Andy Hayward would love your feedback! Got a few minutes to write a review?
Write a Review

Diseased Soul

By Andy Hayward All Rights Reserved ©

Romance / Other

Chapter 4

From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 22/03/2008 09:21:45

Subject: Trouble with Susan

B, I’m clinging to the idea that our chat will amount to nothing. Susan has had issues with me ever since I stole the Edwyn Williams prize from her during the final year of our degrees. It’s a prize awarded to the most outstanding research project of the cohort. There are two reasons why she her wounds cut deep. First, my project examined factors thought to modulate latent inhibition in humans: a pet topic of hers, very close to her heart. Second, I received a lower grade: eighty per cent versus her eighty-six, so on paper she should have won. Nonetheless, the board– chaired by eminent scientist from an Oxbridge College –awarded me not Susan the prize. There is a third reason to explain Susan’s disappointment about being overlooked for the Edwyn Williams’. She cared deeply about it. I didn’t. Before receiving it, I didn’t know it existed. Come to think of it, I cared so little about the outcome of my project I bound its pages with a simple and single modest staple, avoiding completely the professional bindings other students like Susan used. As a self-financing student, I had little or no money, and couldn’t afford to have my project bound in leather for the sole purpose of impressing its reader. The content of the piece, not how it looked was the critical factor, in my opinion. And it was the content, the fact I ran four elegant experiments, derived from a disparate theoretical background that earned the prize. It was no fluke. It was bloody hard work.

She’s held it against me ever since. And predictably her resentment, normally well hidden, surfaces after a pint or two of Caffrey’s. It’s only then she accuses me of faking my data- arguably the greatest of academic crimes. Her story, no doubt, a poor attempt to reduce any dissonance suffered for failing to win. Her justification went something like this: How could she, as a first-class honours student, who’d won every other University prize be out-witted by a student, me, who on paper was far from a worthy adversary? And moreover, how did that same inferior student, me, manage to execute four experiments when she, having taken considerable time and effort, managed to execute just one? In her mind, I neither had the academic aptitude nor sufficient time pull off such a coupe.

Mind you, the Edwyn William’s wasn’t the first time I managed to the pull a rabbit out of the hat, seemingly from nowhere. Be warned. I’m going off on a tangent here. You seemed to like my earlier childhood story so I’ve included another. It’s one way of getting to know me. It’s like the old saying goes “Show me the boy at seven and I’ll show you the man”. Now, who said that I wonder? For full marks on this homework question you’ll need to provide the name, date and source, ideally conforming to Harvard referencing system. Consult uncle Google as necessary. Mistakes will yield one demerit and a visit to the headmaster’s office...Bugger there’s a knock at the door. Back in a mo.

From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 22/03/2008 09:35:51

Subject: Trouble with Susan Students! How rude! Knocking and entering before hearing the words “Come!” or “Enter!” Where have manners vanished? The ignoramus got the wrong office, despite a plaque reading “Dr. Jonathon Skinner” on the door. Dullard. Standards have slipped! These kids are meant to the bright ones! Back to infinitely more important matters. My story. It’s a long one so pour yourself a cuppa, sit down, get comfortable and open a packet of digestives. Dunk and read, read and dunk. Settled? Good. Here goes…

It’s no secret I hated school, especially secondary school. Throughout I was unsettled, had few friends and no real interest in lessons. Occasionally a teacher captured my imagination or riled me and I’d perform better than expected. My third year geography teacher set a project at the beginning of the autumn term by challenging the class, me sat at the back head down, ears half-open and doodling nothing in particular with a Biro on the inside cover of my work-book, to select a country from the oversized Atlas he was pointing at and describe in detail, features, physical, cultural and political that made it different to our own. It was expansive challenge more suited to a doctoral thesis than secondary school project. Had I been smart, I might have chosen a small country as a way limiting what I had to write about, like Vatican City, Liechtenstein, or perhaps Saint Kitts and Nevis a country, or more precisely a sovereign state, which gained independence from the British the previous year. Instead, being lazy and pressured by my teacher in front of the whole class to choose, I snatched a quick glimpse at the Atlas and selected one of the few countries large enough to identify from where I sat: USSR. In response my teacher let out audible which really threw the gauntlet down! Even now I like to prove I can achieve when I am told I cannot.

For a long while I did nothing to contribute toward the project. Being young, the deadline of the end of the summer term at the beginning of the autumn one seemed too distant to comprehend. I twiddled my thumbs, pondered and procrastinated. Then without warning my teacher demanded to see the progress of our projects at the end the spring term. Unlike my classmates I had nothing to show him and for my lack of effort was kept behind at lunchtime for a week writing lines. The thought obviously never occurred to him I should use the time to research one the largest countries in the world. No, ’course not. My time was better spent writing out repeatedly, “I need to work harder at school, I need to work harder at school, I need to work harder at school, I need to work harder at school…” By the end of the week I had blisters on the forefinger and thumb of my right hand. The exercise crippled my right wrist, albeit temporarily.

In defiance it wasn’t until the beginning of the summer term I began to work on the project, but I didn’t go to the library once. One evening after school I sat myself down in the front room stared beyond the television screen, not paying any particular attention to Jon Cravens Newsround. Then for no reason, a piece of news caught my interest. I can’t remember what the article was about and that detail doesn’t matter. What’s important is the idea it planted in my small yet cunning mind. For the first time I heard the phrase foreign embassy and though I did not know exactly what one was or its purpose, It occurred to me that Russia might have one and that it might be able answer the question set by my geography teacher for me. What Genius. All I would have to do is write a letter to the person in charge and tell them about my project. Brilliant. Job done.

That evening I waited at the bottom of the stairs for Dad to arrive home from work. Before he was able to fully open the door and enter the house I asked him for the Russian Embassy’s address, under the allusion that he knew everything, an error made by many sons I dare say. He didn’t know it, but said that should I ever have the need to write to them, addressing the envelope “Russian Embassy, London, England” might do the trick. I wrote what he said down straight away on a small white envelope before I could forget. My next job was to the write the letter asking for help with my project. So that’s exactly what I did. I found a hard backed-book to lean on, the adventures of Mister Pink Whistle (a childhood favourite, as read by Dad) a clean sheet of paper, my school fountainpen and sat down in the front room after tea with Dad. I wrote down everything he said word for word. It must have read something like:

“Dear Sir,
My name is Jon Skinner. My geography teacher has asked me to write about your country for an important project at school.
Can you please send me as much information as possible about what makes your county different from mine? My teacher says I have to write about politics, culture and physical differences.
Thank you very much. I shall look forward to hearing from you soon.
Yours sincerely J. Skinner”

There were lots of ink splodges and none of the lines were straight but Dad made sure I spelled each word correctly. My signature at the end was just as scruffy and just as illegible as it is now. I pinned all my hopes for the project on the Russian Embassy’s reply. For weeks I checked the post before breakfast but nothing came and despondency set in as I faced the reality of either handing in yet another bad report or not handing in one at all. Exactly one week before the project was due I noticed a large brown, bulging, envelope at the foot of the front door hidden partly beneath a small pile of other mail. I raced down the stairs, excitedly, hoping it was addressed to me. I picked up the entire bundle, discarded the smaller envelopes to the floor and retained the largest item; the one I thought was mine. It was the wrong side up. I turned it over, my hands shaking with excitement to find out the addressee. On the front was my name “Master J. Skinner”, in large hand written letters. Whoopee, I thought, my skin is saved. Before I committed to opening the package I gave it a good feel, a prod, a poke. I felt, what I thought to be the edges of books inside. No they were pamphlets, I could bend them. I sat down there in the hallway and ripped open the package with my teeth, tearing the cover letter inside and spilling the envelopes guts onto the cold tiled floor. The letter thanked me for my interest in the Soviet Union and directed my attention to the literature enclosed which the Embassy hoped would prove useful for completing my project. There were several pamphlets included, just as I suspected. The coloured jackets were rough to the touch and had a matt finish which contrasted with the smooth coloured leaves inside. None of that mattered. At the eleventh hour my gamble had paid off. Here I had all the material for the best school project I was ever likely to produce. All I had to do now was compile it and hand in all my hard work.

The morning after receiving the package, a Saturday, I collected as much A3 coloured sugar paper I could find, armed myself with stick-glue, mother’s kitchen scissors and proceeded to cut out and stick down any picture from the pamphlets and onto to the sugar paper pages that took my eye. Once satisfied with the number of pictures, their arrangement on each page and spurred on by my hunger pangs for lunch, I folded each page to make an A4 pamphlet of my own. I connected the images with brief sentences written in my best handwriting, with my best felt-tipped pen in the form of “The picture below shows the Ural Mountains which run roughly North-South across Russia” and “Here is the Union of Soviet Socialist Republic’s (USSR) flag with the communist hammer and sickle in one corner”. Don’t get me wrong I didn’t know where the Urals were I didn’t know what a hammer and sickle was, or what communism meant. All I did was cut out the pictures, being very careful to omit the original captions which I then copied out in my own hand writing, using my own words, sometimes. I noticed the pamphlets supplied by the embassy contained a lot of red so for the cover of my project I folded a piece of red sugar paper onto which I glued at its centre a map of the Soviet Union. Above the map I wrote “Modern Russia and the Soviet Union”, a title I stole from a piece of recently butchered literature.

For writing my letter, which occupied one whole page of my hefty thesis, and for my mornings pre-lunch work I earned to the envy of the class swots, an A-plus, a grade no-one else earned, putting me at the top of the class, for a change. The swots scoffed and sneered as the marks were read out in front of the entire class. No doubt they too must have thought I cheated somehow just as Susan had when I stole her Edwyn Williams. Just like Susan they cared deeply about being awarded the top spot whereas I did not care a jot- labelling me cheat was a way to make sense of their failure, a mechanism to reduce their dissonance, I suppose. My own interpretation of these two events is that far from cheating, I used what ingenuity I had to compensate for my lack of true cognitive ability.


From
: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 22/03/2008 10:01:32

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan

There you go with your super long emails again! Phew. I’m surprised you find the time to do any work! I had to read that one in three sittings. A cocky tyke weren’t you?! I don’t do digestives, Jon. Make a note for future reference. I’m a hobnob girl. Those class swots and Polly-Prissy-Pants, (3Pee for short, aka Susan) got what they deserved. It sounds like you earned the credit both times. There are truly awful people in the world…so consumed and so envious of other people’s success that they make-up stories to mask their own failings! It’s the lowest of low, a real joke! Well, my beautiful boy you survived. You don’t have put with such pitiful behaviour any longer now that you’re with me. 3Pee’s issues run far deeper than you’re admitting. Come Doc. Spill the beans. What did she want to talk about? I have my suspicions. You’ve known her a long time. You’ve studied, lived, and holidayed together. She’s had her claws in you for years. It doesn’t to take a genius to work out what she wanted to chat about. I’m an intuitive woman and she’s made my life a LIVINGHELL since we met.

Roobarb ate my homework. I don’t want to play your naughty school-girl headmaster game- not yet. Not until you tell me about the TRUTH about 3pee.

From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 22/03/2008 11:20:10

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan Game? I hadn’t intended to be lewd – a slip of the tongue – sorry. I do plenty of work. Susan and I had a very difficult chat yesterday evening. It’s only the second time in eight years I’ve seen her cry. The first time was when her dog, Barney, died. She told me in town the day it happened. I tried to empathise, but had no experience to draw from since I’ve never kept a pet. At a loss I gave her a brief friendly hug, a pat on the back, and offered what sympathy I could, then made my way to the station to catch my train home.

From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 22/03/2008 12:32:03

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan That poor girl! I cannot believe you acted so heartlessly and left her there in middle of town crying, alone. How could have I become involved with such a monster! My dogs are my life. I love them dearly. They’re my family. I’ve told you about how important family is, Jon. If one died it would be like losing a son or daughter. I hope Barney’s death was painless. I hope your stay in HELL is not! You’re so bloody insensitive. Heartless.

Aside from being incredibly upset that you hate animals, I’m still none the wiser about what 3Pee wanted to chat about, as if I didn’t already know! How exasperating! What does a woman have to do around here to get a straight answer? What happened the second time you upset poor Susan?

From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 22/03/2008 12:45:39

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan You’re right I’ve stalled revealing the content of that chat. Before I do, let me stress that I don’t hate animals. Not a bit. I won a goldfish playing hoopla at a fair once, but Gums died the very next day so he doesn’t count. Zach kept a rabbit called Cola whose imprinting was so strong it followed him everywhere. There was Hobbes, a Labrador Beagle cross, whose loyalty was split equally between Dad and Zach and Mowgli, the family cat, who Dad snatched from a gang of boys who tried to drown her in Parklake and my youngest sister held a hamster behind bars until it learned to undo the latch and escaped never to return. With the exception of being sat, screaming crocodile tears, on a Blackpool donkey, with religious regularity as a kid and until commencing my research, these were my very limited experiences with animals so perhaps you can forgive me for struggling to empathize with the death of Susan’s dog.

From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 22/03/2008 13:15:14

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan Okay, okay, okay. Forgiven. But know this. NOTHING will ever come between me and beautiful my loyal friends Roobarb and Custard. NOTHING. Especially not you, so be careful what you say in the future. And the conversation with 3Pee? What did you chat about? Why are you protecting her? What are you trying to hide? Tell me! Surely to God in heaven I’m not the only remaining honest person left on the planet, in our galaxy! Getting information out of you is more painful than, I bet, being snogged by a box jelly fish! Think about it. That would REALLYFUCKINGHURT. The conversation Jon, what did the two of you spend the whole night talking about? It’s time to tell me every detail, Jon, even if it means having to survive another exhaustively long reply.

From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 22/03/2008 14:15:01

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan We didn’t spend the whole night talking. Our conversation was short. Susan is not easy to talk to. She’s part mental magician, part expert poker player, part barrister-at-law and part world championship pugilist. Let me qualify that statement. She possess a photographic memory, remains phlegmatic under pressure, consumes others’ arguments and waits patiently to deliver a decisive knock-out blow. A person like that can be a great asset as a friend or be an unconquerable enemy. Our chat changed me quickly from one into the other. I should have saw it coming, but her expressionless face, the lack of any emotion in her voice convinced me that she viewed me as nothing more than just a friend. For the first time last night she admitted to herself as much as to me that she had fallen in love with me during our bachelor’s degrees. It’s anyone’s guess how that happened. I didn’t meet until I had begun my doctoral studies, three years later. Friends had warned me of her feelings. I ignored them on the basis that Susan had never smiled at me in the way a woman who’s in love with a man smiles.

For much of the time I had known her I was ill which kept me house bound for several years. I concede that from an outsider’s perspective we must have resembled a relatively normal couple. We shared a flat, ate together and took strolls in the park when my illness permitted. We holidayed together too, to a Greek Island, to New York and finally to San Francisco, visiting the last two destinations for academic conferences, being sure to make the most of the transatlantic flights by extending our stay afterwards. To reduce costs we always booked twin rooms. I frequently questioned whether we should be spending all our time together and often remarked that walks in the park, days out and especially holidays should be reserved for a suitable boyfriend. Her ears remained shut and I reluctantly went along with her plans knowing all along I might be giving her the wrong impression. It all came out last night. She told me over and again how she had loved me all those years. She told me she remained silent to avoid putting me under any pressure whilst I was ill. She was waiting for the day I recovered. That was the perfect time to deliver those three little words, she said. I was moved by all I heard and as you might expect her arguments for choosing her over you were sound. She had stood by me all this time for no apparent reward whilst you have done nothing. She had been my friend for eight years; you by comparison just eight minutes, seemingly. I was moved by her pleas but remained resolute. I looked into her blood-shot-tear-filled-eyes and felt agape, not eros. I apologised over and over again, but nothing other than what she wanted to hear made any impact. It took only one hour for Susan to move from telling me she loved me to telling me how much she hated me. She slammed the front door, forgetting to lock it, as left the house that night with tears streaming down her face, carrying a large bag…

From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 22/03/2008 14:05:02

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan

To be in love with someone for so long and never tell them…What a sucker! I knew you were trying to cover something up. I knew it! Oh well, I win she loses and I didn’t even have to try very hard get her out of my way. She must have thought you owed her something after stealing that stupid little prize from her all those years ago and being with you may have been all compensation she needed. How ridiculous to be set on someone totally out of her league. She might be bright but she’s no Grace Kelly! I find it difficult to believe that anyone could find her attractive particularly someone as handsome as you. And grudge-holding is far from being an endearing characteristic! Her strategy of making you her friend in the hope that one day you’d be much more was a waste of time! L-O-S-E-R! I could never have an ulterior motive like that. And if I had a friend who I thought was doing to me what 3Peebrain did to you I could never look at them in the eyes ever again. I’d be utterly ruthless and erase them from my life. That crafty little minx!

I can see what she did now. She fancied you the moment she laid her crafty eyes on you, realised she couldn’t have you and secretly made plans to acquire you. Her first step was to befriend you which she achieved by being a nerd just like you. That was the easy part. The next was to develop a situation to share a flat or house or something. Again that must have been straightforward enough since you were both studying at Metro. She probably told your original house mates you didn’t like them, to cause tension, then dropped hints that she was looking for someone new to share with. How convenient! Then the real work began. She’d start by asking you along to the cinema, inviting you on a day trip here and there, sharing a meal, letting you into her private life, visiting her parents, meeting her friends, going on holiday, sharing special times so that you would make the mistake of believing the two of you were a young couple, in love, doing all the normal things normal couples in love do in the normal world. Neither 3Peebrain nor your relationship with her was in the real world. It was in the world she contrived, one she controlled. Her plan was to let it happen naturally, so imperceptibly, you wouldn’t have been aware it was happening at all. Then your life would have been over. You’d be married to an FUCKINGUGLYBINT, have a brood of FUCKINGUGLYDUCKLINGS and been stuck in a FUCKINGDEADENDJOB in a FUCKINGBORINGTOWN to pay mortgage on a pokey little house you couldn’t afford, filled to the brim with FUCKINGGARISHORNAMENTALTAT. Make no mistake that was her plan all along! You should count yourself lucky the day you met me and thank me for saving you from the misery 3Peebrain had in store!

Illness? What Illness? I hope didn’t have something horrible like testicular or prostate cancer. I demand that you’re in full working order!

From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 22/03/2008 14:25:06

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan

Your impression of Susan is certainly not a good one. If it wasn’t for the revelations of last night I would have taken your interpretation lightly. Maybe you’re right about her grand plan. Had she avoided using phrases like “I love you, I always have”; “I hoped we’d be together someday” and; “I bought a house for us, to share as couple” I wouldn’t have believed a word of it. Do you really believe someone like Susan is capable of scheming in the manner you propose?

I had and still do have Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (M.E., for short).

From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 22/03/2008 15:32:44

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan

People like 3Peebrain are capable of ANYTHING! I was suspicious of her when you first introduced us. Don’t put me in the same room as her again and if you dare don’t expect me to be polite. I’d be careful about what you tell her about us too. I’m sure she’ll do her very best to spread the most awful gossip about us and try to split us up.

M.E? Yuppy flu? Are you having a laugh? That’s not a proper illness. Four years wasted on that! You should have pulled up your socks, manned up and got on with it. I don’t believe a bloody word of it. Bone bloody idle more like. PFFF!

From:

To: Elizabeth.

Date: 22/03/2008 15:50:22

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan

Judging by her reaction to the rejection there’s little chance Susan will speak to me again. She was distraught, so the probability of the two of you ever being in the same room is infinitesimally small. A real pity too. Until now Susan has been a loyal friend. She was one of the few people who stood by me when I was sick. She was no Florence Nightingale, but she remained solid throughout and gave me a secure place to recover so that I might, one day, be in a position to write-up my thesis. Seen through your eyes, however, her friendship was nothing more than a vehicle to earn my love. To that degree I’m reluctant to concede her motives were selfish rather than selfless.

Unrequited love. Much has been said about that. It’s been the subject of hundreds if not thousands if not tens of thousands of films. A few examples. Take Mike Newell’s Four Weddings and Funeral in which Fiona upon realising Charles’ apparent love for Carrie, explains to him the reason for her remaining unmarried is because she has been in love with Charles since they first met. Consider also the moment during Richard Curtis’ Love Actually, when, viewing the video of her recent wedding to Peter, Juliet deduces, for the first time, her husband’s best friend and best man, Mark, loves rather than hates her. Mark shot the wedding video remember and he, through the camera’s lens, adoringly examines Juliet in all the ways a man who’s in love with a woman should. There is also Michael Curtiz’s Casablanca, a true classic, during which Ilsa despite being in love with and loved by Rick is married to the fugitive Czechoslovakian resistance leader Victor Lazlo. Until recently I’ve understood the notion of ‘to love and not be loved’ as romantic mumbo jumbo, nonsense reserved for films. I now appreciate it can happen in real life and as with Rick, Juliet and Charles who had empathy for Ilsa, Mark and Fiona, respectively, I too have nothing but empathy for Susan.

Thanks for your valuable comments relating to M.E. Most insightful.

From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 22/03/2008 16:12:11

Subject: RE: Trouble with Susan

Empathy? You’re crazy, deluded. I wish I could say the same. 3Peebrain was using you. Quoting a shed load of romantic clap-trap won’t change my mind. You should put her out of your mind. Concentrate on me instead, I’m worth it. I’m really looking forward to seeing you later. I can barely wait. I have a feeling that our evening will be mostly spent in bed. Just think – we will be on our own for hours and hours and hours – how divine!


From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 24/03/2008 06:35:15

Subject: Lover man
Hey Beautiful Boy, Phwoar! Saturday night was amazing. Such a sensitive lover. Gentle, warm, tantalizingly, above all stimulating. Where did you learn to touch women like that? I’ve never felt so at home so quickly in the arms of a man. I can categorically say that I’ve never, ever, before been brought to climax so easily, not without a little extra help if you know what I mean;-) I don’t know how you did it but whatever it was, you did it with expert hands! If every woman had a man like you the entire sex-toy industry would be crushed! Lucky me! Little wonder why you’re so good at surgery. My goodness, I can only imagine what I’ve been missing out all these years! If the way you looked at me with your steely grey eyes is anything to go by then I’m sure you’ll penetrate me deeply, when I do eventually surrender myself completely. I have no doubt of it. I nearly choked when your cock hit the back my throat for the first time. I didn’t hesitate to gulp down the large volume of Jizz – which tasted delicious, BTW – you squirted right to the back of my mouth. Normally I’d object, but somehow it’s different with you. Quite literally I want to devour you, every last bit. Such a lucky girl! With that body, that generously proportioned a cock and with that expertise you could very easily make it as a porn-star. Your performance over the weekend left me speechless, well almost.

I’m surprised that someone of your pedigree is with a numpty like me. I realise that I’m good looking and there are parts of my body I really do love. Mum taught me to apply just the right amount of make-up in just the right way so I always look attractive, never cheap and I feel confident. I love my breasts too. They feel great, firm as ever, though on the small side. One day, who knows? I might get a boob job and pump them up a couple of bra sizes. It wouldn’t be cheap but they’d be worth every penny. I’MWORTHEVERYPENNY. My God Jon, you’ve awoken such urges. Right now, this instant, more than anything, I’d love to sit on your rock hard cock, grab hold of my tits, look directly into your eyes and lick and suck my nipples like the actresses did in the porn movies my Ex used to watch behind back. I’d put on a special show just for you. I imagine that you’d shoot your load into me so fucking hard! At the same time as doing my boobs I’d ask the surgeon to reduce the size of my cankles, which I utterly detest. Yuck. Gross. Disgusting. Hideous. They’re one part of my body I’ve always been self-conscious about, that’s why I often wear boots. It’s painful to admit but even I have imperfections…

I’ve had another day of feeling shattered. It’s nearly impossible for a woman like me to sleep with a handsome man, his huge throbbing cock pressed into her side all night. It must have been equally difficult to prevent yourself from taking full advantage. Thank you for holding back your urges a second time. Oh Jon, honestly, it’s not that I’m trying to be a tease. No sireee! Not me. Never. It’s just that I need to feel completely at ease before I fully relinquish my body. I’m just trying to avoid being taken advantage of again. I guess it’s a projective mechanism or something. Don’t worry I’ll make the wait worthwhile. I’ll give you everything you want and much more besides very soon, I promise. Otherwise I fear you might walk away and find someone else to sate your appetites. I’d be mortified if you did that.

Continue Reading Next Chapter
{{ contest.story_page_sticky_bar_text }} Be the first to recommend this story.

About Us:

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom.