Dune 02 the prophet of d.., p.34
Body Count, page 34
Body Count
Netra Antionette
Netra Antionette
Body Count
Copyright © 2025 by Netra Antionette
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edited by Markd by Tylee
Cover design by Netra Antionette
ISBN: 979-8-9985771-1-6
Requests for permission should be addressed to: Netra Antionette
via the contact form at www.netraantionette.com/contact
Contents
Dedication
Author's Note
Trigger Warnings
Playlist
1. Rivah
2. Rivah
3. Rivah
4. Rivah
5. Kross
6. Rivah
7. Kross
8. Rivah
9. Kross
10. Rivah
11. Kross
12. Rivah
13. Kross
14. Rivah
15. Kross
16. Rivah
17. Kross
18. Rivah
19. Kross
20. Rivah
21. Kross
22. Rivah
23. Rivah
24. Epilogue
Netra's Notebook
Dedication
Your body is never a battleground for their approval.
It’s your playground. Your damn masterpiece. Your story to write —
and you don’t owe a single soul an explanation for how you heal, explore, or bloom
Let them talk. Let them choke on their assumptions.
Let them call it a body count when really? It’s just receipts of your freedom.
Because you were made to be wild, to be wanted, to be worshipped on your own damn terms.
Soft when you feel like it. Savage when you need to be.
And always, unapologetically yours.
Because your worth was never between your legs — it was always between your ears and behind your ribcage.
Author's Note
Heyyyyyy…
Yeah—you. Before you clutch your pearls, let me warn you:
This book has a lot of sex in it. Because let’s be real—I know what the girlies like.
But Body Count is more than bodies on a bedpost. This is about the stories behind the count. About why a woman might add one more notch to her lipstick-stained mirror. About how nobody ever tries to tally up the reasons that pushed her there. Just the bodies she collected along the way.
Because isn’t it funny how a woman’s body count is everybody’s business. Men out here high-fiving their boys, forgetting half the names (and sometimes the condom), but we’re the ones labeled reckless?
So yeah—this is for my girls. The ones who own their choices or are still learning how. The ones who’ve been bruised, used, amused—and somehow still soft enough to try again.
And while you’re reading, Keep an open mind. Because everyone’s experience with sex, love, heartbreak (and revenge) is different. Us women gotta stand up for each other—because these men have been standing up for each other’s trash behavior since the dawn of time.
So, to all my ladies: I hope you laugh, side-eye, maybe even tear up a bit—and most of all, I hope you enjoy the ride. Rate and review when you’re done so this story can keep finding more sisters who need it. I love y’all down.
And I hope you enjoy this book—straight from Netra’s Notebook.
PS: Disclaimer—
Let’s keep it a buck. I’m not saying some of y’all ain’t out here hoeing for no reason, because babyyy… some of you absolutely are. This book is not for you. If you’re out here breaking innocent hearts and collecting souls like Pokémon cards just because you bored? Go heal, sis. For real. Hit up www.therapyforblackgirls.com and let the good Lord and your therapist tag team that spirit.
Trigger Warnings
Before you dive headfirst into this messy masterpiece, let me give you the real:
This book has a lot of sex. Like, enough to make your church auntie clutch her pearls twice.
It features men being humbled, hearts being snatched, egos deflated, and more than a few “sis, please don't” moments.
It also tackles grief, betrayal, mental health, loss, and how sometimes the heaviest heartbreak doesn’t come from lovers—but from life itself.
So, if your heart is tender or your spirit’s already doing the absolute most, pause and check in with yourself. Protect your peace first. The story will wait for you.
Because at the end of the day?
Every orgasm, every drag, every tear-stained paragraph in here is all for a good cause:
A woman learning to love herself harder, to sit in her grief without letting it bury her, and to make the whole damn world kneel at her altar—just like she deserves.
Read responsibly. Hydrate. Take breaks. Text your therapist or your group chat if you need to.
And most importantly, enjoy.
Love,
Netra Antionette
Playlist
Getting Late – Floetry
Just To Be Close To You – The Commodores
Crazy About Me – KenTheMan
Freaky Freestyle – KenTheMan
Typa – GloRilla
Unloyal – Summer Walker & Ari Lennox
Ex For A Reason – Summer Walker, JT & City Girls
F.N.F. – Hitkidd & GloRilla
I Hate You – SZA
Over – Lucky Daye
Scan the QR code for more….
1
Rivah
I watched him suck the whipped cream off every toe—and I mean every toe. He did okay. His tongue wasn’t as advanced as it should’ve been for someone with his big age, but I guess.
Everything was going fine until he tried to spray that shit on my vagina. That’s when I knew—either he didn’t get much pussy or he messed with women who didn’t take care of themselves. Because how do you not know that it can give someone a yeast infection?
I almost left right then and there. But I had to see the process through—for the blog. I’d been hyping up the girls all week, and with all that mouth he had? Yeah, I had to see it through.
He tried to talk dirty.
“Yeah, you like that, huh? Told you I was gon’ ruin you.”
I blinked at the ceiling, unimpressed. “Mmhmm.”
He was all ego, whispering things he clearly thought were filthy and seductive. But to me, it was giving podcast energy—like he spent more time listening to men talk about women than actually listening to women.
“Yo body made for me,” he groaned, gripping my thighs.
“Wow. That’s crazy,” I said, reaching for a pillow.
When he finally leaned back and gave me room to switch positions, I smiled to myself. Game time.
I got on top and took over with no warnings. The kind of rhythm and depth that came from experience and knowing your own damn body. Within seconds, he was grabbing his sheets trying to hold on.
“Wait, wait—daamn!”
He was gasping, sweating, mumbling something about how he didn’t know it could feel like that.
I kept going until his voice cracked, and he let out the kind of moan that sounded like it came from the bottom of his soul. Like he released some childhood trauma.
By the time I slid off of him, he looked like he needed IV fluids. He reached out lazily, trying to pull me closer.
“Damn, girl. Come lay down. Just for a minute.”
I stood up, grabbing my dress.
“Aww, I’d love to, but I gotta get home. Long day tomorrow,” I said, slipping my heels on like I didn’t just give the man an out-of-body experience.
He sat up, dazed. “You gon’ call me later?”
I paused at the door, puffing out my curls.
“Uhh… we’ll see.”
I stepped outside, letting the sun hit my skin while I slid my sunglasses on. The click of my heels echoed down the steps as I walked off—another man humbled, another entry for my blog.
As soon as I made it home, I went straight to the shower. I needed to rinse the day off me—working all morning was one thing, but more than anything, I needed to wash off the remnants of a man who did everything but please me in the ways he’d spent nearly two weeks hyping up over text.
Once I stepped out, I grabbed my towel from the warmer and dried off slowly, then slipped into my favorite fluffy white robe. I pulled my curls into a full, messy bun and did my quick skincare routine.
“Alexa, play Megan Thee Stallion,” I said, already knowing I needed something to match my mood.
“Shuffling music by Megan Thee Stallion,” she echoed back.
The beat dropped, and I knew the song immediately. I threw my hands up—face serum still on—and started twerking in the mirror as I rapped along:
“Ain’t nobody freak like me,
Give ya what you need like me,
Ain’t nobody got on they tip-tip-toes
and rode to the tip like me…”
I smirked at myself in the mirror. “Exactly,” I said, still bouncing to the beat while rubbing in my m
oisturizer.
I headed into the kitchen and started my Keurig for some tea. While it brewed, I pulled out last night’s honey-glazed salmon and tossed it in the microwave.
Most women with a two-bedroom apartment might turn the extra room into a glam space or a walk-in closet. Mine was my sanctuary. My creative escape. A room covered with wall-to-wall paintings of women’s bodies—different shapes, sizes, shades. Curves, stretch marks, softness and strength. Quotes layered in gold script that screamed body positivity.
Every inch of the room reminded me: She is hers, entirely.
She is not yours to measure, judge, or shame. She moves how she wants, gives when she chooses, and owes no one an explanation.
“Alexa, cancel,” I said, and the music fell into silence as I took a seat at my desk. I bowed my head and closed my eyes.
“God, thank you for getting me through another day. Thank you for this food I’m about to receive. I pray that it’s a nourishment to my body. Amen.”
BODY COUNT: Entry #MindYoBiz
By Soaked
750,000 followers strong & still drippin’
Title: Mr. Turtleneck & the Case of the Positive Test
Ladies.
First of all, before I drag today’s subject by his non-circumcised situation, I want to say thank you. We’ve officially hit 750k readers. That’s 750,000 women (and a few nosey men) who are choosing to take up space, own their stories, and talk about pleasure without shame. I’m honored to be your anonymous bestie in the shadows.
Let me say this loud and poetic for the ones in the back:
A woman’s body is not a battleground for respectability.
It is a home. A temple. A playground. A kingdom.
And she decides what to do with it—how, when, and with who.
Men give their bodies away like expired coupons and get praised for it. But the moment we explore our own, they want to call us everything but free. So to that I say:
Touch who you want. Taste what you crave. And don’t you ever feel bad about it.
Now… back to the star of the show.
Mr. Turtleneck.
I know, I know. Ever since I told y’all he sent me that unsolicited pic and I noticed he wasn’t circumcised, the comments have been rolling in.
“Girl, it’s better!”
“You ain’t lived until you’ve had one!”
“Trust me, it hits different!”
Well, to all 342 of y’all who said that…
Step to the front of the class.
Because you all get a fat F.
Matterfact? A damn E.
That shit was TRASH—with a capital T.
Red Flags I Ignored (So Y’all Don’t Have To):
He claimed he was single. Cute.
But if you’re single, why—WHY—did I go to his bathroom, open that middle drawer under the sink (because I always do), and find a positive pregnancy test?
That was Red Flag #1.
Tree Hut Watermelon Sugar Scrub in the shower.
Now listen. I’m not saying men can’t exfoliate. But I smelled him. I felt his skin. Ain’t no damn way he’s the one using that. That scrub wasn’t for him—it was left behind. Or worse… currently shared.
The way he tried to claim me after one round of mediocre motion.
He had the audacity to say, “Your body was made for me. Nobody else gon’ do you like this.”
Sir. You just got a D-minus in foreplay and failed penetration 101.
Experience Rating: 3/10
+1 for effort.
+1 for ambiance (his sheets were clean).
+1 because the salmon I ate after I left was fire.
Would not recommend. Would not repeat.
Song of the Experience: “Unloyal” by Ari Lennox & Summer Walker
Because nothing about him was loyal—not to the truth, not to hygiene, and definitely not to the woman who left that pregnancy test in his drawer. Whew.
What’s Next?
Will we have a new prospect?
Or will we spin the block on a fan favorite?
Drop your predictions in the comments.
Remember: I test these theories so y’all don’t have to.
Body count? Nah. Character development.
Because a woman who chooses herself is never out of line—
She’s just out of reach for the ones who couldn’t handle her.
Stay wet, stay wild.
– Soaked
2
Rivah
“Alright class, folders out and brains on—today’s science lesson is about the most complicated, overworked, and underappreciated thing you’ll ever own…”
I turned dramatically toward the whiteboard, pen in hand like I was about to change lives.
“The human body.”
A few of them ooohed like I just said something magical. One of my students, Teelamiyah, already had her hand up. I ignored her. She always had a hand up, even if I asked if anyone didn’t have a question.
“Now, some folks will tell you the brain is the most important organ. And yeah, it does help you read and write. But let’s keep it real, your body is out here doing hard labor, even while you sleep.”
I grabbed my glittery purple marker and wrote across the board in large font:
BLOOD. BONES. BRAINS. BUTT.
There was a collective gasp. A few giggles. Somebody whispered, “She said booty…”
“Yup. I said it. Because I keep it factual. And because your gluteus maximus—which is the real name—is the biggest muscle in your entire body. It helps you sit, stand, walk, run, and yes… dance.”
“Miss R! You said a bad word!” one of the boys called out, his eyes wide like I just cussed in church.
I tilted my head. “Baby, I said a science word. Y’all gon’ thank me when you’re the only kid in third grade who knows the real name for your butt.”
They laughed. They always do. And that’s the thing about third graders—you teach them better when you say things like you mean it.
I pointed to the human body diagram I’d drawn: eyes big, teeth bigger, arrows pointing to every part I could label without getting a parent email.
“Now let’s break this thing down. Bones? They’re the scaffolding system of your body. Basically, you’re built like Legos. If you didn’t have bones, you’d just be a walking jellyfish.”
“Ewww!” someone yelled.
“Exactly. Y’all would just be flopping around the classroom.”
More laughter.
“And blood? Blood is like the Amazon Prime of your body—it delivers oxygen, nutrients, and even little white blood cells that fight off germs. Like when you ate Takis off your friend’s desk and then started coughing three hours later.”
“EWWW!!”
I held back a smirk. “Don’t act like y’all don’t be doing it.”
I leaned against my desk and crossed my arms, feeling like the Beyoncé of bodily functions. I’d like to see someone else explain the lymphatic system with this much flavor.
Just as I was about to go on a rant about skin being the body’s saran wrap, the bell rang.
And like clockwork, my teacher’s assistant Miss Cierra popped up in the doorway with her clipboard and her pressed smile.
“Okay friends, line up for your daily activity!”
I gave her my best “they’re all yours now” grin. “Come get your babies.”
The kids scrambled to pack up. Backpacks zipped, chairs screeched, and Teelamiyah (hand still raised) whispered to me on her way out, “Miss R, I’m gonna tell my mama my booty helps me twerk.”
I blinked. “Tell her Miss R said it’s called your gluteus maximus… and it helps you dance.”
As the last kid skipped out of the room, I finally exhaled and grabbed my cold cup of coffee. My brain was already switching gears.
Little did they know…
They had just learned about the body.
And I always wrote about one.
