I need to stop thinking about falling.
I take a step out onto the stage.
Any second, I’m sure I’m going to face plant into it. It’s going to fucking hurt, too. Chase and Eric aren’t going to be able to catch me this time, and my lack of grace under pressure isn’t going to charm the crowd if I keep fucking beefing it every time I walk on stage.
We’ll always catch you, they told me once. That’s what they fucking said—and they’ve been doing it good every time so far.
To my own surprise, I’m still on my feet. It takes great fucking effort to push those negative images out of my head. They’re persistent and try to worm their way back in.
I need a lifeline. I need something to fill my head with so I can keep every bad thing I’ve ever thought about myself out.
Something…or someone.
Maybe a couple someones for that matter.
I search among the hundreds of onlookers, but the spotlights make it
hard to see.
I’ll just have to hold them in my mind, then. That’s what love is, right? Whether they’re right beside me, a thousand miles away, or somewhere in a faceless crowd watching me have a mental breakdown on live television wearing nothing but stiletto heels—they’re still in my heart.
And in my pussy, too, apparently—because just as the spotlight raises, I spot them in the crowd like tropical islands in a big, scary ocean. They’re both smiling and they both only have eyes for me.
Eric even gives me a dignified thumbs up.
I feel my lips slowly curl into something near a smile.
Keeping my eyes firmly on them, I shove the negativity out of my head. As I focus on Eric, I imagine I’m walking toward him.
As I do so, he’s pulling his fucking massive cock out of his pants and wrapping his fingers around it. His eyes are begging me to come closer, to get a fucking good look and make sure I don’t miss a fucking thing.
With each step, my poise and confidence grows. Gone is the feeling of fucking jelly in my knees, gone is the fear of falling, and gone is the image of a flabby walrus with my face rolling down the catwalk and squashing the entire front row.
Instead, I grow taller, my shoulders held back and my step more nimble. I don’t take my fucking eyes off Eric or his cock I’m imagining right now.
We practiced this walk over and over again. I can do this. I can do this.
I repeat this mantra like over and over until I’ve completed the first part of the fucking pageant.
There’s no time to have a breather or take a break, though. The contest goes straight into the weightlifting section.
I watch the other perfect, oiled, glistening bodies and bite my bottom lip. I know I can do this. I’ve done this a thousand times before—naked, clothed, on a dick, whatever.
But all that shit with Evian and my photos made me feel so fucking weak. I’m having a hard enough time lifting my fucking spirits right now, let alone weights.
I mean, just look at the other competitors, right? They don’t have tiger-striped stretch marks slashed across their ass and thighs. They’ve probably never been more than five pounds over their ideal weight in all their perfect fucking lives.
You’ll never be anything but fat, Kara. I’m pissed that I can still hear Evian’s voice in my ear. Like, who the fuck does that cunt think she is, telling me what I can and can’t do? Lucy has coughed up hairballs with better personalities than Evian Sprague.
But rationalizing it is one thing. Going through with the next portion of the pageant is another.
Tiny sweat droplets run down my spine and the gap between my tits. I’m nervous and angry—and honestly, kind of hungry. I either want to eat something, punch something, or curl up into a ball and not exist for a while.
Instead, I fucking stand there with my tits out and wait for my turn to hopefully not fuck up.
When my name is called, I stumble out onto the stage. Instead of the beautiful squat the girl before did, my knees knock together as I go to bend down.
Shit.