ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀɴ ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ| Dark Erotica ⛓

I| Mᴏᴍᴍᴀ Tᴀʟᴋᴇᴅ Sʜɪᴛ

.❀。• *°。 ❀°。

Momma always told me, 'never wonder far from home, never talk to strange men, don't play with guns and never strike a match.'

She said if I did all those magical things, then wished really hard, said my prayers and washed my hands, a handsome man would sprout from the ground when I was sixteen, a house would fall down from the sky and Jesus would put food on the table.

Nuh-uh.

Momma lied.

No!

She did worse than lie.

Momma talked shit.

It was the first of July, and Espen Vorden was breathless, his voice a lust-tainted growl from the desire to fuck.

And fuck hard.

"I'm gonna screw the disrespectful, bad-tempered bitch right out of you." He purred.

For a second, I almost believed him.

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Dear fucking diary.

If you'd told me in the not so distant past that I'd be selling my virginity to a blue-eyed Dutchman fifteen years my senior, I'd have slipped some dynamite up your backside and pointed you to the nearest asylum.

But that was exactly what I was doing.

It turned out my dashing desert saviour was a man of...'dark sexual appetites', as Tabitha the prostitute told me.
Pfft. A puta, more like it.

Is that what this fucker did? Charge around on his huge white horse in search of vulnerable virgins?

I was pissed at myself, stood there like a flaming dumb-ass in shit up-to my eyeballs.

A lady once told me, that sometime in your life you need to experience furious, passionate, filthy-wild sex to die happy.

But I can say that bitch told wrong.

I guess it was my fault, because she said 'nothin' is ever free', too.

Up to now, this was the worst day of my life.

Sweating.

I was sweating like a lawyer in hell, even with no panties and my tits swinging free, I was drenched in a sticky cloak of it.

My feet screamed blue murder in these horrendous heels that stood six inches tall.
Two hundred hours to make, champagne gold, dotted with these fat diamonds with a sole more crimson than a baboons ass.
Blood shoes. I'd never walk again.

I loathed this red silk dress that had been stitched so tight against my skin I didn't dare breathe.
I'd been told it was made in Italy, tailored in France, then shipped from London.
But I didn't give a fuck what society cad handcrafted this slip that would have made Satan choke, it felt like little more than sacrificial attire.

And I despised this mansion I found myself in.

It was grotesque big, Jane Austen grand with marble and stair-cases and glittering chandeliers with portraits of fat old men whose eyes followed me.