** This is an ADULT post including an excerpt better suited for people over 17. If you are not that age or older, please exit this page and come back another day. :-) **
Right now, you’re probably asking yourself two things:
Who am I?
And, what the hell are you doing here?
Let’s start with the most obvious question, shall we?
You’re here, ladies, because you can’t f*ck.
Oh, stop it. Don’t cringe. No one under the age of 80 clutches their pearls.
You might as well get used to it, because for the next six weeks, you’re going to hear that word a lot. And you’re going to say it a lot.
Go ahead, try it out on your tongue.
Ok, good. Now where were we?
If you enrolled yourself in this program then you are wholly aware that you’re a lousy lay. Good for you. Admitting it is half the battle.
For those of you that have been sent here by your husband or significant other, dry your tears and get over it. You’ve been given a gift, ladies. The gift of mind-blowing, wall-climbing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex. You have the opportunity to f*ck like a porn star. And I guarantee, you will when I’m done with you.
And who am I?
Well, for the next six weeks, I will be your lover, your teacher, your best friend, and your worst enemy. Your every-f*cking-thing. I’m the one who is going to save your relationship and your sex life.
I am Justice Drake.
And I turn housewives into whores.
A Sexual Education Novel
By: S.L. Jennings
Print Release: February 24th, 2015
Avon/William Morrow Books
Day One is always fucking exasperating.
The tears. The glassy-eyed looks of confusion as they try to piece together where their vapid relationships went wrong. The stupid, incessant questions about how I could possibly live up to my word and earn every cent of the small fortunes their husbands have paid to send them here.
Sit there and shut up, honey. One of us is a professional. Now, if I need help making a fucking sandwich or getting a wine stain out of a linen tablecloth, I’ll ask for your opinion. Otherwise, shut those powder-pink lips and look pretty.
That’s all they’re good for—looking pretty. Shopping. Primping.. Taking care of disgusting, snotty-nosed spawn.
Stepford wives. Trophies. High-class, well-bred prostitutes.
They seem perfect in every way. Beautiful, intelligent, graceful. The perfect accessory for the man who has it all.
Except for one thing.
They’re as dull as lukewarm dishwater once you get them on their perfectly postured backs.
As they say, looks can be deceiving. Sexy does not equate to good sex. More often than not, this theory holds true. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be in business. And let me tell you, business is good. Very good.
I take a sip of water as I scan the varied expressions of shock and horror that typically follow my usual first-day speech. This class is larger than the last, but I’m not surprised. It’s the end of the summer—a season when wearing less clothing than is socially acceptable. Husbands’ eyes have strayed, and so have their dicks. And in an effort to save their picture-fucking-perfect marriages, some have commissioned me, in hopes that by some miracle, I can make their husbands look at them like they see more than a well-groomed melee of coiffed hair, veneers, and filler. Others weren’t as lucky to be in the know, having been sent here by their loving benefactors like summer camp castaways. They actually thought they were coming to a spa. Silly, clueless girls.
A slender hand goes up, and I nod toward the young, waif-thin brunette who’s shaking like a leaf in her floral Prada frock. It’s ugly as shit, and makes her look like a middle-aged bag lady. She reminds me of one of those half-twit wives from Mad Men. Not the hot secretary—the one that just sat her ass at home, eating bonbons in front of her black-and-white television set while her husband screwed everything that moved.
“So … what exactly do you do? Are you, like, a teacher or something?” she asks, just above a whisper.
“More like a consultant. You all share a very serious issue and I hope to … guide you toward some techniques that may improve your situation.”
Holy fuck. Testing, testing. Is this thing on, or has Botox already begun to corrode her brain cells?
I smile tightly through the aggravation. Patience is key in my profession. Most days, I feel more like an overworked, underpaid day-care provider than a … lifestyle … coach. Same, same.
“I thought I explained the situation, Mrs.”—I squint at the file in front of me, matching her face to the name—“Cosgrove.”
Lorinda Cosgrove. As in Cos-Mart, the place where you can go shopping for honey buns, cheap lingerie, and a nine-millimeter at 3 a.m. while wearing cutoff booty shorts and Crocs. No lie, there are websites dedicated to these train wrecks. Google that shit.
“Yes, I am aware of your assessment, as crude as it is. However, what do you expect to achieve?”
S.L. Jennings is a New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of contemporary and paranormal romance, reality TV junkie, obsessive coffee drinker and collector of crazy.
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