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#Jerk

By:Kat T. Masen

#Jerk
Author: Kat T. Masen





#DEDICATION

To all women waiting for their #Jerk.

The dictionary defines a jerk as a contemptibly foolish person.

That's being nice.

And nice wasn't something I did.

Give me something in return and maybe, I can play nice. Like the time I sucked up to get that promotion with that made-up title, or when I befriended the local stoner and got an extra stash of weed. And we can't forget about last night with the promise of some sweet pussy, but what a disappointment that turned out to be.

I got what I wanted because I didn't give a damn.

About anyone or anything.

I just wanted to have fun, but even then, that game was fast becoming old.

I was bored and needed a new challenge. Something to keep me occupied. And one day, it all just fell into place (by accident of course).

Our office was one giant playground. I dubbed myself the school bully and the ice queen was my target. It's her own fault though; I'd never met a woman so fucking uptight you would need a whole army to pull the giant stick out of her ass.

It was one juicy ass though. Perky, with that round bounce that you just know would make a terrific sound when you slapped it with your palm.

But that was beside the point. Way beside the point.

I didn't like her stubbornness. Nor her obsessive need to have everything clean and in order. I loathed the way she would answer every question like a pompous know-it-all bitch. And that ridiculous skirt she always wore that made her look like a schoolgirl (alright, perhaps there were benefits to that skirt if you pictured her in eight-inch heels and a pair of garter belts peeking through) was not appropriate office attire.

What irked me most was the way she would parade 'round the office with her nose stuck up in the air. Miss I'm-Too-Good-for-All-You-Juveniles-so-I'm-Going-to-Act-Like-a-Fucking-Grandma.

Yeah, she thought she was fucking all that. I didn't like bitches like that, especially when they paraded that ring on their finger like some fucking accomplishment. The guy probably gave it to her 'cause he had a small dick and couldn't get any better. Yeah, well you've got a big dick and probably could teach her a lesson or two.

Then it happened-the day that ring no longer taunted me.

The day the office gossip went into overdrive because Presley Malone was back to being single. The ice queen didn't even look sad. I don't even think she shed a tear and I'm thinking Mr. Small Dick probably found some less-frigid pussy elsewhere and jumped ship. But a victory for every goddamn cock and balls in the office that went ape-shit fighting over who could get her in bed first.

It was exactly the challenge I needed.

And I didn't intend to play nice.

Nice was for chumps. I pulled pigtails and lifted skirts. No lie.

It wasn't payback, and it wasn't vindictive.

It was clean, harmless fun.

Fuck that … it was dirty fun.

There was only one way to get her attention, just one way for her to finally notice I existed; I had to make her life in the office a living hell. Push all the right fucking buttons.

According to her, if it walks like a jerk, and talks like a jerk, then I am a jerk.

But I understood the meaning of 'jerk' a little differently. To be a selfish, manipulative, insensitive asshole luring her in by playing Mr. Nice Guy, only to give her false hope and leave her cursing the day I was born.

From a very early age I knew I was different from the rest of the kids I hung around with. I may have only been seven years old, but my mother wasn't shy of telling me that I was an old soul with the wisdom of an eighty-year-old. I didn't consider it a bad thing; my Grammy was the most awesome lady that ever existed, next to my mother of course.

It was the mid-eighties, and the biggest thing to rock my world was the newly released Peaches 'n Cream Barbie. I can still remember the epic moment when the box was placed in my hands and how incredibly beautiful she was, dressed in her flowing peach gown and shimmering bodice. Her hair was golden, perfectly styled, and adorning her neck was an exquisite diamond-like necklace, fit for a princess. She deserved a special spot on my shelf, and Workout Barbie took a hit, moving out of center spot.

My mother would often complain, "Presley, why don't you play with your dolls like other girls?" Well dear mother, other girls had Barbies with god-awful haircuts and missing shoes, and rings were a rare commodity.

I had to have everything perfect.

So you can imagine my horror when I arrived at school the next day and every girl with their new Peaches 'n Cream doll had short-cut bobs, mismatched shoes and zero rings. I decided then and there that my Barbie deserved the best. So I planned the most epic wedding event of all time.

Barbie was finally going to marry Ken.

I invited all my friends, and under the big oak tree in my backyard, they tied the knot on that sunny September day. The guests oohed and aahed. I overheard my friends commenting on how pristine my Barbie looked, 'fresh out of the box', and then there was the groom. Ken looked ravishing with his light grey suit and pink pocket square to accentuate his tanned skin and plastic comb-over.

The thrill and excitement of this perfect day was forever engrained in my memory, and at the ripe old age of seven, I knew exactly what I wanted-I wanted to get married to my Mr. Right and live in our double-story dream house.

I had a plan.

The problem with plans is, the second they fall apart, you have absolutely no idea how to cope.

Fast-forward twenty years, I was certain that Mr. Right just sat at my table. His name was Jason Hart, tall, handsome, with the deepest blue eyes-if you stared long enough it was like staring into the ocean.

We met at a mutual friend's wedding, thrown together onto the shameful singles' table in the back corner

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