Home > Crave Part One (Crave Duet #1)

Crave Part One (Crave Duet #1)
Author: E.K. Blair

To Ashley

who believes in this crazy dream of mine.



I often find myself wondering if I have always been like this, if I ever existed without being afflicted with this craving. When I think back, I reach static before finding a time where I was free. Maybe I’ve never been free. Maybe I was born with some sort of displacement. A wiring gone wrong.

I was six years old when I saw my first set of tits.

I woke up in the middle of the night, thirsty for a drink of water, when I walked into the living room and saw my babysitter naked from the waist up while kissing her boyfriend. I didn’t understand at the time exactly what I was seeing, but I knew I liked it. Not in a sexual way, but the visual intrigued me.

Her name was Shannon.

I don’t remember much about her. She was one of a number of babysitters that would stay overnight while my mother worked her second job. I often found myself staying up late, hoping Shannon’s boyfriend would show up. To this very day, I can still remember the excitement I felt when I saw her on the couch with him, when I heard the sounds they made. I would crouch on my hands and knees and watch them as I hid behind a fake ficus tree that sat in the far corner of the living room.

The excitement of watching her dry hump her boyfriend didn’t make my dick grow like it does now as I clench my hand firmly around myself. Memories play behind my eyelids, and I cum quickly, shooting my load into a wad of toilet paper before flushing it.

I wash my hands and then run damp fingers through my hair as I look at my reflection in the mirror. I stare into green eyes, eyes that bear no resemblance to my mother’s, and tell myself under my breath, “Seven hours,” but I already know I won’t be able to last that long. I only set these trivial goals to give myself the illusion that I’m being proactive about controlling whatever this is.

The idea that maybe I’m uncontrollable has been weighing heavily on me lately, but I shrug it off as I walk out of the bathroom.

“Bye, Mom,” I shout and then grab my backpack and the keys to the shitty old Camaro I recently bought. I was finally able to save enough money from the part-time job I’ve been working after school to buy the damn thing. It’s old and rundown, but it gets me from point A to point B.

The car fits in with the apartment complex, but I tell myself that I don’t. The thought of this being my life has never sat well with me. I’ve grown up threadbare with an absentee mother who works herself to the bone for every penny she makes, only to fall short every month. She’s drowning in debt, and I refuse to go down that same path.

I toss my backpack into the passenger seat and pump the gas a few times before cranking the ignition and bringing the car to a grumbling start.

Most would look at a kid like me and make the stereotypical judgment call. But I’m smarter than the other dopeheads that live on this side of the tracks. The only way I have a chance of getting out of here is by going to college and making something of myself. All I have going for me is academics, so I’ve made them my priority, and in return, I’ve maintained a solid four-point-oh GPA semester after semester.

Pulling into the parking lot of South Shore High, I park in my usual spot next to Micah’s pristine truck where he and our buddy Trent are already waiting on me.

Micah claps his hand obnoxiously against the old metaled hood of my car and gives me a shit-eating grin. “Kason, what the hell happened to you last night?”

“Got tied up with stuff.”

“Speaking of stuff,” he hints as we head into the school building.

If it weren’t for my association with Micah, I’d be just another roughneck outcast. But with his money and popularity and my ability to score him weed on a consistent basis, we’ve forged a friendship that benefits my social standing in this school. I guess that’s one of the perks of living where I do—pot is an easy score for the rich kids. I’ve never touched the stuff myself, but I’ll happily buy it off my neighbor, inflate the price for the naïve Micah, and pocket the profit.

“I gotta work this afternoon, but I can meet you when I’m done.”

He turns to face me as he walks backward down the crowded hall, telling me, “Indian Rocks. The guys and I will be skimming there.”


He smiles, ignoring my irritation, and then turns the corner and rushes to his class.

“That’s way outta my way, man!” I holler before colliding into another student. “Fu—”

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice comes before I’m able to gather my bearings enough to see who I bumped into. When I do look, she’s already kneeling and grabbing the books she dropped.

“I’ll get those.” I squat next to her, and when I hand over her books, I finally get a look as we stand.

Long blonde hair frames her face, which is soft in color compared to most of the overly tanned girls in this town. But when you live in Tampa and the beaches are the main hangouts, what else can you expect? Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, and when she looks me in the eyes, she apologizes again, saying, “I’m sorry. That was my fault.”

“I wasn’t paying attention either, so no need to apologize.” She shifts nervously on her feet and hoists her backpack higher on her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Adaline,” she responds and then shakes her head as she corrects herself. “I mean Ady. People just call me Ady.”

“You new?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Not in a bad way, but yeah. You have that lost look in your eyes.”

“And here I thought I was blending in,” she says and then smirks. “That is, until you ran into me and sent my books flying across the floor, causing a scene in front of everyone.”

“I thought you said it was your fault? You even apologized for it.”

“I was being polite. You know, new girl and all. Wouldn’t want to make any enemies on my first day, but you should really watch where you’re going.”

Her humor cracks a smile on my face. “All right then. I’ll take the blame if it’ll make you feel better.”

“It will. And thank you,” she responds with modest perk.

“I guess I’ll see you around then.”

I start to head to class but only make it a few steps when she shouts, “Wait.” I turn back, and she adds, “You never told me your name.”

“Kason. People just call me Kason.”

“Very funny.”

“See you around, Adaline.”

“It’s Ady,” she corrects as I head down the hall to first period, and I chuckle before making a detour that causes me to show up tardy.

I knew I’d never make it the full seven hours.

The day moves along in the same pattern as every day before, but it isn’t until sixth period that I see her again. I sit in my usual seat at the back of the classroom and watch her eyes skitter around the room to find an unoccupied desk. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear while kids file in behind her.

I typically mind my own business with girls, avoiding interactions that could possibly lead to an interest on their part. It’s safer that way. But for some reason, I decide to put the poor thing out of her misery.


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