Divine: A Novel
Authors: Aven Jayce
DIVINE
AVEN
JAYCE
DIVINE
Copyright © 2015 Aven
Jayce
A&M Michigan Editing
Cover Image -
foldyart1980
Cover and Book Design -
Triple J Marketing
Published by
Mirror Call Press
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination
and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
or events, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
No part of this book can
be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. Purchase only authorized editions. The only exception is by
a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Connect on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/AvenJayceAuthor
Note - This novel contains adult language
and scenes of descriptive sex. If you’re expecting something dark and violent
like my other books - sorry, you won’t find it here. However, I’m very much
like the character Divine Hallowell and while she’s not a pitch-black evil
woman, she’s still a little crazy.
-
Aven Jayce
Second Note: Although I used to be a
college professor, I make no claims that any part of this story is true. The
plot’s invented and meant to entertain, nothing more.
That’s what I keep telling
myself.
PROLOGUE
I
t’s official. I’m one of the Sluts.
A week ago I joined a Facebook site
called the Dick Sluts. It’s full of photos of half-naked men with tight abs,
posts about newly released books - erotica, freebies and giveaways, plus advice
on what to read next. It’s a place where authors can pimp their latest and
greatest Kindle creations, or Kindle erections (yes, pun intended). The site is
dick, books, dick, books, and more dicks. And after a week, I can’t get enough.
But I’m not the only one who joined the
site. Most of my street team is with me; a group of faithful fans that help
with ads, post about my books, push them to others, and comment under my
Facebook posts about how wonderful the books truly are.
Best
book evah!
You
Dick Sluts HAVE to read this, you won’t be disappointed!
I’m
wrecked. This book’s gonna take a long time to get over.
Reading
it right now. OMG! Love it!
These people do enjoy my books. It’s not bogus
in any way, but it is a marketing ploy. Post a link to the book, add a hot
photo of some guy with his shirt off, write a brief blurb, get the street team
to comment on how much they enjoyed it, and
bam
...
pick up some sales.
There’re thousands of Indie authors and
thousands of street team members, some bigger, better, and trendier than mine,
but I’m working on it. It will build into something great. I just know it. It
has
to. I need to make some money so I
can quit my shitty-ass job.
You see, I’m not a writer; I’m a college
professor. But after work and online I can be whoever the fuck I want.
My author is my other half. Not
necessarily my better half, just
other
.
She has a lot of confidence in herself and is an outgoing, approachable,
animated, woman who will talk about fucking at the drop of a hat - someone who
knows how to flash a smile. She’s a fiery bitch. And she wants to be top slut
on the Dick Sluts page. Actually, she’s going to suggest to the administrators
that they create a top slut. One that changes from time to time, like employee
of the month.
But the real me, I’m not as social. I’d
rather curl up in bed with a good book than go out to a bar. I have some issues
with anger too, but I hide my emotions pretty well, better than most. I tend to
let things gnaw away at me until I can no longer take the stresses of everyday
life, and then instead of trying to work through my problems, I run and hide in
a closet.
My author side and the real me do agree
on one thing though; that the Dick Sluts make us happy. Yeah, that may sound
ridiculous, but it’s fun interacting with people you’ll never encounter outside
of the digital world. It’s a good escape from reality. Unfortunately, when I
walk away from my laptop I’m reminded... no, not reminded, smacked - smacked
across the face by my troublesome life as a professor.
My fellow colleagues would sneer at me if
they ever found out I wrote books so dark and filthy.
That’s because the characters in my books
like to fuck. A lot. It’s been a while since I’ve read them, but I’m pretty
sure one of my sex scenes is two chapters in length.
God,
I could make a great dick joke out of that last sentence.
It’s not high academic writing. Nothing
scholarly. Shit. I’d probably be fired for writing such trash.
I use that word lovingly. Trash.
So people buy my dark erotic novels and
they either love ‘em or hate ‘em, but either way I make money. Hopefully, it
will be a shitload soon so I can leave this fucked-up job at the small,
private, east coast liberal arts institution that I’ve called home for years.
Get rich quick. Overnight.
Tomorrow I’ll wake up to a thousand
sales, even more the next day.
Update Facebook
status.
What’s
on your mind?
Violet
Cuddlecock
.99 Special! Buy my fucking books, you
Sluts!
37 people like this.
CHAPTER
ONE
M
ost people are morons.
My colleague is an evil, conniving shrew.
She has plans to take me down, wipe me out of my job, and ruin my career while
she remains in her pretty office decorated with pretty thank you cards from her
pretty and precious students; students who hate me just because she tells them
to. Yeah, she has that much control over these young minds that enter into her
building each year. That’s right,
her
building. The bitch has a building all to herself. It was probably necessary,
an idea or suggestion drummed up by the administration to keep her away from
the rest of us loyal, hard-working, competent, faculty members. The woman’s
toxic.
I like to think that I’m the sane one,
the one who will hold it together until she retires. And it’s true; I’m waiting
for my award, a plaque, a trophy, or a pin for lasting a few years longer than
the twelve faculty members who came before me. But I’m not going to make it, am
I?
I broke down and lost my shit the other
day. I’m too sensitive. Too worried about pleasing everyone, doing everything
“by the book,” and stubborn as a mule. These aren’t bad things when you work at
a university, I mean; someone has to be the one who actually gives assignments,
grades, and expects students to do a little work… to get an education.
But my colleague’s all about being number
one. The best-ever-deep-dish-pizza of the bunch.
I’m the best,
she tells her students.
The
best.
She’s going to destroy me.
I haven’t been to
her
building in some time, but I remember her office doesn’t have
dead flies like mine.
I clean my windowsill every Monday, but
by Friday they’re back. A pile of fifty or so little dead bugs. If that’s not a
sign of what my life is like, I don’t know what is. And the maintenance crew
doesn’t come in to take them away, they won’t touch the flies, only the trash;
no it’s my job. I’m a professor, an introvert, an author... and I clean dead
flies once a week off my windowsill.
I collect them too. Yep. The flies are in
a brown paper bag and at the end of the year I’m going to dump them in front of
my colleague’s office door or on top of her car. Is that illegal? I’ll have to
research it first. I don’t want to get arrested for anything, but I have plans,
just like she has plans for me. I may be sensitive, but that doesn’t mean I
can’t fight dirty.
I should also mention that I’m addicted
to porn. Yeah, that came out of nowhere, didn’t it? I think I watch it to
maintain my sanity, but I’m unsure if that makes any sense or how exactly it
helps me, and it could even be that my author side enjoys it most. That seems
more likely. She’s the type. And not many women would admit they have a porn
addiction because it’s kinda, sorta,
icky
to other women, like the ones I’m surrounded by each day. But men dig it when I
tell them. Alright, I’m making that up, not the addiction part, but that I tell
men about it. This is the first time I’ve ever mentioned it. I thought I’d
throw it out there. My porn addiction. It’s what’s on my office desktop right
now. Scrolling... scrolling. Images of women with their mouth wide open,
waiting for the cum shot. And the more I watch, the harder it is to get turned
on. I wonder if the IT department tracks internet usage of the faculty from day
to day?
Missionary
hidden cam
Biker
gang motel room orgy
(one
of my favs)
College
professor fuck fest
The motel room and the
hidden
cams are the best. The fake
hidden cams. Everything online is fake, isn’t it? How do you know what’s real
anymore?
“Professor Hallowell?” There’s a light
tap on my office door. Yes, that’s my name, my real name, not my author name.
Div Hallowell, and of course, I’ve heard that joke already... my nickname in
high school was ‘swallowell.’
Div is short for Divine. I know that’s a
bit extreme, but my parents were religious and to them I was a baby who was
sent from heaven.
I suffered through my childhood with many
cruel people telling me it was the worst name they’d ever heard. All of that
changed when I started college and my roommates thought I was kick-ass because
I had the same name of a famous John Water’s character. Who knew?
And I bet if I were a toddler in this day
and age, I’d probably find myself on that show,
Toddlers and Tiaras,
solely based on my name.
I sit and look at my computer screen then
stare at the solid oak door. The small glass window’s been covered with
construction paper since the day I moved in. I enjoy my privacy; no onlookers
please, especially considering the whole porn thing.
“Professor?” Another knock, this time
harder.
Little fucking college student ruining my
fun. Yeah, that’s how I know what reality is. Reality knocks on my door
(literally) and I’m whisked back to my day job.
“Hi Professor Hallowell. Do we have class
today?” she says as I open my door. I take out my cell, five minutes past nine.
Damn it.
“Of course. I’ll be right there.” My
voice is warm and friendly, but my thoughts as I note her pink sorority
sweatshirt, blue jeans, and knee high boots, are nothing but evil and dark.
Take
the longhaired blond, pull her inside, lock the door and stick a hammer in her
ass.
Whoa, whoa, wait a second. That might
sound sadistic and perhaps you believe I’m mentally ill, but wait. This all
goes back to my colleague. The bitch. This is one of her favorite students, a
girl who watches my every move and reports my “activities” back to her,
Professor Bitch, Cole actually. Professor Cole, but bitch is far more fitting.
So this student, why do I have such
disgust for her that I envision a hammer in her ass? This... read this...
She
is a jerk and she doesn’t really know how to teach. I HATE taking a class from
her. She makes people want to leave the major because so many people don’t like
her and she talks bad about faculty and students.
In my head. I do say bad things about
them, terrible, horrendous shit, in my head. Maybe she can read my mind? But
such hurtful words from her... they appeared on one of my teaching evaluations.
Oh, and students believe those forms are anonymous. Dumbasses. Not when we have
writing samples to compare them to. Yes, those words came from blondie,
sorority girl, and yes, she deserves a hammer in her ass, or maybe in her
smarmy vagina.
See, this is when I can’t control my
anger.
She HATES taking my classes, and yet she
signed up for another one this semester, and there she sits, every other day in
front of me, and I smile, and she smiles, and she puts on her two-faced
friendly act, and I clench my fists, hoping I don’t slip up and ‘accidentally’
trip and fall forward, my knuckles coming in contact with her perfect teeth,
because wouldn’t that be just horrible?
Sorority girl isn’t the only one.
There’re other students who feel the same way about me, all because of Margaret
Cole. The old hag says nasty things about me every day. Seventy-year-old
Professor Cole is that one colleague on campus who everyone knows is a problem,
a bully, but no one can do anything about her because she’s tenured. Safe.
I thought when I started in my position
that she’d retire soon, but that was years ago. She says she’ll never leave because
she doesn’t have any money. And again... private university... no mandatory
retirement age... boy, the bitch could be teaching when she’s eighty-four.
Fuck me.
I won’t go into how it all started. This
war between us. Professor Div Hallowell vs. Professor Margaret Cole. You don’t
need to read some long drawn out story or deal with cliché flashbacks. The
story begins here and now, at the end of things, when something bad is about to
happen. All you need to know is I got the job, students liked me, I began
changing the department, updating it, making it ‘better,’ and my colleague
wasn’t about to let that happen.
Change
is bad.
She felt threatened. She’s the best,
remember? The best. I can’t stress that enough.
So now you know a little bit about me.
Writer of smut, porn addict, an introvert who’s angst-ridden, and a well-lovedhated professor at Podunk U who may have to kill someone soon.
Shit, there’s so much more... wait ‘til
after class.
Div
Hallowell
I’ve got a blind date tonight!
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