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Then came the t-shirts. Mmm, my hand trailed over a soft grey one, visualizing the fabric pulled tight over Mason’s chest. Because the alpha had a way about him, and he could wear anything, including humble grey t-shirts, and still make them look damn good.
But right. I was here to do laundry, not moon about endlessly. So my hand pulled at the second drawer, trying to get it open, yanking at the hinge.
Hmm. It was stuck. Weird, because the drawer was fine the last time I was here. Letting out an exasperated sigh, I got down on my knees, both hands on the wood this time, and began to pull. Ooof, it was heavy, the dresser was literally rocking a bit on its feet, indentations forming in the rug.
But then the entire drawer came loose with a sudden jolt, causing me to fly back and land on my rump. Ouch! At least there was a lot of padding to soften the fall.
But as I picked myself up, something caught my eye.
A small notebook, totally innocuous.
It was a cheap drugstore wirebound, the cover dark blue and slightly creased.
Why would Mason have something like this? Everything he used was of top quality, made of leather and embossed with his initials. Was it someone else’s? And how did it get here?
With curious fingers, I picked it up, running my fingers over the cover. Nothing special, just a plain memo pad, something fifth graders would use for doodles and homework.
So without a second thought, I opened it. Maybe the owner had written their name and address on the front page, and we could mail it back to them. Or maybe there was a phone number or email address, and I could reach out to return the errant notebook.
But as my eyes scanned the first page, my mouth fell open.
Because this was no fifth grader’s notebook.
Nothing so normal.
It was a book about women. A sex book. My eyes scanned the words quickly, growing wide as I read.
January 6. Nicole. Blonde. Curtains match the drapes. C cups. Wish she wasn’t so skinny.
Likes spanking, deep anal, goes crazy for facials and humiliation kink. Wants regular BDSM-style dom. Nice for a week or two, but too clingy. Recommend. B+
Then another entry:
January 9. Daisy. Shaved everywhere. Double D’s. Nice, thick body, big, dark brown nips. Loves to ride dick and give head. Swallower, no spitting. Great for a one or two night stand. Not into relationships. Highly recommend. A-
January 10. Ella. Dark and delicious. Very small tits. A cup? Maybe a small B. Every part of her tastes sweet. Doesn’t do anal but loves to get her pussy and asshole eaten. Can come ten or more times in one night. Big ego. Don’t touch unless you have balls of steel and a tongue that can go all night. Tentatively recommend. More to come. B.
And it went on and on like that. Entry after entry, filling the notebook full. What the hell? How many women were in here? Who was writing all this?
But my heart filled my throat, a lump growing large. Because this was Mason’s handwriting for sure. The precise, elegant scrawl, the way he described women. It was all him. How many times had he counted my orgasms, urging me on? How many times had he palmed my tits, saying, “What size are these? Double Ds”? Multiple times, that’s what.
Tears started rushing to my eyes then. Because clearly, my man had an MO. The things he’d said to me were things he’d said to tons of other women.
Come for me baby.
Ride Daddy’s dick.
Swallow honey, don’t spit. My semen’s good for you.
The words rang in my head over and over again. Oh god, oh god. How many women had heard these very sentences? Hundreds? Thousands even? My head spun and I leaned back dizzily, finding support against the wall of the closet.
But the voice in my head piped up then.
Get real, it scolded. So what if Mason’s been with other women? Of course he has a past. He’s forty-five years old, you think you’re the first chick he’s dated?
I swallowed heavily. That was true. He hadn’t been a virgin our first time together, nor did I expect him to be. The man’s an alpha male after all, likely sexually active for decades.
But still. Why would he write it down? What the hell was this “grading system” about? His own pleasure? Or was he sharing the details with other people? Was I in it? Nauseated, my stomach churned once more.
But I had to know. Flipping to the back, the words seared my eyes.
March 9. Maisie. Hot chick but dumb as a bag of rocks. Do not recommend. The brain cells you’ll lose aren’t worth it. D.
My breath came hard. It wasn’t me. It was just some girl named Maisie, who’d gotten a D no less. Relief coursed through my veins. I wasn’t here, I was someone special. Someone who deserved more than a few lines scrawled in some random notebook.
