“You helpless little girl, what are you going to do to stop me? Huh?” I barked as I continued to fuck her.
“Nothing. That’s what I thought,” I said through my teeth as I worked myself in and out of her tight twat.
And I released her mouth from my grasp.
“Holy shit,” she wailed.
Instantly, her breathing became irregular and she began to grind her hips against me. Within a few seconds I felt her pussy contracting around my swollen shaft. I felt the tension building within me with each stroke, and I knew it would only be a matter of time…
“I’m going to come in you,” I said.
“Please don’t,” she breathed. “Please…let me…let me go…”
And that was it.
I arched my back, held my cock deep, and as she began to cry out into the room in pleasure, I erupted inside of her, filling her with all the proof I could that I felt the way I felt about her.
After we both collapsed onto the table and lay side by side breathing like we’d just finished a marathon, she turned her head to the side and gave her best pouty face.
“You don’t play fair,” she said, her bottom lip pushed out as far as she could push it.
I raised my head slightly and gazed down at her. “And you do?”
“I’m just a little girl,” she said with a laugh. “With a really tight pussy and a willing throat…”
I gazed down at my twitching cock. Just like that, she made me want more of her tight little pussy. She was clearly in control of my cock.
There was no doubt I was a big mean motherfucker in the eyes of the fellas and in the minds of all who encountered me. There weren’t a handful of men on earth who I believed could beat me in a fist fight, and none could handle a knife better than me.
But Sienna was turning me into a sexual twat with little stamina and no self-control, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.
Damn I love this woman.
Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-Two
SIENNA
May 10th, 2015
Throughout our relationship, I continued to one-click and read romance novels like an addict, my actions mirroring a meth-head hitting the pipe. I had always wondered if anyone on earth had the same problem with buying and reading books that I had, but at this point in my life I doubted anyone was as bad as I was.
I believed I initially started reading love stories to dream. The books were like fuel for my internal fire; giving me hope, providing me an outlet, and allowing me to live through the characters in the books in a manner I was incapable of living without them. Through the books, I was able to live in various places, experience exposure to a very diverse group of people, and do so in the comfort of my home without fear, worry, or ridicule. To me books were like magic, and the authors were nothing short of genius.
After I met Vince, I knew I was living a dream and had no real need to continue to read about it, so I wondered if my reading pace would slow. It didn’t. Reading the books now, I didn’t dream as much, but I made comparisons.
And none of the men in my love stories could compare to the reality of Vince.
But it was still fun letting them try.
I lifted the bottle to my lips, held it in place, and stared at the monitor.
Inside Vera, by Claire Puckett, is nothing short of a masterpiece.
I began the book and quickly found a down to earth relatable hero, and a heroine who didn’t whine, bitch or do dumb shit. With my interest piqued, I continued.
The story unfolded at a quick pace, following each of them through their respective lives in a first person alternating POV format.
Finding a different voice for each character must be a difficult task, because many authors simply change the name of the character at the beginning of the chapter, but in the absence of that one declaration, the characters seem to be the same. The personality, the speech, and the characteristics mimic the character in the previous chapter. Many male authors writing female leads are unaware of the female mind’s differences, and many female authors write male characters that seem feminine.
Claire hits it out of the fucking park.
A boxer running from his past meets a girl who should be running but isn’t (at least physically). She doesn’t realize it, but she is running farther and farther with each passing day, convinced she is loyal to her spouse.
She is loyal, but she’s fading fast.
The problem is that her husband is an abusive dick. Not the type of abuse that a woman soon recovers from; more the type that requires sunglasses to cover up.
The ancillary characters in the book are almost as interesting as the mains, with the exception of one. The best friend of the boxer needs a book of his own (Claire, I’m begging you…)
The book continues to follow the life of the boxer and the life of the abused woman, until their lives collide one day.
And collide they do.
I cheered, I screamed, I hid under my covers. I almost pissed my pants. I cheered again. I actually stood in the boxing ring. Yes, in the fucking ring; sweat dripping from my chin, my muscles aching, and waited for the opening to swing the perfect right cross into the jaw of my opponent.
The book detail sheet said three hundred pages. I was certain it was more like fifty pages. Hell, I’d finished it in thirty minutes, I was sure. I glanced at my watch and eight hours had passed.
And, as satisfied as I was, I wanted more.
*swallows heavily and takes drink of wine*
I grinned, took a long drink from the bottle, swallowed it, and took another. I hoped Claire herself would read the review and appreciate it, but I doubted that would be the case. What was more important to me was that everyone on Goodreads was able to understand my position on the book, and consider reading it. Hopefully, if they did they would enjoy it as much as I did.
I took another drink, set the bottle aside, and stared down at the keyboard. After a moment of thought, I continued.
So, I’ll close by saying this. The author made me fall in love with a bald-headed 220 pound hot-tempered thug who uses pruning shears to resolve his frustrations (read the book). I would have never guessed anyone could have caused me to feel this level of emotion for such a man, but she did.
For her ability to tell a story such as this, keeping my interest and making me cry the entire trip, all the while using characters that are clearly unconventional, I give five stars.
For making me fall in love with aforementioned bald guy, two more.
For the perfect ending, two more.
And, for taking me into a sport I know nothing of and making me feel like I know everything about boxing, another.
So….
On a five star scale, I give ten.
Thank you, Claire.
Thank you.
I stopped typing, studied the screen for a moment, and pressed the button to publish my review. Half a bottle of wine and two reviews later, and I was down to my last review. Of all the books I had read in the last year, I wanted to review this one the least. It was an awful book, terribly disturbing, and not something I would have ever continued to read had I not been persuaded to do so by the author. The thought of writing the review made me feel ill, hence saving it for last.
As much enjoyment as I got out of writing reviews, and as entertaining as I found drafting them to be, one thing I always felt terrible about was when an author asked me personally to read and review a book, and the book ended up being awful. Typically, when I received a book I simply couldn’t get interested in, or if I found it to be poorly written, or something I simply felt I would be incapable of reviewing honestly, I would attempt to get the author to allow me to not review the book.
No harm, no foul, so to speak.
Well, on this particular book, the author refused my request to not review the book, stating that he wanted the book reviewed regardless. In fact, even after I reluctantly finished the book and still didn’t want to review it, he insisted on it.
>
I want your opinion, he said.
Believe me, you don’t, I responded.
Yet, he insisted.
I walked to the kitchen, realized I was just north of a drunken mess, and opened bottle number two. I fully realized I didn’t need any more wine, but I wanted more. I removed the cork, poured a glass, and re-corked the bottle.
That’ll make sure I don’t overdo it.
I slid the bottle to the side, took a sip from my glass, and stumbled toward the room.
After drinking half the glass of wine in one slurp, I pushed it to the side and began to type.
A Man, a Woman, and a Knife, by Alton Parsons was a book I would not normally read. At the insistence of the author, I went against the grain of my comfort zone and read the book for review.
And.
I can’t brush my teeth enough or drink enough wine to get the foul taste out of my mouth.
*bile rises in throat*
Thinking about this book is making me sick, which is typically okay, but there was no real reason for the scenes that are making me sick to have been in the book. They served no purpose whatsoever.
Don’t get me wrong, I like dark reads. I like books that make me check and double check my front and back doors to make sure they’re locked. I like books that make me cringe, and I love books that make me cough up matter that I wish would have stayed in my stomach.
But.
I despise books that have subject matter randomly inserted into them for no reason, and were clearly done for shock value alone.
In considering what to type next, I began thinking about the book. Thinking about the book caused me to get angry, and my anger immediately turned to thirst. I finished my glass of wine, walked to the kitchen and poured another. Half a glass later, and I was back to writing my review.
“Show, don’t tell”, is good advice to all authors. I have always felt the author should allow the reader into the mind of the character, to some degree. But. Don’t tell me he’s angry, have him cross his arms and kick a rock. Don’t tell me “it was a terribly hot day in Atlanta”, tell me “my breath was nearly sucked from my lungs as we walked out of the airport, and the sun bore down on us like a heavy weight as we walked what seemed like a mile and a half to the parking garage…”
This book is so full of purple prose that it made reading it feel as if I was being told a story in detail in lieu of seeing it happen in my mind.
And, it was full, and I do mean FULL of two hundred pages of graphically detailed violence that need not be in it to tell the story.
After the first chapter I fully understood Barton Sole was an animal, a psychopath, and that he had a temper like a human Tasmanian devil. But to continue to beat a dead horse (or in this case, beat a dead prostitute) in the manner the he did (through, of course, the author’s tale) until her skull was in pieces on the floor and brain matter was on the walls…
I lifted my glass and took another drink.
And another.
And then it was gone. I half crawled half stumbled to the kitchen, poured the last of the wine into my glass, and zig-zagged back to my room. After pouring half the wine on my pajamas and the other half down my throat, I began typing.
Fine.
The first time, I felt it was okay. A little graphic, but I lived with it because it allowed me to FULLY understand the man was a fucking lunatic.
But, the sixteen additional chapters telling detail upon detail of “I’m so angry I think the only way to diffuse this situation is to bash in the skull of another prostitute” is taking it a bit too far.
The story told could have been done in eighteen pages (I highlighted each one). Three hundred and three pages were useless graphic bullshit. In short, the book could have been edited down to roughly twenty pages at most, including the ridiculous preface and prologue.
Bottom line?
This book was nothing short of a disaster.
One star.
Because I have to give it something to get this review to post (you asked, Alton)
I did my best to read the review, and as the monitor’s screen began to sway back and forth in my field of vision, published it.
As I stood from my chair and reached for my wine, I fell against the desk, almost tipped over, and eventually ended up lowering myself to the floor rather gracefully, considering all things. After crawling to my bed and climbing up on it, I relaxed into a spinning room.
I hate that fucking book.
I covered my eyes with my pillow...
Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-Three
VINCE
May 10th, 2015
One thing I never expected to happen with Sienna was to be stood up. Not in a million years would I have thought I would have been left looking like a fool, but then again…
It had only been a year.
It took me fifteen years to determine my wife was incapable of keeping her promises. Learning after a year should be considered a blessing.
I left my mother’s home after an embarrassing one-sided conversation which lasted all evening. After fidgeting with the food for an hour and a half only to force myself to swallow a few small pieces, I finally left and rode my bike to Sienna’s home, praying I would find an answer.
What I found was an empty house free of any signs of life. All interior lights were off, the porch light was off, and although I spent nothing short of a half hour beating on the front and rear doors, no one answered the door.
Two women had been allowed into my life. In return for my loyalty I received two broken promises.
And one broken heart.
Bile rose in my throat. I raised my hand to knock again and realized I was shaking terribly. I inhaled a deep breath through my nose, gazed down at the toes of my boots, and exhaled. The bile rose again. I turned toward the driveway, walked to my bike, and lifted my leg over the seat. As I sat staring out into the street, I knew if I left it would be the last time I would ever pull away from her house.
She had done the unthinkable.
In Sienna’s own words, what had happened was the unexpected result of the natural development of life.
At least now, when it came to women, I would know what to expect.
Broken promises.
I started the motorcycle, pulled in the clutch lever, and kicked the lever into gear. After a long hesitation and a more than ample amount of time, I released the clutch and pulled out into the street.
Alone.
Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-Four
SIENNA
May 11, 2015
I opened my eyes, rolled onto my side, and tried to make sense of why my mouth felt like I had someone else’s tongue in it. My mouth was dry, I felt like I’d been ran over by a truck, and I could feel my heart beating in my eyes.
I drank way too much wine.
With the room illuminated naturally by the setting sun, I narrowed my eyes and studied my surroundings as if they were unfamiliar. A quarter of a glass of wine sat on my desk beside my monitor, which had the screen saver zooming back and forth across the screen.
Fuck, I must have fallen asleep.
I stretched, walked to the kitchen, and took some Tylenol for my aching head. After finishing my glass of water, I walked to my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. After a few seconds, I lowered my head into my hands and prayed for it to stop throbbing.
Son-of-a-bitch.
After a considerable amount of time, my head felt good enough to stand, and I walked to my desk. The black screen indicated I had been asleep for long enough that my computer shut down, which happened after fifteen minutes. I rubbed my eyes and stared at the monitor. Although I vaguely remembered writing a review, I didn’t really remember writing all of the reviews I was supposed to write, or exactly where I left off or what happened.
I wiggled the mouse, cleared the screen of the wiggling blurry ball, and stared at the review. It didn’t look familiar in the least. After a moment of staring blankly at the monitor, I refreshed the scre
en and stared. The review still seemed strange, as if it was written by someone else, but the time stamp at the side left me slightly puzzled.
14 hours, 38 min ago
Fourteen hours ago? How can that be?
I glanced at my watch. 7:22. I stared blankly at my watch, tried to make sense of what was going on, but couldn’t.
If it’s 7:22, the sun wouldn’t be setting. It would be totally sunny.
I walked to the bedroom window, opened it, and peered outside.
Fuck.
I ran to the kitchen and looked at the microwave.
7:21
Fuck. It can’t be.
After a frantic search, I found my purse, got my phone, and looked at the screen.
7:23 AM Mon, May 11
No…no…no, please God, no.
After repeated calls to his home went unanswered, I finally left a message, which was not at all what I wanted to do. Three hours later, and still having received no phone call from him, I was scared I had disappointed him much more than I expected.
I sat in his driveway frustrated that I had passed out from being drunk and missed dinner. I not only that I had I down Vince, but Anita as well. She took so much pride in her preparation of the meals, arrangement of the table, and found such value in our conversations that my having missed dinner would have disappointed her greatly. I was sure of it.
“Gabriel’s Message,” by Sting played over the stereo as I sat and waited for Vince to return.
I can fix this.
Two and a half complete plays of the CD later, while “Do You Hear What I Hear,” by Whitney Houston played, I hoped Vince would understand, but I had spent enough time playing ideas over and over in my head of how he may react, that I feared he would overreact.
As gentle as he seemed to be, and as kind as he was, his temper was beyond what most would describe as hot tempered. His ability to forgive was minimal, and his ability to forget was nonexistent.
Fuck.
I covered my head in my hands, realizing fully that my actions got me into the predicament I was in, and no matter what his reaction was, I could get through it one way or another.
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