Chapter 1 #2
That’s when I fuckin’ realize it’s his foot.
This man.
Is clit-blasting my pussy.
With his toe.
And not in a creepy “foot guy” way. No, no. In a ‘you asked for this, so shut up and take it’ way. As if he heard my breakdown and went, ‘Bet. I got this. Let me handle that real quick.’
Right after he says it, he turns his head, taking a swig of his drink, and throws me a filthy side-eye.
I start panicking internally, obviously. He’s not stopping. He’s circling it. Stroking. Rubbing my clit from side to side and I almost sink under the water. I don’t think he moved his upper body at all. Only his foot, scrolling through my orgasm with his big toe.
And I fucking lose it. I’m coming.
Full. Body. Climax.
In the fucking hot tub.
I’m gasping. My legs are shaking. The rest of me tenses up. My mouth? Yeah, all O for orgasm. And immediately, everyone starts freaking the fuck out.
‘Is she overheating?’
‘Get her out!’
‘She’s gonna pass out!’
Then I’m deadass being dragged out of the hot tub mid-fucking-orgasm, ‘cause they think I’m suffering heatstroke while Andrew is sitting there, smirking into his cup, not saying a word.
Anyway. That’s how I remember it. I think.
I mean, who knows? I was drunk.
Now that I think about it? That might’ve been the last time I ever saw Andrew Harding.
All I’m saying is, if that’s what he does with his foot? I don’t wanna know what the rest of him’s capable of. I’d never recover.”
NO. 04: THE MYTH
// JESSA - OCT '23, 9:28 PM - GIANTS GAME NIGHT - UNION CITY, NJ //
“Nobody forgets Andrew Harding.
Not for the fleeting time you saw him, but for the feeling that stayed long after he was gone—here one breath, haunting the next.
Didn’t matter if you met him that night or knew him for years.
Trust me, I’d know.
We were in the same group for a while. Birthdays, barbecues, game nights.
Andrew’s the party favorite. The one who stays late to clean up, does your dishes, takes the trash out before anyone notices it’s full.
He’s the one cracking jokes in the group chat, bringing beer he won’t drink, offering rides home like it’s never a big deal.
He’s the one who found my phone the night I lost it on 3rd Ave. The one who carried Jeff to the curb when he blacked out on his birthday.
He’s the good guy. The hold-your-hair-back-while-she-pukes guy.
Never pissed about anything. Never talks about himself.
And what's worse?
He's obscenely gorgeous.
I mean, there’s hot… and then there’s Andrew Harding.
We weren't close. We were the kind of friends who always ended up in the same room, laughed at the same jokes, ate pizza from the same box, watched the game on the same TV. But I knew of him long enough to know the basics: he doesn’t do the girlfriend thing.
Doesn’t make the first move. Never crosses a line. Always comes through if you need him.
Then there's the rumor whispered between lipstick smears and hoop earrings: Andrew Harding will give any girl their fantasy.
So one night, that’s exactly what I asked him for.
I thought about it for weeks before going through with it. Practiced what I'd say. Played out how it could go, over and over. Drank half a bottle of Arbor Mist to send the text.
Told him this fantasy of mine is something I need—because it is.
Told him I don’t trust anyone else with it—because I don’t.
Told him I’m desperate for it—because I am.
He typed back: On my terms
Then nothing.
Days go by. I shoot him another text, in case he missed it or forgot.
Nothing. Then more days pass. Then a whole week. I text him a few more times. Never a response back.
Figured that’s his way of saying no politely, right? Maybe he was hoping I’d get the hint and vanish. Because of course he’d turn me down. I felt so stupid.
I tell myself I made it weird, then tell myself I don't care.
But I did care. It took everything to text him, confess my biggest insecurity, and admit what I wanted. Then the what-ifs drive me up the wall. What if the rumors about him aren’t true? What if he’s telling our friends everything I said? What if they turn me into some long-standing joke?
Two weeks go by. I’m walking into Jeff’s place for game night. The living room’s wall-to-wall with people, Giants down by ten, everyone’s yelling at the screen as if they’re in the stadium.
And there he is, front row to the chaos, exactly where you’d expect him. I haven’t talked to him since I texted him my fantasy, and seeing him only reminds me all over again how fucking gorgeous he is. Naturally, my heart’s racing. I’m sweating, and…
He doesn’t look at me. He’s screaming at the refs with the rest of them, smiling as if our conversation never happened—water bottle in his hand, same laugh, spotlight groping him as always.
Andrew Harding—the life of the party.
Then there’s me, invisible to him.
I’m so upset I can’t sit still. I’m trying not to cry while he’s sitting there, knowing all my insecurities and desires… and he’s laughing, having a good fucking time.
Half an hour passes. By this point, I’m in the kitchen, reaching for a beer with the fridge door hanging open, trying not to gag on the smell of old Chinese takeout—when, out of nowhere?
He’s standing right behind me.
And his hand’s sliding up the inside of my thigh.
I freeze as he leans in.
‘Shhh…’ His breath hits hot in my ear. ‘Don’t. Fuckin’. Move.’ His hand slips under my romper, teasing the edge of my thong. ‘Still want it?’ he whispers, and I'm nodding, whispering back, yes.
‘Yeah?’ Then he dips inside my thong and palms my pussy bare, sinking his fingers between my slit, raking heavy and deep through the middle.
‘Lemme ask you somethin’, one last time.’
I’m holding my breath. Because Andrew Harding’s touching my pussy, and I never expected this to happen at all.
‘Sure you need it? ‘Cause I’m tellin’ you right now—once I give it to you, we’re not goin’ back to whatever the fuck we were before. Not friends. Not acquaintances. Nothin’. Not after this.’ His words hang between us. ‘So what’s more important to you?’
Asking me one last time—Are you sure?
If I said no, we could still be friends, split a pie and talk shit about the Eagles as if nothing happened.
But I said yes.
Who says no to hooking up with Andrew Harding? So first I’m nodding, then I’m saying yes and still nodding, unable to stop.
His hand slips away soaked, and he brings it to his mouth, smelling his fingers first. Then he sucks them slowly, licking the drip that’s sliding down to his knuckle.
‘Fuck,’ he breathes it. ‘Go in Jeff’s room. Strip. Knees at the edge of the mattress, hands behind your back. Eyes on the fuckin’ door.’
Then he walks away, shouting about the score to the guys, grabbing a chip off the counter, popping it in his mouth, cracking a joke as if nothing happened.
Meanwhile, I’m standing there, both frozen and on fire.
By the time I round the corner, past the ripped Giants poster and the crusty futon rotting in Jeff’s hallway, I catch him on the couch with the guys, elbows on his knees, locked into the game. His face is stone-cold, and he delivers a sideways glance—a fuck-you glare that cuts to the bone.
I don’t know what to make of it, it could be part of the fantasy, but it doesn't stop me. I'm still on my way to the bedroom, and as soon as I’m there, I’m stripping and climbing onto his bed—at the edge, knees spread, facing the door just like he said.
And then… nothing.
All I hear is my own heartbeat.
I wait. And I wait. On my knees, humiliated, and waiting.
Then I'm thinking: this is exactly what I begged him for. Told him I wanted to be worshipped, taken, and dominated by an asshole. Told him I wanted both praise and shame. To be ignored, then claimed. For him to take possession of me, fuck me hard, fill every hole, make me cry, and call me his.
And there I am—on my knees, naked, soaked, embarrassed—waiting for a guy who'll only bother with me when halftime hits, realizing this fantasy began the night he left my text on read.
By the time Andrew walks in, I’m breathing hard, knees burning, with my thighs trembling. The muffled cheers bleed in from the living room before he shuts the door. And the things he says to me?…
‘There she is—so fuckin' obedient. Been waitin’ for years to be told what to do.’ He stands in front of me, fists my hair, and yanks my head back, gliding three fingers through my soaked pussy. ‘Pathetic… pretty… fuckin’ mine for halftime.’
He never looks me in the eyes. All of his focus is on my lips.
‘Open your mouth for me, sweetheart.’
And I do, my lips trembling.
Then he spits, hot, thick, and it hangs from his lip before landing on my tongue.
He watches it pool there, then leans down, rolling his tongue into my mouth, licking it up, but never kissing me.
Never giving me his entire mouth. As though it’s not something I deserve.
Not even his spit was something I was allowed to keep. And that made it hotter.
His fingers are knotting in my hair when he pushes two fingers deep inside me. Then three. Then four. ‘Goddamn… you weren’t lyin’. Pussy’s wide open and loose as fuck, huh?’
‘Already soaking my fuckin’ hand.’
‘Shit—don’t ever call this anything but perfect.’
I’ve always been scared of this part. Not only because of how my pussy looks, but how it feels. The way it hangs open and doesn’t hold tight like every man's perfect fantasy. I accepted the fact I'd never hear the words 'tight as fuck for me' years ago. Because I was built wrong, apparently.
And at that moment, his fingers were inside me, seeing for himself.
‘That what you were doin’ out there this whole time? Starin’ at me and drippin’ all over the place with no fuckin’ cock to plug this gapin’ thing—Jesus Christ. Don’t be afraid to hide this ever again.’
Before I can process any of it, my back is hitting the mattress, and he’s snatching me up by my hips, dragging me to the edge. Then, with both hands, he pushes my knees back, pinning them open until I’m spread out, wide open for him.