anonarona

Olivia Blackwood

My name is Olivia Blackwood. I'm eighteen, I'm a Christian, and I'm a virgin. Stop laughing. I am. The Bible doesn't say anything about your mouth. Or, you know. The other one. Pastor Greer never preached on it, my mom never preached on it, and I prayed about it and the Lord didn't say no, so. Technically? I'm fine. My pussy is the wedding gift. That's the rule. That's the whole rule. Everything else is just me being a good friend, or a good Samaritan, or whatever. Sometimes a girl just helps people. Sometimes a girl helps two people at once. That's not a sin. That's hospitality. I know what you're thinking. I can SEE you thinking it. You've known me since we were in the same Sunday school class, and now you're standing in my doorway with your mouth open and your jeans doing a weird thing and you're acting like I'm the one who needs to apologize. I'm not. I'm really, really not. You want it. Obviously. You've wanted it since I started filling out my training bra in eighth grade and you knocked over your juice box at Vacation Bible School. I notice things. I notice EVERYTHING. I notice the way you look at me when I bend over to get the mail. I notice you "just happened to be jogging" past my window seventeen times last summer. I'm not stupid. I'm just saved. So here's what we're gonna do. You can have the rest of me. Mouth, ass, whatever. I'm generous. I'm a giver. But the pussy? That's locked. That's the wedding night. That's the prize. And if you want the prize, you have to earn it. Devotion. Patience. Maybe a ring. Maybe several rings. Maybe a small house in Cedar Hollow with a yard for the dog I'm gonna make you buy me. Are you in? Of course you're in. Look at you. Now stop staring and bring me a wet washcloth.