, not the addiction part, but that I tell men about it. This is the first time I’ve ever mentioned it. I thought I’d throw it out there. My porn addiction. It’s what’s on my office desktop right now. Scrolling... scrolling. Images of women with their mouth wide open, waiting for the cum shot. And the more I watch, the harder it is to get turned on. I wonder if the IT department tracks internet usage of the faculty from day to day?
Missionary hidden cam
Biker gang motel room orgy (one of my favs)
College professor fuck fest
The motel room and the hidden cams are the best. The fake hidden cams. Everything online is fake, isn’t it? How do you know what’s real anymore?
“Professor Hallowell?” There’s a light tap on my office door. Yes, that’s my name, my real name, not my author name. Div Hallowell, and of course, I’ve heard that joke already... my nickname in high school was ‘swallowell.’
Div is short for Divine. I know that’s a bit extreme, but my parents were religious and to them I was a baby who was sent from heaven.
I suffered through my childhood with many cruel people telling me it was the worst name they’d ever heard. All of that changed when I started college and my roommates thought I was kick-ass because I had the same name of a famous John Water’s character. Who knew?
And I bet if I were a toddler in this day and age, I’d probably find myself on that show, Toddlers and Tiaras, solely based on my name.
I sit and look at my computer screen then stare at the solid oak door. The small glass window’s been covered with construction paper since the day I moved in. I enjoy my privacy; no onlookers please, especially considering the whole porn thing.
“Professor?” Another knock, this time harder.
Little fucking college student ruining my fun. Yeah, that’s how I know what reality is. Reality knocks on my door (literally) and I’m whisked back to my day job.
“Hi Professor Hallowell. Do we have class today?” she says as I open my door. I take out my cell, five minutes past nine. Damn it.
“Of course. I’ll be right there.” My voice is warm and friendly, but my thoughts as I note her pink sorority sweatshirt, blue jeans, and knee high boots, are nothing but evil and dark.
Take the longhaired blond, pull her inside, lock the door and stick a hammer in her ass.
Whoa, whoa, wait a second. That might sound sadistic and perhaps you believe I’m mentally ill, but wait. This all goes back to my colleague. The bitch. This is one of her favorite students, a girl who watches my every move and reports my “activities” back to her, Professor Bitch, Cole actually. Professor Cole, but bitch is far more fitting.
So this student, why do I have such disgust for her that I envision a hammer in her ass? This... read this...
She is a jerk and she doesn’t really know how to teach. I HATE taking a class from her. She makes people want to leave the major because so many people don’t like her and she talks bad about faculty and students.
In my head. I do say bad things about them, terrible, horrendous shit, in my head. Maybe she can read my mind? But such hurtful words from her... they appeared on one of my teaching evaluations. Oh, and students believe those forms are anonymous. Dumbasses. Not when we have writing samples to compare them to. Yes, those words came from blondie, sorority girl, and yes, she deserves a hammer in her ass, or maybe in her smarmy vagina.
See, this is when I can’t control my anger.
She HATES taking my classes, and yet she signed up for another one this semester, and there she sits, every other day in front of me, and I smile, and she smiles, and she puts on her two-faced friendly act, and I clench my fists, hoping I don’t slip up and ‘accidentally’ trip and fall forward, my knuckles coming in contact with her perfect teeth, because wouldn’t that be just horrible?
Sorority girl isn’t the only one. There’re other students who feel the same way about me, all because of Margaret Cole. The old hag says nasty things about me every day. Seventy-year-old Professor Cole is that one colleague on campus who everyone knows is a problem, a bully, but no one can do anything about her because she’s tenured. Safe.
I thought when I started in my position that she’d retire soon, but that was years ago. She says she’ll never leave because she doesn’t have any money. And again... private university... no mandatory retirement age... boy, the bitch could be teaching when she’s eighty-four.
Fuck me.
I won’t go into how it all started. This war between us. Professor Div Hallowell vs. Professor Margaret Cole. You don’t need to read some long drawn out story or deal with cliché flashbacks. The story begins here and now, at the end of things, when something bad is about to happen. All you need to know is I got the job, students liked me, I began changing the department, updating it, making it ‘better,’ and my colleague wasn’t about to let that happen. Change is bad.
She felt threatened. She’s the best, remember? The best. I can’t stress that enough.
So now you know a little bit about me. Writer of smut, porn addict, an introvert who’s angst-ridden, and a well-loved hated professor at Podunk U who may have to kill someone soon.
Shit, there’s so much more... wait ‘til after class.
Div Hallowell
I’ve got a blind date tonight!
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CHAPTER TWO
It’s somewhat of a blind date. I’ve seen the guy around my neighborhood. Jogging, mowing his miniscule front yard, and I’ve eyed him through my curtained window as he takes out his trash. He’s fucking hot, of course, I mean, why would someone go on a date with another person if they didn’t find him or her attractive? The tall, dark, and handsome description fits him ‘to a T.’ A big dick is also a plus, but we haven’t gotten that far. The date’s first, what’s in his pants comes second.
I’ve never asked a guy out before. Men should come to me, and they have, but not as often as I’d like. This time I made the move. I slipped a note through his mail slot so I wouldn’t have to humiliate myself by stuttering to get the words out if we were face-to-face. Don’t roll your eyes at me. Some people don’t have the nerve to do such things, okay? I’m a badass in my head and when I write, but quite shy in person.
Hi! I’ve seen you around the neighborhood and was wondering if you’d like to have dinner or a coffee sometime. I’m the woman who lives in row house twenty-two, just a few doors down from you (we both have end units!). Shoulder-length dark brownish-auburn hair, green eyes (not hazel, green), five-nine, not too skinny, not too fat, drives an eighties Ford F-150 (red and white)... that’s me. You can message me on Facebook. I’m the only Div Hallowell in the land of online social media.
My profile pic is my truck so it was easy for him to find me, besides the name, that is. He messaged me almost immediately, thirty minutes after I left the note, which is kind of creepy. I was hoping for at least a day or two of nerves, pacing around my place, wondering if I had made a fool out
of myself. But it was quick and now here I am, at Antoinette’s Italian Eatery, waiting oh-so patiently for James Keller, or maybe it’s Keller James? I’ve known a few people to reverse their names on Facebook. It’s possible, and if it’s Keller it’s a great name, like ‘killer.’ And stable too, better than Tom, Dick, or Harry. Nicer sounding than a guy I once dated named Calix who went by Cale. I kept thinking his name was too similar to a vegetable, and I didn’t want to date a vegetable; it’s unhealthy. Even if it was disguised with the letter C, it was still a green leafy pile of Vitamin K.
James Keller didn’t write anything in his message, just a date, place, and time with an emoji of a thumbs-up added at the end. The whole thing made me feel like I was in high school.
I’ve never heard his voice or had even a whiff of his skin, and that makes me nervous. A man’s voice and the way he smells are both extremely important to me, more important than dick size. Only when a man’s dick is less than an inch does it take precedent over voice and scent. Yes, I’m a jerk, but most women think the same thing; they just won’t admit it. Like masturbation and passing gas. No one admits to either one.
And that’s what’s on my mind as I sit in this dark Italian Restaurant and wait. He’s late. Not a good sign. I look at my cell and then ding my plate with my salad fork, waiting... waiting... not worried about what he does for a living, or if he has any kids from a past relationship, or if he’s far in debt. Nope. Just voice, scent, and thinking about dick. Voice can’t be too high, scent can’t be pungent or overwhelming, and his dick, well at some point it’d be nice to get to know it ‘up close and personal.’ My fu-fu’s not coming out just yet, but I know I can’t wait too long. The longer I wait the more attached I may become, and then if I’m emotionally involved, but we’re not on the same wavelength in the sack, it’ll be much harder to call it off.
“Div?”
Oh thank God. A manly voice. Heavy and deep.
“Hi,” I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. James is it? Or Keller?” I’m nervous, with sweaty armpits that luckily don’t show in my black dress.