Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Confess

CuriousThrowaway seemed… well, curious.

I saw his post on the LondonR4R subreddit, and I was curious too. He was anonymous, intriguing, and I was interested. It was late at night and he wanted to play a game. He asked for people to message him with their secrets and their fantasies. He asked me to confess my sins, and I knelt before him, my eyes wide and full of desire, ready to be unburdened.

I have my secrets, I suppose we all do, but mine are something special, and I needed the right vessel for my truth. CuriousThrowaway was perfect.

We clicked right away, swapping cropped selfies to tease a little before the game began, and as soon as I opened his picture, I was captivated. He was striking, even without his head. His body was sculpted and stunning and I couldn’t escape my desire to have my hands on it. He asked me for my secrets and I gave him something small to start.

I told him that I liked to hook up anonymously.

He responded right away, asking if I wanted to take our conversation to Snapchat. I could almost feel his lips on mine, almost taste his hurried hunger for me, and I added his username and sent him a Snap immediately.

He was quick to reply, asking for more pictures, and more importantly, more secrets. I obliged, imagining him drooling over the latest salacious selfie as he swallowed the accompanying secret.

I told him that I had been with somebody last night and that I planned to be with him tonight.

He asked me for more.

I asked him if he wanted to see a picture of what I got up to, and he was rabid, his desire dripping through the text of his reply. He wanted more.

I showed him the outfit I’d worn the night before. The dress, skin tight, white with matching heels was driving him wild. I could tell by the way he typed, so I sent him another little tease.

He didn’t reply for a minute or so, and I have to admit, I was a little shocked by his reply.

“What the actual fuck?”

What the actual fuck indeed. What kind of response is that?

The splatters of last night’s boy toy simply added to my allure. I was irresistible, if I do say so myself.

He went quiet again, so I decided to move things along and send him another photo.

Men will have browser histories full of head from Pornhub but a guy’s head on my bed is apparently enough for them to freak out.

That’s weak as fuck, if you ask me. He did ask for my secrets, and I delivered. I don’t know what more he wanted.

He seemed… uncomfortable, and honestly, that hurt my feelings.

I had opened up to him. I had been vulnerable. I had told him my secrets. I had given him the key to my heart and he let himself in and vandalised it.

I had plans for him. I’d let him into my head, and now, my mind was full of him. I wanted that body. I wanted his pretty face, his blue eyes, his thick, dark hair tangled in my fingers. He was going to be mine.

He’s playing hard to get. He’s blocked me now, but that’s okay, because I’ve found him.

You’d be surprised how many clues people will leave lying around in the post history of throwaway accounts or on anonymous Snapchat accounts. A comment about a good coffee shop by the train station here, a reflection of the street name in the background of the mirror there. It all adds up.

It’s like he wanted me to find him, and so, dearest Diary, that’s just what I did.

He’ll be the perfect addition to my collection, and for now, until I find a new plaything, he’ll be my most darling little doll.

Just you wait. I’m going to make him into something special.

Love forever,
The Puppet Mistress

Posted in Creative Writing, Writing

Two Girls Walk Into A Bar

Hey guys!

I wrote this in response to this prompt I found on reddit, and thought I would share it with all of you.

I hope you enjoy what I’ve written, and if you wanted to try it out, head on over and see what you can come up with!

Two Girls Walk Into A Bar

“Vino blanco?”
I am echoed,
she is served first,
sips and strikes up something.
We have Cádiz in common,
but not exploration.
I’ve returned weary,
my eyes benching baggage,
nightcap and nap are miles away,
because she talks,
and she talks,
and she talks.
I am talking to myself.
Listening,
chained to the conversation,
dragged on the back of a verbal moped.
I’ve always heard I talk too much,
I hear it on delay,
long after I am done talking,
she suffers the same affliction.
We share a scar,
car accident,
back of the neck,
please don’t ask further.
I have more,
from wilderness wandering,
and her left ring finger is decorated,
with the one treasure I never found.


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