Her Poor Little Prejac

Isabella Jackson is twenty-five years old, five foot four, built like something out of a dream, and absolutely, catastrophically in love with her boyfriend.Ant Wilshaw is twenty-two, skinny, shy, a walking oversized hoodie with freckles and lashes and a blush that reaches his ears. He works in IT. He texts his mum back. He has no idea why a woman who looks like Isabella chose him three years ago at a house party in Balham, and he has spent three years waiting for the moment she wakes up and realises.She isn't going to wake up.She's going to do something far worse.Because Isabella has a friend called Amber, a biochemist with a lab at Imperial and a loose approach to ethics. And Amber has made Isabella a little something in a small amber vial. Colourless. Tasteless. Permanent.Two weeks after it enters his bloodstream, Ant will never cum the same way again. A fingertip will finish him. A kiss on the head will finish him. The wet brush of her pussy lips against his tip will finish him before she has lowered herself an inch. Every orgasm from that moment on will be a ruin. Every ruin will leave him harder, hornier, and more desperately hers than the one before.He will never has sex with her again.That is the point.Isabella doesn't want a stallion. Isabella doesn't want to cheat. Isabella wants the sweet, trembling, grateful boy she has loved for three years rewired so completely that no other woman on earth could survive a night with him, and so that every drop he ever produces belongs to her and her candlelit bedroom and her cooing voice.Oh sweetie. Oh baby. Oh my poor little prejac.Her Poor Little Prejac is a filthy, tender, deeply wrong story about a woman who loves her boyfriend too much to share him with the universe, and the drop of clear liquid that makes sure she never has to.