Violet Craves The Trichotomy of NY Prequel
Chapters 1
Violet
“Lily! It’s here! It’s finally here!” I shout at my sister through the phone. “It only took 9 months but it’s official!” I stare down at the packet of signed and finalized documents with a wide grin. I can’t help the butterflies in my stomach or the slight tremble in my hands.
I’m officially free.
“I am so happy for you girl! I can’t believe it took so long but now that you’re finally officially single, we have to go out and celebrate tonight!” she screeches.
“Bitch I’ve been single for 11 months. Hell, I was practically single for the last year of my marriage,” I laugh, “but I’m not sure I want to go out anyways. I was thinking of just celebrating at home with wine and a smutty book.”
“Fuck that Vi! For one, you already read too much as it is. You need to get out more. And for two, your divorce papers literally came through today. You need to celebrate. Maybe going out to a club will give you some more ideas for your fancy sex book you’ve been writing,” she says with a giggle.
“It’s done actually, I finished it last night,” I murmur, allowing the surreal feeling to take me over a little bit.
After almost a year, I finally finished my first book series. To say it’s been a labor of love is an understatement. I worked on it day and night at any available moment I had, and then some. Considering I already work a full-time job, finding the time to work on it’s been difficult, but it had to be done. The words just came to me suddenly and frequently.
I jotted them down on bits and pieces on paper or on my phone when the thoughts and scenes would come to me. Frequently at the gym . Then I would come home and type them out, combining the detailed smut and occasionally downright depravity that spiraled through my brain. And somehow, after all this time, I finally finished. Now comes the even more difficult task of completion; editing, publishing, and figuring out how the fuck to get people to buy and read it.
“Holy shit! Well then, we are definitely going out to celebrate! I’ll tell Remi and text Poppy. You just get your ass ready, and we’ll pick you up at 9:00! Don’t disappoint me Vi, you better look hot,” she orders before ending the call.
I pull the phone away from my ear and look at it, brows furrowed in confusion. What just happened? I said I didn’t want to go out and now I’m going out.
“That sneaky little bitch.” I grumble.
Lily, for all her faults, really does care about me and my well-being. Her pushing me to go out is just her way of showing her concern for my mostly introverted habits. Especially since my marriage ended, she’s been extra worried about me. She’s constantly reminding me that I’m not the happy-go-lucky woman that I used to be. Doesn’t she realize that I lost those pieces of myself before my relationship with Elliot ended?
Almost a year ago, I found my husband of 6 years, aggressively railing his business partner Lucy in our bedroom when I came home early from work with a migraine. It was safe to say, I took issue with the scene in front of me and our marriage was effectively over from that moment on. That was the final nail in our proverbial coffin.
The most fucked up part is that it wasn’t even just the cheating or that he was fucking her that destroyed me. It was how he was fucking her.
Wrists and ankles tied to our mahogany four-poster, gag ball in her mouth, a sheen of sweat covering both their bodies, her muffled moans and screams coming from behind her muzzle, and my husband’s relentless pounding into not her cunt, but her ass.
I stood at the door of my bedroom watching for God only knows how long, stuck in my tracks, unable to move or speak. I wasn’t surprised that he was cheating, in fact, I figured that he had been for quite some time. It had been almost a year since we’d had sex. While I got off by myself just fine, albeit lonely, I knew there was no way he wasn’t giving it up somewhere. But what royally pissed me off, was the manner in which he was fucking this chick.
Since the beginning of Elliot and I’s relationship, he had always been such a lover in the bedroom. Completely and utterly fucking vanilla. No matter how many times I asked and begged him to fuck me into the headboard, tie me up, spank me, or even just eat me out, he wouldn’t.
He would say that he was too lazy or tired or just wanted to ‘ make love to his wife ’. When we first got together, I liked that about him. I liked that he said he respected me too much to do those types of ‘filthy’ things to the woman he loved. But like seriously? What does a girl gotta do to get a little bit of degradation and kink in her life? You can still respect me while destroying my pussy, I promise.
There I was, watching her get the sex I had always fantasized about, and I found myself angry and turned the heck on. I wanted what she was getting and at that moment, I realized that while I wanted it, I sure as shit did not want it with him.
So, I pulled my phone out, took a short video as proof, turned around, and walked my happy ass out of the house. Twenty-four hours later, I left him divorce papers on his office desk with a flash drive of my little homemade video. He called, begged, and pleaded when he found my gift, and I laughed, denied, and hung up.
While he was at work, I packed my crap up and moved in with Lily and her wife Remi while I found my own place. It took two months for him to finally come to terms with the fact that I was not coming back for anything more than to split the assets and pack the rest of my stuff. When he finally accepted it, he signed the divorce papers. Months and months of arguing, negotiations, and tense packing sessions and it’s finally over.
Soon after I left Elliot, I decided to finally put pen to paper and started working on my first book. I’ve always loved writing and have started and stopped a lot of pieces but have never had a full-blown book idea and the inspiration to complete anything. However, two weeks into my new living arrangement with my sisters, I walked into their local gym for the first time and was suddenly, unbelievably, inspired.
Not by a place, but by a person.
Or people I should say.
Three people to be specific. Three otherworldly, gorgeous, buff men. I walked in and my gaze snapped straight to them like a moth to a flame. They were across the large space, at the free weights, all laughing with each other with weights in their hands and my thighs instantly clenched.
I’ve been an avid gym enthusiast for a long time. I’ve seen the ridiculous meatheads that prowl around all of them. Too fit, undoubtedly cocky, acting untouchable like God’s gift to the better sex and the temple between our thighs. I’ve been on the receiving end of that weak-ass game many times, but never have I been drawn to one of them. Never have I found myself wanting to lick the sweat off of another human being so badly in my entire life, let alone three someones.
I gawked from the front desk where I was checking in and stared all the way to the locker room before I finally schooled my insane reaction. When I came back out, as if it was planned, all three of them looked up from their activity and met my gaze.
They. Were. Gorgeous .
Fucking utterly, downright, sexual lollipops. And right then and there, my obsession began.
One day while on the stair master, I got the inspiration for my book. They became my inspiration. I decided to write my very own little reverse harem inspired by the three erotic alphas at my gym. The scenes and writing began to pour out of me that night. From that moment forward, the idea of speaking to them became completely terrifying. I had to keep my obsession and writing a secret, and they had to stay in the little box I stashed them in. I’ve affectionately dubbed it: fantasies and rub club material.
For months, I watched them whenever we’d be at the gym together. All three of them always worked out at the same time. They arrived together, sweated together, joked together, lifted together, and made me salivate together. I watched them and I took fucking notes.
We never talked. We never bumped into one another. I had an obnoxious awareness of where they were at any given moment when we shared the space, and it seemed they had the same for me. No matter how much I tried to just suck it up and approach them, I just couldn’t muster it.
I may have healthy ovaries, but apparently, they aren’t that big.
So, I did what all great, sexually charged women do and avoided that shit like it was an STD-riddled dick wrapped in a cactus. I watched, I noted, I enjoyed, I drooled , but never more. Every time I saw them it was like I was a druggy getting another fix.
I got spank bank and book material. I watched them and imagined what their personalities would be like, their names, their habits, their sexual styles. I created characters for them based on their faces and bodies and gave them a story. Those three rough-looking men became the main characters of my dreams both in my sleep and on paper.
Now, here we are, almost a year and one completed book series later and while I am beyond happy to have finished it, I feel as though my tie to them has ended. There goes my reason for distant observation with zero communication. My reason for staring and observing and hypothesizing. Now if I do it, I won’t be able to rationalize my obsession with them.
It was only for the book, I tell myself. Yeah, right bitch, whatever you say.
Hours later, I’m dolled up, dressed and all sorts of slutty per my sister’s demands. I have on my, ‘ I’m ready to party’ face like the mask of lies it is. I don’t want to go out at all. I meant it when I said I wanted to drink and read a book. That’s my idea of a good time. I may have been a party girl seven years ago, before Elliot, but I was also 21 and finally free from our overprotective parents.
I was the perfect daughter all throughout my adolescence, and even throughout college. While they paid for school, I was to live with my parents and stay under their watchful eyes, forever being the perfect, cookie-cutter daughter of Virginia’s Governor, Sterling Duncan.
My sisters Poppy, Lily, and I, all named after the flowers in mom’s sprawling garden behind our original Colonial Revival, have had a role to play since we were born. Three daughters of the affluent politician, who have always been expected to look and behave in a certain way, under his strict rule. I kept my shit together for the majority of my life, but as soon as I graduated college, I gave them the middle finger and moved out, following Lily to New York. We’ve lived here ever since, and we love it.
I was just so tired of being perfect.
I was good at being what they wanted on the outside. I was demure, reserved, always put together, well-educated, and so damn good at taking orders. At least, that’s what they all believed. But on the inside, I was fucking dying .
I wanted to scream my head off more than anything. I wanted to punch my arrogant, abusive father in the goddamned balls. I wanted to slap my simpering mother in the face and demand she wakes the hell up and gets out of her miserable relationship with my controlling, misogynistic father. I wanted to pack up my sisters and fuck right off to anywhere else.
That’s not what I did though. I bided my time, played the perfect angel, got my inheritance at 21 upon graduating college, and dipped. I considered the payment as a thank you from my dear sweet daddy for all the bullshit I endured.
When I was finally free from them, I used some of the money on an apartment and some of it on partying. I partied so hard and lived so free that I almost forgot who I was.
Almost.
Then, one night, at a party, I met Elliot….and down the rabbit hole, I went. We were in love almost immediately. He was wonderful. Sweet, caring, and attentive. He genuinely swept me off my feet.
Elliot was fresh out of college, in a party stage of his own, and rebelling as I was. We had a whirlwind romance the first few years. He was playful but knew how to make me feel loved and special. My parents were never big on affection, so getting it from Elliot, my first boyfriend was a new experience for me. I took everything he had to offer and reveled in it.
Then, we fell out of the party scene and began to grow up together. We got an apartment in Brooklyn, halfway between his family and my sisters. He chose to work for his father’s Law firm, and I chose to use more of my inheritance to open a coffee shop in SoHo. Fuck if I was going to be working any type of stuffy corporate or political job like my father wanted. I wanted to follow my dreams, and Elliot supported that.
We were married shortly after my shop opened. I was 25, he was 27. I thought we were on the fast track to our happily ever after. Things were wonderful, if not for a little boring between us sometimes, but I was happy.
Until I wasn’t.
He changed. He became more and more like my father. Apparently, success can really bring the dick out in a man. The more he succeeded at the firm, the more uptight he became. Away went my sweet, funny husband and entered Sterling Duncan Junior . The only difference was that Elliot never raised a hand to me. As much of an asshole as he became to the outside world, he just became indifferent towards me.
A year after we’d married, he chose to open his own office with another lawyer from his father’s firm. I supported him. Pushed him, even. Granted him the same gift he’d given me when I opened my coffee shop. Elliot worked more and more, and as a result, we became distant. Our physical relationship, which was once loving and simple, became nonexistent.
Our sex life was never what I wanted it to be, but more often than not, I chose to settle for what it was just for the sake of having sex with my partner. I tried everything I could think of to spice things up, but it never worked. He just was not into what I wanted, I thought . Then it got to the point where I stopped trying altogether.
The emotional distance between us was just too much for me to consider being physical with him. The longer we went without it, the more I realized I didn’t want to fuck him anymore. I was just as content to get my rocks off by myself and while I assumed he was jacking himself off on the regular, I also had a feeling someone else was doing it for him as well.
Apparently, I was correct.
So here we are. I’m a 28-year-old divorcee, who’s only ever had tragic, boring, vanilla sex with the one man I gave it up to. I want more.
I need it.
I read smutty novels that have opened my eyes to the world I’ve been missing out on. Clearly, I’m a closet kink. I mean, I must be considering the vivid fantasies I have about getting railed by three men at once.
Unfortunately, I don’t just want sex. If I did, I could get it. I have no doubt about that. A quick jump on any of the many dating apps out there today and I could be getting fucked seven ways from Sunday by noon. I don’t just want random dick though. I want amazing dick. I want the kind of dick that makes you question your entire life and every single choice you ever had before that moment. The kind of orgasm that shatters more than just your vagina.