Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Synopsis
Dedication
Preface
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Playlist
Books by K Webster
Acknowledgments
About the Author
My life has been served to me on a gold platter to
be devoured by my silver spoon.
Money, money, and more money. It’s the backbone
of the Goddard name. I’m the only son, so it’s all
mine for the taking.
But sometimes money isn’t enough. I always want
more, yet nothing seems to satisfy me.
My father has made sure I become a part of The
Elite Seven. Where most candidates are chosen, I
was given my place. Everything comes at a price,
though. Luckily, I can afford any price—no one has
more money than God.
The Elite Seven have their initiations. My task is
personal and beneath me—steal a car and send a
warning. It’ll hurt my best friend in the process, but
we both made a pact going into this. There’s no line
we won’t cross.
My task makes an ugly turn and I nearly take a life.
Such a small, unimportant person. Someone no one
would even notice if she were gone. She’s a
problem my money, and now power, can easily
sweep under the rug.
It’s what my father wants. It’s what my brothers in
The Elite Seven want. Yet when she finally opens
those big, innocent brown eyes, I realize I’ve found
what I’ve been searching for my entire life. I don’t
want my little problem to disappear…I want to
keep her.
Money is my legacy, but I want something money
can’t buy.
I am Baxter Samuel Goddard, V.
I am Gluttony.
Ker Bear,
You’re a true professional and an amazing friend.
Without you, this book would have been 1000%less
awesome.
Your dedication to make this series so frickin’epic
is admirable.
Love always,
Krispy Kreme
t h e e l i t e s e v e n
Since 1942, The Elite Seven Society have created
and guided influential leaders, molding the country
into something better. This society was birthed by
Malcom Benedict, II who wanted more for
Americans. More wealth. More influence. More
power. Some leaders have the skills, but not the
influence, and that simply wasn’t fair according to
Mr. Benedict. He invested his own money and time
to construct a society that bred the best of the best,
year after year.
But to be the best, you must be ruthless.
Good leaders make sacrifices. Sometimes the
sacrifices are hard, but the rewards are plentiful.
Mr. Benedict made sure to indulge these leaders
with their utmost desires. A devout Catholic
himself, he designed a society that rewarded his
leaders with the sins that were frowned upon. If
they were giving up love and happiness and joy for
the betterment of the country, they deserved
something in its stead.
Pride, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Gluttony, and
Lust.
Choosing leaders for this society means that it takes
intense focus. Only seven are to be selected, and
the investments and time are showered upon the
new seven chosen every four years. The
predecessors of each group of seven choose people
who fit the sin that will mold them into who they
are needed to be in the future—what America
needs them to be. This is after a detailed study of
many potential candidates. The university’s acting
dean behaves as a liaison for the society bringing
the college applicants to the predecessors so that
the selection may begin. The society members who
are going out will bring forth a candidate that the
society votes on and approves.
After they are chosen, the initiates are given a
token and an invitation to initiation. The initiation
will be a test to their character and ability to do
what’s right for the betterment of the society. Once
the initiates pass their test, they are discreetly
branded with the mark of the society, and are
groomed through challenges during the course of
their elite education to breed them into the
influential people they were meant to be.
Once in The Elite Seven, there is no getting out.
The money and power are their reward. Should
they choose to stray or break the rules, the society
strips them of everything. Anything they once had
will be removed. Opportunities will never arise.
They will no longer have the support of the society.
To this day, there have been no known occurrences
of anyone from the society having to be banished.
This elite group of people are what every young
man and woman aspire to be a part of. While the
group is a secret society, they are whispered about
amongst the privileged folks in the country. Anyone
who is anyone knows of the group and secretly
hopes it’s their son or daughter who are selected,
for good fortune is showered on the family for
decades to come.
God
Sixteen years old…
“Mr. Goddard, you shouldn’t have more,” Wendy,
our house servant, chides my father.
He smacks her hand, making her drop the
spoon into the dish. She jerks back, shocked. I
watch with disgust as my father helps himself to
another massive serving of Wendy’s homemade
bread pudding smothered in rum sauce. “I pay you
to make the food, not keep it from me,” he grunts.
He swipes his thumb along the edge of the dish to
collect the buttery sauce and slurps it off.
Mom chuckles as she sips her wine, already
feeling her buzz. “You know Four loves bread
puddin’.”
Wendy purses her pink lips and narrows her
eyes at me, challenging me to have more of the
same shit that will send my father to an early grave.
Food. I smirk at her. I’ll have more if I fucking
want more. And to prove I can eat what I want and
not look like my dad, I help myself to another
helping of her home cooking. She shakes her head
at me in disappointment before exiting the room.
“How’s Rhett, darlin’?” Mom asks absently, her
southern drawl thicker the drunker she gets. Her
brown eyes are glassed over, and her hair is
disheveled. She’s lost some weight recently, and
spends a lot of time in the French Quarter with
girlfriends. Something tells me there’s more than
what meets the eye going on with her.
“Fine,” I grumble as I wolf down another plate
of Wendy’s spicy crawfish jambalaya.
Dad’s chair squeaks as he sits back in it. He’s
massive, and I’m not sure when it happened. One
day, he was a normal man, then I blinked to find
Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars sitting across from
me. My stomach roils as I watch him lick his
fingers. A sauce stain dots the front of his dress
shirt, and I cringe.
How is this slob the third richest man in the
entire world?
Doesn’t Four have people to hold napkins
under his four chins to keep from staining his crisp
white Battistoni dress shirt?
Some jobs are even too low for the poorest of
poor. I sure as fuck wouldn’t want that job.
“Baxter,” Dad grumbles before slurping down
his wine. The red stain on his upper lip remains as
he continues. “You’re going to be an adult soon.
Answers like ‘fine’ won’t cut it in the real world. If
you have any hope of taking over Goddard Oil and
Gas, you need to get your head out of your pretty-
boy ass.”
“Oh, Four,” Mom chides. “He’s just fifteen.
Cut him some slack.”
I don’t remind her drunk ass I’m sixteen.
“I’ll work on it,” I lie as I push around the spicy
rice on my plate to resemble a hand holding up the
middle finger. In reality, I’m counting down until I
can get the hell out of this dinner and back to my
room.
“You better,” Dad huffs. “I wouldn’t want to
have to give all this”—he waves a meaty hand in
the air—“to Wendy.”
Mom cackles at that. “Wouldn’t that be a
hoot?”
Dad grumbles, and I bite my tongue. Dad isn’t
giving shit to anyone but me. It’s the Goddard way.
Each generation since Baxter Goddard, the first of
many assholes, the wealth has grown, much like
Dad has, and been passed down to the eldest son of
each family. My mother refused to have any other
children after she gave my father what he wanted
—a male heir. All this will belong to me. Hell, some
of it already does.
I smirk as I think about my cars—all seven of
them. My bank account is fat and swells by the day.
Dad injects money as he sees fit—which is always.
He likes it when I lord my money over my friends
the same way he does over his colleagues. It’s the
Goddard way.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take a
peek at it.
Rhett: I need pussy. You down to hit the
clubs?
We may only be sixteen, but money buys me
anything—even access into any club I want. When
Rhett and I go out, they treat us like gods. I am
God, and Rhett’s my naughty angel sidekick.
Me: I need to get ready. Huayra and I will
pick you up.
He sends me a bunch of lame-ass heart-eyed
emojis. My best friend has a legit hard-on for my
midnight black Pagani Huayra.
“Dinner was lovely,” I deadpan. “We should do
it again sometime.”
Mom offers one of her distracted smiles while
Dad grunts. I rise from the table and make it
through our massive plantation home to my
bedroom. The mirror mocks me from over my
dresser, and I glare at it.
“He has the cutest cheeks.” Maven from fourth
period is such a bitch. Always has something to say
about everyone. She gives me shit since I won’t
fuck her. It’s like she knows just where to stab.
Right in the gut.
I yank off my dress shirt and toss it away. In the
mirror, I inspect my body. The muscles are slowly
forming, but I’m not as lean and cut as Rhett. It
fucking pisses me off. My stomach sours, and I
stalk into the bathroom. On a quick, bended knee, I
force my finger down my throat and rid my dinner
from my system. It’s spicier on the way up. Fucking
gross.
After I brush my teeth, I throw on some shorts
and head down to my gym. I spend the next half
hour running on the treadmill as fast as I can, then
beating the punching bag until the bones in my
hands ache. Once I’m lightheaded and feeling
badass, I shower.
My closet is filled with Mom’s newest prizes
brought back from Fashion Week in Paris, but
tonight, I choose comfort over style. I grab some
dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt before sliding on
my Alexander McQueen leather studded combat
boots. Mom will have a coronary when she sees
me. Before I head out, I down a couple Xenical
tablets my doctor prescribed, chase them with some
caffeine pills, and head out the door. I’ve barely
made it to the front door when my veins start
buzzing to life.
A huffing and coughing from my dad’s study
earns my attention. I catch a peek of him red-faced
and struggling to breathe as he tugs at his tie.
Staring, unblinking, I wait for him to die.
Seconds go by…
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And slowly, he recovers. Pity. With a happy
grin on his face, he picks up his bowl of ice cream
covered in caramel sauce and leans back in his
office chair. He rips one off, his fart echoing
through the office, and laughs.
I will never be like that gluttonous pig.
Fucking never.
God
Present—Two Years Later
I’m fucking bored.
These college parties get lamer and lamer. St.
Augustine University in New Orleans, Louisiana, is
just like every other school—filled with losers
trying to prove themselves.
I, on the other hand, have nothing to prove,
hence the fucking boredom.
I scan the room, looking for my best friend to
tell him I’m about to bail, but linger at two girls
making out. Nowadays, you can’t get in the middle
of that shit. In the nineties, according to all the
movies I’ve ever seen, chicks would make out to
get guys turned on. Now, they’re just lesbians, and
if you intervene, you might get a beer thrown in
your face. I learned that lesson not once, not twice,
but three times. Note to self: do not try to interrupt
lesbians kissing. They’re super fucking territorial
over each other.
Someone grabs my ass, and I drag my lazy gaze
to Maven Hilton, who grins wickedly at me. She’s
changed since high school. The blonde-haired,
blue-eyed viper got someone to buy her those
bouncy tits—tits I still refuse to touch or put my
mouth on. I’m still carrying one helluva grudge
from two years ago.
“Lookin’ good, God,” she drawls out, turning
on her southern charm.
That shit doesn’t work for me.
“I know,” I deadpan.
She giggles and steps closer, her giant tits
rubbing against the front of my shirt. “Confident,”
she purrs. “I like it.”
“Have you seen Rhett?” I grunt out, once again
searching the crowded frat house for my best
friend.
“Yeah,” she mutters. “He went this way.”
I let her grab my hand and guide me through
the too-crowded house. She takes me to one of the
bedrooms and tugs me inside. Some dude is passed
out on the bed, lying in his own barf with his dick
hanging out. My lip curls up in disgust.
“Not him,” I bite out.
“Ignore him,” she whispers, her lips pressing to
the side of my neck. “Focus on me.”
I start to push away, but she latches on to me.
“Pass.”
She pouts, reaching into her cleavage. “I could
make it fun for you.”
My brow lifts as she shakes the small bag of
white powder. “Coke?”
“I’ll let you snort it off my new tits,” she
suggests, her lips curling up into a sinful smile.
“How about you get on your knees, then I’ll let
you party with me?” I reach forward and toy with a
blonde lock of her hair.
“Worship God? How very fitting,” she says as
she pushes me into the bathroom, not bothering to
close the door.
I sit down on the closed lid of the toilet and
unzip my pants. Her eyes are filled with lust as she
sashays over to me. The pink, tight-as-fuck dress
she wears leaves little to the imagination. When
she’s standing in front of me, she peels it down her
body, her big tits bouncing out and available to me.
They’re nice, but I’ve seen nicer. She straddles my
lap, and I let out a groan of annoyance.
“My dick. Your mouth,” I bite out.
She laughs. “First this.” I watch with interest as
she carefully pours a line of white powder over the
top of one of her fake tits. “Here, God, let’s have a
little fun.”
I’ve never snorted coke off a pair of fake tits
before, but I’ll try anything once.
Even Maven fucking Hilton.
I snort the substance, ignoring the burn in my
nose and down the back of my throat. An instant
headache forms. Fury rises up inside me as I
wonder if she’s fucking with me. But then a rush—
cold and furious—surges through me.
“Right?” she says, her smile wide and
contagious.
Her mouth descends on mine, but I bypass her
lips to attack her throat. I nip at her salty flesh, and
she lets out a moan of pleasure. The little whore
rubs on my cock in a needy way. She’ll be getting
my dick, but not in her used-up pussy.
I bite her neck, loving the cry of pain that rips
from her.
That was for saying I have chubby cheeks,
bitch.
It feels like a lifetime ago when I was struggling
with my weight. Back then, I didn’t know how to
manage it all. Now, I have that shit down on lock. I
eat, drink, and partake in whatever I want, then
deal with it the next day. I’m cut as fuck and
bitches like Maven fucking Hilton all beg to
worship God’s cock.
I grip her narrow waist and drop her to the
floor. Her blue eyes flash with ferocity until I pull
out my long, thick cock. It’s hard and waiting to be
sucked. She finds her bearings and makes her way
closer on her knees.
“Take me home with you after this,” she says,
her tongue darting out to lick my tip. “You won’t
regret it. I’ll fuck you like no other woman has,
God.”
I grab a fistful of her blonde hair and force her
mouth over my cock until she gags. Her saliva runs
down the underside of my shaft, soaking my jeans.
She digs her fingernails into my thighs to no avail.
When I start to lose my hard-on, either from her or
from the coke, I take to skullfucking her not-so-
pretty face, loving the unladylike sounds of distress
coming from her. It keeps me hard enough to do my
fucking job. She gags and slobbers and whines.
When I start to come, I hold her tightly and make
sure she has no choice but to swallow every drop.
The moment my dick stops throbbing out my
release, I let go and laugh at her.
She stumbles back and glowers at me.
“Asshole.”
“Goodbye, slut.”
Her blue eyes flicker with panic. “I’m fucking
with you,” she whines. “Come on, let’s get out of
here.”
I shake my head. “You’re not really my type.”
“What’s your type? I could be whatever you
want me to be.”
“I prefer my women petite,” I lie. Not really,
but I like to poke her like she poked me. Then, I
give her a wolfish grin. “But your chubby cheeks
are cute. I’m sure some nice boy would love to take
you home.” I stand and put my wet cock back in
my jeans before snagging up the baggie of coke.
“And I’m not a nice boy.”
I leave Maven calling me every name in the
book. All I can do is laugh. As I stroll through the
party swimming with preppy wannabe
motherfuckers, I decide to just ditch my best friend
without a goodbye. If he’s getting some ass, I’m not
about to get in the middle of that shit. I love the
guy, but even I can’t stomach his Romeo shit.
Chicks eat it up like it’s their own personal crack.
Once outside, I exhale in relief. Normally, the
New Orleans muggy heat suffocates me. Tonight,
it’s cool, and I smell the promise of rain. Since
Rhett—or fucking Lust now, which is oddly fitting
—has been initiated into this bullshit Elite, he’s
been a little distracted. I promised I’d play the
games with him, but it’s not my scene. More like
my dad’s scene. Fucking cringe. Again, I love my
bastard best friend. Sometimes a little too much.
As soon as I hop into the most badass car in this
damn city, I can’t help but think back to our Elite
initiation night.
Rhett climbs into my blood-red Ferrari
Pininfarina Sergio and inhales the air, grinning. I
smirk at him and lift a brow. “Should I give you
cycek77
Arkusze
E-book english 
LUST PRIDE WRATH ENVY GLUTTONY SLOTH GREED
Gluttony Copyright © 2018 K Webster Cover Design: All By Design Photo: Adobe Stock Editor: Word Nerd Editing Formatting: Champagne Book Design ALLRIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Synopsis Dedication Preface Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two Epilogue Playlist Books by K Webster Acknowledgments About the Author
My life has been served to me on a gold platter to be devoured by my silver spoon. Money, money, and more money. It’s the backbone of the Goddard name. I’m the only son, so it’s all mine for the taking. But sometimes money isn’t enough. I always want more, yet nothing seems to satisfy me. My father has made sure I become a part of The Elite Seven. Where most candidates are chosen, I was given my place. Everything comes at a price, though. Luckily, I can afford any price—no one has more money than God. The Elite Seven have their initiations. My task is personal and beneath me—steal a car and send a warning. It’ll hurt my best friend in the process, but we both made a pact going into this. There’s no line we won’t cross. My task makes an ugly turn and I nearly take a life. Such a small, unimportant person. Someone no one would even notice if she were gone. She’s a problem my money, and now power, can easily
sweep under the rug. It’s what my father wants. It’s what my brothers in The Elite Seven want. Yet when she finally opens those big, innocent brown eyes, I realize I’ve found what I’ve been searching for my entire life. I don’t want my little problem to disappear…I want to keep her. Money is my legacy, but I want something money can’t buy. I am Baxter Samuel Goddard, V. I am Gluttony.
Ker Bear, You’re a true professional and an amazing friend. Without you, this book would have been 1000%less awesome. Your dedication to make this series so frickin’epic is admirable. Love always, Krispy Kreme
t h e e l i t e s e v e n Since 1942, The Elite Seven Society have created and guided influential leaders, molding the country into something better. This society was birthed by Malcom Benedict, II who wanted more for Americans. More wealth. More influence. More power. Some leaders have the skills, but not the influence, and that simply wasn’t fair according to Mr. Benedict. He invested his own money and time to construct a society that bred the best of the best, year after year. But to be the best, you must be ruthless. Good leaders make sacrifices. Sometimes the
sacrifices are hard, but the rewards are plentiful. Mr. Benedict made sure to indulge these leaders with their utmost desires. A devout Catholic himself, he designed a society that rewarded his leaders with the sins that were frowned upon. If they were giving up love and happiness and joy for the betterment of the country, they deserved something in its stead. Pride, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Gluttony, and Lust. Choosing leaders for this society means that it takes intense focus. Only seven are to be selected, and the investments and time are showered upon the new seven chosen every four years. The predecessors of each group of seven choose people who fit the sin that will mold them into who they are needed to be in the future—what America needs them to be. This is after a detailed study of many potential candidates. The university’s acting dean behaves as a liaison for the society bringing the college applicants to the predecessors so that the selection may begin. The society members who are going out will bring forth a candidate that the society votes on and approves. After they are chosen, the initiates are given a token and an invitation to initiation. The initiation
will be a test to their character and ability to do what’s right for the betterment of the society. Once the initiates pass their test, they are discreetly branded with the mark of the society, and are groomed through challenges during the course of their elite education to breed them into the influential people they were meant to be. Once in The Elite Seven, there is no getting out. The money and power are their reward. Should they choose to stray or break the rules, the society strips them of everything. Anything they once had will be removed. Opportunities will never arise. They will no longer have the support of the society. To this day, there have been no known occurrences of anyone from the society having to be banished. This elite group of people are what every young man and woman aspire to be a part of. While the group is a secret society, they are whispered about amongst the privileged folks in the country. Anyone who is anyone knows of the group and secretly hopes it’s their son or daughter who are selected, for good fortune is showered on the family for decades to come.
God Sixteen years old… “Mr. Goddard, you shouldn’t have more,” Wendy, our house servant, chides my father. He smacks her hand, making her drop the spoon into the dish. She jerks back, shocked. I watch with disgust as my father helps himself to another massive serving of Wendy’s homemade bread pudding smothered in rum sauce. “I pay you to make the food, not keep it from me,” he grunts. He swipes his thumb along the edge of the dish to collect the buttery sauce and slurps it off. Mom chuckles as she sips her wine, already feeling her buzz. “You know Four loves bread puddin’.”
Wendy purses her pink lips and narrows her eyes at me, challenging me to have more of the same shit that will send my father to an early grave. Food. I smirk at her. I’ll have more if I fucking want more. And to prove I can eat what I want and not look like my dad, I help myself to another helping of her home cooking. She shakes her head at me in disappointment before exiting the room. “How’s Rhett, darlin’?” Mom asks absently, her southern drawl thicker the drunker she gets. Her brown eyes are glassed over, and her hair is disheveled. She’s lost some weight recently, and spends a lot of time in the French Quarter with girlfriends. Something tells me there’s more than what meets the eye going on with her. “Fine,” I grumble as I wolf down another plate of Wendy’s spicy crawfish jambalaya. Dad’s chair squeaks as he sits back in it. He’s massive, and I’m not sure when it happened. One day, he was a normal man, then I blinked to find Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars sitting across from me. My stomach roils as I watch him lick his fingers. A sauce stain dots the front of his dress shirt, and I cringe. How is this slob the third richest man in the entire world? Doesn’t Four have people to hold napkins under his four chins to keep from staining his crisp white Battistoni dress shirt?
Some jobs are even too low for the poorest of poor. I sure as fuck wouldn’t want that job. “Baxter,” Dad grumbles before slurping down his wine. The red stain on his upper lip remains as he continues. “You’re going to be an adult soon. Answers like ‘fine’ won’t cut it in the real world. If you have any hope of taking over Goddard Oil and Gas, you need to get your head out of your pretty- boy ass.” “Oh, Four,” Mom chides. “He’s just fifteen. Cut him some slack.” I don’t remind her drunk ass I’m sixteen. “I’ll work on it,” I lie as I push around the spicy rice on my plate to resemble a hand holding up the middle finger. In reality, I’m counting down until I can get the hell out of this dinner and back to my room. “You better,” Dad huffs. “I wouldn’t want to have to give all this”—he waves a meaty hand in the air—“to Wendy.” Mom cackles at that. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot?” Dad grumbles, and I bite my tongue. Dad isn’t giving shit to anyone but me. It’s the Goddard way. Each generation since Baxter Goddard, the first of many assholes, the wealth has grown, much like Dad has, and been passed down to the eldest son of each family. My mother refused to have any other children after she gave my father what he wanted
—a male heir. All this will belong to me. Hell, some of it already does. I smirk as I think about my cars—all seven of them. My bank account is fat and swells by the day. Dad injects money as he sees fit—which is always. He likes it when I lord my money over my friends the same way he does over his colleagues. It’s the Goddard way. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take a peek at it. Rhett: I need pussy. You down to hit the clubs? We may only be sixteen, but money buys me anything—even access into any club I want. When Rhett and I go out, they treat us like gods. I am God, and Rhett’s my naughty angel sidekick. Me: I need to get ready. Huayra and I will pick you up. He sends me a bunch of lame-ass heart-eyed emojis. My best friend has a legit hard-on for my midnight black Pagani Huayra. “Dinner was lovely,” I deadpan. “We should do it again sometime.” Mom offers one of her distracted smiles while Dad grunts. I rise from the table and make it through our massive plantation home to my bedroom. The mirror mocks me from over my dresser, and I glare at it. “He has the cutest cheeks.” Maven from fourth
period is such a bitch. Always has something to say about everyone. She gives me shit since I won’t fuck her. It’s like she knows just where to stab. Right in the gut. I yank off my dress shirt and toss it away. In the mirror, I inspect my body. The muscles are slowly forming, but I’m not as lean and cut as Rhett. It fucking pisses me off. My stomach sours, and I stalk into the bathroom. On a quick, bended knee, I force my finger down my throat and rid my dinner from my system. It’s spicier on the way up. Fucking gross. After I brush my teeth, I throw on some shorts and head down to my gym. I spend the next half hour running on the treadmill as fast as I can, then beating the punching bag until the bones in my hands ache. Once I’m lightheaded and feeling badass, I shower. My closet is filled with Mom’s newest prizes brought back from Fashion Week in Paris, but tonight, I choose comfort over style. I grab some dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt before sliding on my Alexander McQueen leather studded combat boots. Mom will have a coronary when she sees me. Before I head out, I down a couple Xenical tablets my doctor prescribed, chase them with some caffeine pills, and head out the door. I’ve barely made it to the front door when my veins start buzzing to life.
A huffing and coughing from my dad’s study earns my attention. I catch a peek of him red-faced and struggling to breathe as he tugs at his tie. Staring, unblinking, I wait for him to die. Seconds go by… Tick. Tick. Tick. And slowly, he recovers. Pity. With a happy grin on his face, he picks up his bowl of ice cream covered in caramel sauce and leans back in his office chair. He rips one off, his fart echoing through the office, and laughs. I will never be like that gluttonous pig. Fucking never.
God Present—Two Years Later I’m fucking bored. These college parties get lamer and lamer. St. Augustine University in New Orleans, Louisiana, is just like every other school—filled with losers trying to prove themselves. I, on the other hand, have nothing to prove, hence the fucking boredom. I scan the room, looking for my best friend to tell him I’m about to bail, but linger at two girls making out. Nowadays, you can’t get in the middle of that shit. In the nineties, according to all the movies I’ve ever seen, chicks would make out to get guys turned on. Now, they’re just lesbians, and
if you intervene, you might get a beer thrown in your face. I learned that lesson not once, not twice, but three times. Note to self: do not try to interrupt lesbians kissing. They’re super fucking territorial over each other. Someone grabs my ass, and I drag my lazy gaze to Maven Hilton, who grins wickedly at me. She’s changed since high school. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed viper got someone to buy her those bouncy tits—tits I still refuse to touch or put my mouth on. I’m still carrying one helluva grudge from two years ago. “Lookin’ good, God,” she drawls out, turning on her southern charm. That shit doesn’t work for me. “I know,” I deadpan. She giggles and steps closer, her giant tits rubbing against the front of my shirt. “Confident,” she purrs. “I like it.” “Have you seen Rhett?” I grunt out, once again searching the crowded frat house for my best friend. “Yeah,” she mutters. “He went this way.” I let her grab my hand and guide me through the too-crowded house. She takes me to one of the bedrooms and tugs me inside. Some dude is passed out on the bed, lying in his own barf with his dick hanging out. My lip curls up in disgust. “Not him,” I bite out.
“Ignore him,” she whispers, her lips pressing to the side of my neck. “Focus on me.” I start to push away, but she latches on to me. “Pass.” She pouts, reaching into her cleavage. “I could make it fun for you.” My brow lifts as she shakes the small bag of white powder. “Coke?” “I’ll let you snort it off my new tits,” she suggests, her lips curling up into a sinful smile. “How about you get on your knees, then I’ll let you party with me?” I reach forward and toy with a blonde lock of her hair. “Worship God? How very fitting,” she says as she pushes me into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. I sit down on the closed lid of the toilet and unzip my pants. Her eyes are filled with lust as she sashays over to me. The pink, tight-as-fuck dress she wears leaves little to the imagination. When she’s standing in front of me, she peels it down her body, her big tits bouncing out and available to me. They’re nice, but I’ve seen nicer. She straddles my lap, and I let out a groan of annoyance. “My dick. Your mouth,” I bite out. She laughs. “First this.” I watch with interest as she carefully pours a line of white powder over the top of one of her fake tits. “Here, God, let’s have a little fun.”
I’ve never snorted coke off a pair of fake tits before, but I’ll try anything once. Even Maven fucking Hilton. I snort the substance, ignoring the burn in my nose and down the back of my throat. An instant headache forms. Fury rises up inside me as I wonder if she’s fucking with me. But then a rush— cold and furious—surges through me. “Right?” she says, her smile wide and contagious. Her mouth descends on mine, but I bypass her lips to attack her throat. I nip at her salty flesh, and she lets out a moan of pleasure. The little whore rubs on my cock in a needy way. She’ll be getting my dick, but not in her used-up pussy. I bite her neck, loving the cry of pain that rips from her. That was for saying I have chubby cheeks, bitch. It feels like a lifetime ago when I was struggling with my weight. Back then, I didn’t know how to manage it all. Now, I have that shit down on lock. I eat, drink, and partake in whatever I want, then deal with it the next day. I’m cut as fuck and bitches like Maven fucking Hilton all beg to worship God’s cock. I grip her narrow waist and drop her to the floor. Her blue eyes flash with ferocity until I pull out my long, thick cock. It’s hard and waiting to be
sucked. She finds her bearings and makes her way closer on her knees. “Take me home with you after this,” she says, her tongue darting out to lick my tip. “You won’t regret it. I’ll fuck you like no other woman has, God.” I grab a fistful of her blonde hair and force her mouth over my cock until she gags. Her saliva runs down the underside of my shaft, soaking my jeans. She digs her fingernails into my thighs to no avail. When I start to lose my hard-on, either from her or from the coke, I take to skullfucking her not-so- pretty face, loving the unladylike sounds of distress coming from her. It keeps me hard enough to do my fucking job. She gags and slobbers and whines. When I start to come, I hold her tightly and make sure she has no choice but to swallow every drop. The moment my dick stops throbbing out my release, I let go and laugh at her. She stumbles back and glowers at me. “Asshole.” “Goodbye, slut.” Her blue eyes flicker with panic. “I’m fucking with you,” she whines. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” I shake my head. “You’re not really my type.” “What’s your type? I could be whatever you want me to be.” “I prefer my women petite,” I lie. Not really,
but I like to poke her like she poked me. Then, I give her a wolfish grin. “But your chubby cheeks are cute. I’m sure some nice boy would love to take you home.” I stand and put my wet cock back in my jeans before snagging up the baggie of coke. “And I’m not a nice boy.” I leave Maven calling me every name in the book. All I can do is laugh. As I stroll through the party swimming with preppy wannabe motherfuckers, I decide to just ditch my best friend without a goodbye. If he’s getting some ass, I’m not about to get in the middle of that shit. I love the guy, but even I can’t stomach his Romeo shit. Chicks eat it up like it’s their own personal crack. Once outside, I exhale in relief. Normally, the New Orleans muggy heat suffocates me. Tonight, it’s cool, and I smell the promise of rain. Since Rhett—or fucking Lust now, which is oddly fitting —has been initiated into this bullshit Elite, he’s been a little distracted. I promised I’d play the games with him, but it’s not my scene. More like my dad’s scene. Fucking cringe. Again, I love my bastard best friend. Sometimes a little too much. As soon as I hop into the most badass car in this damn city, I can’t help but think back to our Elite initiation night. Rhett climbs into my blood-red Ferrari Pininfarina Sergio and inhales the air, grinning. I smirk at him and lift a brow. “Should I give you