Indecent Cravings

Part One

of

 a super-dirty Coming of Age tale

with lots of

 kinky submissive fun

By

S.K. Cross

(WARNING: If you are a prude, 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 9, 2015

Editing: Missy Borucki (missyborucki.com)

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

Promotion: Julia Summers PA at Nook Books and More Blog (https://www.facebook.com/summersnookbooks)

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.

Dear Readers

This is the first part of an ongoing series, an experiment in organic storytelling.

Part One is short and inexpensive to kick things off.

Beginning with Part Two, each book will be 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’ll start 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, shoot me an email at:

skcrossbooks@gmail.com

Or...

visit my Facebook Page:

https://www.facebook.com/skcrossauthor

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

Also, make sure to 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.

Chapter 1

Yep, that’s definitely his cock. I can see the outline through the black jeans. Oooh, that has to be an eight-incher. Maybe even nine. So glad he moved in his seat just as I glanced over. Now, I have better girth perception.

Oh fuck, who am I kidding? It wasn’t just a glance. I’ve been fucking staring at this god of a man in seat 24C for the entire flight to Miami, imagining him on top of me. His wavy, dark brown hair, steely eyes looking down at me, hammering away inside me.

Not that I can see his eyes. He hasn’t removed those goddamned Ray-Bans since arriving in the terminal. They just lie there on his perfectly carved face. Fuck, I know there are gorgeous eyes beneath them. I just know it! I squirm in my coach seat, a power plant of wet heat throbbing between my thighs.

Great. Just fucking great. I had to wear my new tight white pants for this trip, didn’t I?

I bite my nail and brush my blonde hair aside. I force myself to look out the window at the coastline far below, hoping the aroma of horny desperately-needs-to-be-fucked-with-raw-abandon girl hasn’t completely filled the cabin yet. I look over at the lady with her husband in the row to the left of me. She meets my eyes with a disapproving look. She senses my dirty thoughts, doesn’t she? Reminds me of my mom. I consider giving her the finger but think better of it. Fucking prude.

C’ mon, Miami! Goddammit, can’t they fly this hollow aluminum tube any faster?

I uncross and re-cross my legs. At least I’m alone in this row. It’s not a crowded flight.

I glance over again at Mr. Ray-Ban. Dark wavy hair, professional hairstyle with little wispy ends that go this way and that. A white shirt with woven designs, one of those Florida-style ones with the open cuffs. Tight black jeans and expensive black shoes. His hand is dangling into the aisle as he sleeps. What if I got up and brushed past it with my leg? I’m considering it.

So fucking hot. Smooth fingers, long but not skinny, tanned taut skin. I first saw him back at Logan Airport before boarding, absorbed in his iPad sitting in the departure area. That’s when the fantasies started. I was so focused on him that I forgot to take out my boarding pass and had to fumble for it when the gate agent asked me for it.

When I saw his seat was one ahead of me to the left on the aisle, I was both ecstatic and devastated at the same time. I tried reading, texting, listening to music, meditation, watching the latest episode of Scandal season four. But nothing works. Nothing is as fascinating as watching this perfect man as he sleeps, imagining my tongue pressing hard into the base of his erect cock right above his balls.

No, I’ve never been normal.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, reminding myself of why I’m going to Miami.

This is the summer before my final year at Wellesley. I’ve been horribly unsatisfied with my life over the last three years, but I’ve sucked it up because I’m very grateful for the gifts I’ve been given . . . even if there’s a gnawing emptiness within me. A hollowness that makes it hard to get out of bed some days.

Things came to a head recently when my boyfriend, Chad, and I had a huge fight and he took off for a summer internship at a big law firm in New York before returning to Harvard Law School in the fall. We’re “on a break” right now, whatever that means. I can’t say I’m that bothered by it.

Then Zander. Poor Zander. That sent me over the edge. I haven’t been able to face it fully. Every time he pops in my head, I push the image away. I can’t deal with it yet. I couldn’t get why my sisters and my mom did what they did, and then acted so aloof and distant about it.

Yesterday, I confronted Ashley and she confirmed my worst fears. I was so mad that I went online and booked this trip immediately.

Nobody knows I’m on this plane, except for my Facebook friend, Karissa, who’s picking me up at the airport.

 I’m so happy to be traveling at five hundred miles an hour away from all that prissy, stuck-up Concord snobbery. Strike me dead if it ever infects me, please.

Oh, did I mention that’s where I’m from?

Yeah, that Concord. Massachusetts. You know the one. Travels with Lexington. Cradle of the American Revolution. Shot heard round the world, blah-blah-blah. What you probably don’t know is that Concord is World Headquarters of pretentious Miss Prisses.

Lots of colonial china. Lots of good liberal causes triggered by the guilt of being so wealthy. Wistfully blonde “good” girls and varsity sweater-wearing “proper” boys headed to Philips Exeter and then Harvard.

I was bred to be one of them. And yes, I use that term on purpose because there’s nothing that lilywhite, marble-mouthed old money loves more than another generation of lilywhite, marble-mouthed old money.

Not for me, thanks. I never got with the fucking program.

I didn’t even pick Wellesley. It was chosen for me, just like everything else in my life. Once I arrived, I could only think about one word:

Escape!

I dreamed of it, plotted it, imagined it, visualized it. And here I am doing it.

I’m scared but excited. A little smile forms on my face when they all realize I’m fifteen hundred miles away.