Harper possessed a rare talent - she could blend two worlds that the universe swore could never coexist: her humdrum life as an accountant by day with her steamy famous alter ego crafting erotic tales online by night.
But her double life unravels...
❝Early this morning When you knocked upon my door And I said hello Satan, ah I believe it is time to go❞
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The monster-sex ended around 9 a.m.
I couldn't take the credit. No, the only thing remotely sexy I would be getting would be through the Hub and even that wasn't an offer—to quote Mr. Darcy—'handsome enough to tempt me.'
It had only taken Megan a hot minute after stomping my dreams to an end to have her newly adopted booty call back in the apartment. I'd been in my room, lying wide awake on my mattress while staring at the ceiling like a man deceased when I heard 'Javier' sneak in. It wasn't long after that the dinosaur wails began again, and this time, it was a thousand times louder than before.
After all, her ugly little secret was out in the open now. Along with a lot of other things, judging by the grunts of encouragement Javier let out. It was like live porn for clowns.
Eventually, I fell asleep with my pillow over my head, curled up into a ball of self-loathing. When I awoke, the sun was high up in the afternoon sky and penetrating through the thin curtains in my room. I rolled over and picked up my phone.
2 p.m.
Getting to my feet, I threw on a t-shirt and tip-toed over to my door, pressing my ear against the wood.
It was all silent on the Megan front. As it should be for a Thursday afternoon. Unlike me, she had a day job she loved as an accountant. She wouldn't be back home till much later tonight, or so I hoped.
I was surprised she hadn't bolted in before leaving for work to remind me the clock was ticking. Perhaps she'd felt subjecting me to audio-sex while I was in my self-inflicted prison was punishment enough. She didn't know that I was too stubborn to let her version of solitary confinement break me.
"Guess she's letting the caged artist roam free today," I mumbled to myself as I grabbed my laptop and opened the door, heading to the comfort of the couch in the living room.
Safely in front of my trusty laptop, which, unlike my poor hard drive, was still in one piece, I decided to dive straight back into the job listings I'd been pouring over before I'd passed out. Graphic design positions were a dime a dozen, but it seemed like most of them were tailor-made for soulless drones who'd sold their creativity for a 9-to-5 paycheck. I couldn't help but let out an exasperated sigh.
"Graphic designer needed to make boring things slightly less boring," I muttered as I scrolled through yet another uninspiring posting. Pausing, I added sarcastically, "Must be willing to accept that 'thinking outside the box' is punishable by death."
My fingers danced over the keyboard as I scanned the digital wasteland of job listings. Graphic design had become a battleground between artistic integrity and capitalist conformity, and I was straddling the line like a tightrope walker with vertigo.
