Indecent Cravings

Part Two

of

a super-dirty Coming of Age tale

with lots of

kinky submissive fun

By

S.K. Cross

(WARNING: If you are a prude, or even remotely prudish, delete this book right now! It’s not for you. You’d better be 18+ too. Not to mention open-minded.)

Copyright 2015 D2Rev Publishing / S.K. Cross

First Edition

July 30, 2015

Editing: Missy Borucki (missyborucki.com)

Cover design: Letitia Hasser at Romantic Book Affairs (designs.romanticbookaffairs.com)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The actions the characters sometimes take are often based on very bad decisions and should never be applied to real-life situations. Be safe.

Dear Readers

This is an ongoing series, an experiment in organic storytelling.

Each book is approximately 125 pages and priced at $2.99, a new “episode” released approximately every three weeks.

Here’s the deal: This is YOUR story. YOU have control. I’ve started it, but I want YOU to tell me where to go.

So, sit back, pour yourself a delicious beverage of your choice, check your lube and battery supply, kick your shoes off and get comfy, and then read on.

Once you’re done, get on my VIP list:

http://skcrossbooks.com/get-on-the-list/

where I will be posting Top Secret updates, as well as having contests with prize giveaways.

Then, visit my Facebook Page:

https://www.facebook.com/skcrossauthor

Or...

Email me at:

skcrossbooks@gmail.com

. . . and tell me what YOU would like to see happen next!

Chapter 1

It doesn’t fucking exist!

I wasted all that energy and fear walking here, heart pounding out of my chest, for nothing. This is the address on the Backpage ad, but there’s nothing but four corners of buildings and no people.

All the ad said was:

Submission training and placement.

With this fucking address! The exact same address of the publishing company in the front matter of Lukas Thorn’s book.

The sun beats down on me as I desperately look around. I’m on Ocean Court, which is not really a court. It’s a long narrow street that runs behind Ocean Drive. Kinda lonely and scary, actually.

So what am I, a semi-sort-of-but-could-be-more-attractive girl doing drifting around back alleys in the middle of the day in South Beach?

I’m looking for a submission school.

Yeah, that kind of school. You know. Fifty Shades and all that.

All I know is that it’s somehow related to Lukas Thorn. He’s been here . . . well, maybe. Maybe not. He’s part of this, somehow.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I swear I can smell his musky pine scent from the airplane. For a quick moment, I’m back there. Spread-eagle on his leg over those dark jeans.

Those eyes under the Ray-Bans.

Oh, God!

I can’t believe I really came here. I mean really, who does that?

Well, I guess I do.

Me. Abigail Trowbridge. No, sorry. Jayden Raye. That’s my new name here in Miami Beach.

I wait a minute longer, then decide to go.

I’m early for work, but thunderheads are rolling in so I may as well just go into work early. I turn and head back toward the corner.

No, I’m not normal. We already established that. Haven’t you been reading? Jeez.

Oh wait.

I’m way ahead of you, aren’t I?

My bad. Let me get you caught up.

The last time we talked I had just woken up the morning after a horrible night during which I embarrassed myself to death at a restaurant called Bogart on South Beach. Bad hangover. Very bad.

Karissa went out to the store, I Googled Lukas Thorn, and found his book The Regimen: A Suggested Routine for the Proper Training of Submissive Women on Kindle.

Naturally, I one-clicked it and began to read voraciously.

Karissa returned, reminding me that we were going to go find me a job. So I showered and we left, my head still groggy from my hangover.

I was all set to apply at the local Applebee’s around the corner from Karissa’s apartment but she talked me out of it.

“May I make a suggestion, sugar?” she said that day as she put her VW held together by duct tape into gear.

“Yeah.”

“Sell your body.”

I laughed. “Oh, shut up!”

“I know you won’t even consider that because you’ve still got that icy cold stuff from Canker still in you.”

“Concord.”

“Whatever. But at least apply at a high-end place, like the one we ate at last night. You’d make a lot more money than at some rinky-dink Applebee’s with all those cheap old folks who don’t tip. Might even make enough to get a car real quick.”

“Good point.”

“Then, once your confidence is up, sell your body.” I play-hit her. “I’m serious, hun. It’s good money.”

“Like you’d know.”

Karissa gave me a weird look that I can’t figure out. “Money is money, girl.”

Fernando, the manager at Bogart on Ocean Drive, hired me on the spot. It was funny because he thought I was coming in to complain about the choking incident, which was the previous night.

But it turns out he’s short-staffed and needs the help desperately.

“Double hot damn,” said Karissa on the ride back. “You shake your thang and you in, just like that. Still less than twenty-four hours since you got here. I told you, sell your body.”

And so began my new life in Florida. Working double-shifts at Bogart, getting out to the “Beach” by bus from the oh-so-elegant Clarion Towers. (Count ‘em. Two. Two don’t make a tower.)

Little did I know then the strange twists and turns that would flip my world upside down (not to mention bent over sideways and backwards) over the next few weeks.

I pulled seven shifts at Bogart that first week, three of them doubles. I even skipped training. Didn’t matter. I was the best server at Applebee’s back home and in three days I was far and away the top earner here, except for Javier, our waiter from that first night.

I’ve adapted to life with Karissa and Jaxon. He doesn’t stay all the time. He takes care of his dad up in some town with a weird name that I can’t remember.

The bus isn’t as bad as Karissa described. Mostly middle-aged, Latina women commuting to their jobs. Besides, I barely notice them. On the daily ride, I whip out my Kindle and devour The Regimen: A Suggested Routine for the Proper Training of Submissive Women by Lukas Thorn.

Three fucking times.

I learn a lot about the BDSM world that I never knew before, all of it intriguing. Protocols, safe words, power exchange, respect for boundaries, negotiations. Some of it is a little strange, but I’m quite intrigued.

I’ve considered buying myself a car with the money on the debit card, but I focus on looking for an apartment instead. I answer a couple of ads and look at them but God, they’re expensive! Karissa wasn’t kidding.

We haven’t mentioned the kiss since that first night. Every once in a while, I get a flash of Karissa looking at me that way, but I hardly ever see her anyway seeing as she works most nights at T’s, which is a super-appropriate name for a transgender strip club.