She whispered, “This never happened.” I nodded and stole her earrings for the scrapbook.
Blog
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He told me I was his type. I told him I bite. He laughed — until I didn’t.
He told me I was his type. I told him I bite. He laughed — until I didn’t.
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She asked if I was looking for love. I said, “Just someone to ruin my favorite shirt.”
She asked if I was looking for love. I said, “Just someone to ruin my favorite shirt.”
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He sent roses. I sent a text: Wrong girl. Try your secretary. He replied: You were always the right kind of wrong.
He sent roses. I sent a text: Wrong girl. Try your secretary. He replied: You were always the right kind of wrong.
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She rode me like a storm — hands on my chest, ass slapping against my thighs, sweat dripping from her breasts onto my mouth. I came just from the sound of her begging to be ruined again.
She rode me like a storm — hands on my chest, ass slapping against my thighs, sweat dripping from her breasts onto my mouth. I came just from the sound of her begging to be ruined again.
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She said, “You’ll regret this.” I said, “Not as much as I’ll enjoy it.” We were both right — but I enjoyed it more.
She said, “You’ll regret this.” I said, “Not as much as I’ll enjoy it.” We were both right — but I enjoyed it more.
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Her legs were over my shoulders, her moans echoing off the walls like church bells. She screamed “Don’t stop!” I didn’t. Not until my face was dripping and her nails carved my name into the sheets.
Her legs were over my shoulders, her moans echoing off the walls like church bells. She screamed “Don’t stop!” I didn’t. Not until my face was dripping and her nails carved my name into the sheets.
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He wore a wedding ring and a story. I wore a grin and a short memory. Neither of us asked for names.
He wore a wedding ring and a story. I wore a grin and a short memory. Neither of us asked for names.
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She played the piano. I played along. By midnight, she was playing me — in a lower key.
She played the piano. I played along. By midnight, she was playing me — in a lower key.
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She climbed on top of me, slick and aching, her thighs soaked and trembling. “I need to cum,” she growled. I didn’t ask how — I just opened my mouth and obeyed.
She climbed on top of me, slick and aching, her thighs soaked and trembling. “I need to cum,” she growled. I didn’t ask how — I just opened my mouth and obeyed.
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He said he wanted honesty. So I told him I flirt better when I’m lying.
He said he wanted honesty. So I told him I flirt better when I’m lying.
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She laughed when I said “forever.” I laughed when she asked for my real name.
She laughed when I said “forever.” I laughed when she asked for my real name.
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He said I was trouble. I said, “Not unless you beg.” He did — twice.
He said I was trouble. I said, “Not unless you beg.” He did — twice.
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She kissed like a goodbye. So I kissed back like a crime. We were both guilty before the appetizer.
She kissed like a goodbye. So I kissed back like a crime. We were both guilty before the appetizer.
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She said, “Ruin me.”So I made her fall in love with me, never texted back, and showed up three weeks later with handcuffs and her favorite wine.She cried. Then begged.Then thanked me.
She said, “Ruin me.”So I made her fall in love with me, never texted back, and showed up three weeks later with handcuffs and her favorite wine.She cried. Then begged.Then thanked me.
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He said he had no intentions. I said I had no rules. We invented both over whiskey and a ruined tie.
He said he had no intentions. I said I had no rules. We invented both over whiskey and a ruined tie.
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She said she never dates poets.I said I only write sonnets on skin.She told me to prove it — I still have the pen.
She said she never dates poets.I said I only write sonnets on skin.She told me to prove it — I still have the pen.
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He was late, smelled like sin, and smiled like forgiveness. I let him in. He left with my earrings and my favorite excuse.
He was late, smelled like sin, and smiled like forgiveness. I let him in. He left with my earrings and my favorite excuse.
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She liked her coffee strong, her alibis stronger. I liked women who left before morning — but she stayed and rearranged my bookshelf.
She liked her coffee strong, her alibis stronger. I liked women who left before morning — but she stayed and rearranged my bookshelf.
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He said, “Surprise me.”So I blindfolded him, strapped him down, and read aloud his deleted texts to “Amanda.”By the time I was done, he didn’t know if he was horny or horrified.I did.
He said, “Surprise me.”So I blindfolded him, strapped him down, and read aloud his deleted texts to “Amanda.”By the time I was done, he didn’t know if he was horny or horrified.I did.
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He had a dimple and a dangerous laugh. I had no interest in being careful. That’s how Tuesday turned into regret.
He had a dimple and a dangerous laugh. I had no interest in being careful. That’s how Tuesday turned into regret.
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She said, “One night.” I said, “One lie.” We shook hands and met under false names.
She said, “One night.” I said, “One lie.” We shook hands and met under false names.
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He offered me a cigarette and a promise. I took the lighter and left the promise burning on the balcony.
He offered me a cigarette and a promise. I took the lighter and left the promise burning on the balcony.
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She called me a scoundrel. I called her “ma’am.” We were both right, and we both left lipstick on the wrong collars.
She called me a scoundrel. I called her “ma’am.” We were both right, and we both left lipstick on the wrong collars.
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She appeared like a broadcast signal from a forgotten frequency — brown skin humming under flickering neon, lines of code stitched across her shoulder blades, tribal sigils etched in ultraviolet. No clothes, just smoke and intention to show her pussy
She appeared like a broadcast signal from a forgotten frequency — brown skin humming under flickering neon, lines of code stitched across her shoulder blades, tribal sigils etched in ultraviolet. No clothes, just smoke and intention to show her pussy
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He said I talked too much. I said he kissed too well. We agreed to speak in tongues for the night.
He said I talked too much. I said he kissed too well. We agreed to speak in tongues for the night.
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She wore red like a dare. I answered in black. Somewhere between the drinks and the lies, we fell into bed — and maybe, something worse.
She wore red like a dare. I answered in black. Somewhere between the drinks and the lies, we fell into bed — and maybe, something worse.
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She stood naked by the window as the sun collapsed into another lukewarm afternoon. The room was silent, except for the faint hum of a broken fan oscillating without direction. There was no purpose to it — her nudity, the heat, or the way the light fell across her back like a question no one would answer.
She stood naked by the window as the sun collapsed into another lukewarm afternoon. The room was silent, except for the faint hum of a broken fan oscillating without direction. There was no purpose to it — her nudity, the heat, or the way the light fell across her back like a question no one would answer.
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He told me he was dangerous. I said, “So am I — when I smile.” We kissed like thieves and parted with each other’s secrets.
He told me he was dangerous. I said, “So am I — when I smile.” We kissed like thieves and parted with each other’s secrets.
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She said, “Don’t fall in love with me.” So I tripped, kissed her ankle, and asked if heartbreak came with dessert.
She said, “Don’t fall in love with me.” So I tripped, kissed her ankle, and asked if heartbreak came with dessert.
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She stood without shame, not in defiance, but because there was nothing to defy. The body was only a body — warm, brown skin under the merciless light of noon. The air was dry, still. Somewhere nearby, a radio whispered an old love song no one was listening to.
She stood without shame, not in defiance, but because there was nothing to defy. The body was only a body — warm, brown skin under the merciless light of noon. The air was dry, still. Somewhere nearby, a radio whispered an old love song no one was listening to.
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She stood in the center of the room, naked, as if awaiting some unknowable judgment. The object — small, metallic, precise — remained lodged within her, not with pleasure, but with purpose. She had inserted it herself, or perhaps someone else had, long ago, under instructions she never questioned, delivered through bureaucratic whispers and unsigned letters. Now it served as a mark. Not of desire, but of designation. She was no longer a woman, not entirely — she was a file, a case, a unit of study. Her body, once hers, had been subdivided, categorized, and rendered into a subject for unseen clerks. Outside, the corridor ticked with footsteps. Someone was always approaching, but never arriving. She dared not move. The plug, cold as logic, reminded her: she had complied
She stood in the center of the room, naked, as if awaiting some unknowable judgment. The object — small, metallic, precise — remained lodged within her, not with pleasure, but with purpose. She had inserted it herself, or perhaps someone else had, long ago, under instructions she never questioned, delivered through bureaucratic whispers and unsigned letters.
Now it served as a mark. Not of desire, but of designation. She was no longer a woman, not entirely — she was a file, a case, a unit of study. Her body, once hers, had been subdivided, categorized, and rendered into a subject for unseen clerks.
Outside, the corridor ticked with footsteps. Someone was always approaching, but never arriving. She dared not move. The plug, cold as logic, reminded her: she had complied
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She strutted through the flat like it was a catwalk in hell — just a pink thong wedged up her arse and that ridiculous jewel thing glintin out between her cheeks like a Christmas bauble for degenerates. Davie choked on his lager, coughin up foam as she turned round and gave him that look — half challenge, half ‘what are you gonnae dae aboot it?’ It wisnae sexy, not really. It was confrontational. Like she was wearin her own madness on display, some kind ae war medal for filthy minds. The plug sparkled under the kitchen lights — Tesco halogen, dead romantic. He looked at her and thought, this is either the best or worst idea I’ve had in months, and either way, it was too late now.
She strutted through the flat like it was a catwalk in hell — just a pink thong wedged up her arse and that ridiculous jewel thing glintin out between her cheeks like a Christmas bauble for degenerates. Davie choked on his lager, coughin up foam as she turned round and gave him that look — half challenge, half ‘what are you gonnae dae aboot it?’
It wisnae sexy, not really. It was confrontational. Like she was wearin her own madness on display, some kind ae war medal for filthy minds. The plug sparkled under the kitchen lights — Tesco halogen, dead romantic. He looked at her and thought, this is either the best or worst idea I’ve had in months, and either way, it was too late now.
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“She knelt in a flickering dream chamber — chrome walls sweating morphine and old jazz records looping through a static-smeared intercom. A synthetic serpent, double-headed and slick, buried itself in dual orifices like an ancient rite performed for no god. Her face was glass, her body just conduit — nerves rerouted through rubber and memory. The plastic intruder pulsed with prerecorded moans, humming something between pleasure and malfunction. It wasn’t sex — not anymore. It was circuitry testing flesh, ritual automation, the body as feedback loop. The Interzone Clinic logged the act as Experiment 23-B: Subject responds favorably to dual-entry protocol. Her eyes rolled back into static snow
“She knelt in a flickering dream chamber — chrome walls sweating morphine and old jazz records looping through a static-smeared intercom. A synthetic serpent, double-headed and slick, buried itself in dual orifices like an ancient rite performed for no god. Her face was glass, her body just conduit — nerves rerouted through rubber and memory. The plastic intruder pulsed with prerecorded moans, humming something between pleasure and malfunction. It wasn’t sex — not anymore. It was circuitry testing flesh, ritual automation, the body as feedback loop. The Interzone Clinic logged the act as Experiment 23-B: Subject responds favorably to dual-entry protocol. Her eyes rolled back into static snow
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She was glass and shadow under the flickering tube light, limbs twisted like mannequin joints stolen from a defunct department store. A transparent totem in her hand — synthetic serpent — sliding in ritual arcs, glittering like a pharmaceutical ghost. Static in the air buzzed with old radio sermons, and the scent of disinfectant clung to her skin like an unwanted memory. Every motion a cipher, every moan a junkie’s prayer — looking for God in plastic, in pulse, in the humming silence of a rented room three floors above a pawn shop.
She was glass and shadow under the flickering tube light, limbs twisted like mannequin joints stolen from a defunct department store. A transparent totem in her hand — synthetic serpent — sliding in ritual arcs, glittering like a pharmaceutical ghost. Static in the air buzzed with old radio sermons, and the scent of disinfectant clung to her skin like an unwanted memory. Every motion a cipher, every moan a junkie’s prayer — looking for God in plastic, in pulse, in the humming silence of a rented room three floors above a pawn shop.
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She wore the ribbon like a medal from some lost war — pinned above her ribs, naked beneath except for a smear of glitter and stale perfume. The men approached in tandem, bureaucrats of flesh, one entering the front gates while the other pushed past the tongue checkpoint. It wasn’t sex — not anymore. Just a maintenance ritual in the underground bunkers of Interzone. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, dripping static and old jazz. Her eyes rolled back to a place beyond the ceiling, beyond the room, beyond the body — where pleasure had been outlawed but obedience still paid in cigarettes and synthetic morphine. The act looped, recorded, filed. Nothing was felt. Only performed. Flesh clicking into flesh like code. And somewhere in the corner, a typewriter clicked without a typist, spelling out the last lines of an obsolete instruction manual
She wore the ribbon like a medal from some lost war — pinned above her ribs, naked beneath except for a smear of glitter and stale perfume. The men approached in tandem, bureaucrats of flesh, one entering the front gates while the other pushed past the tongue checkpoint. It wasn’t sex — not anymore. Just a maintenance ritual in the underground bunkers of Interzone. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, dripping static and old jazz. Her eyes rolled back to a place beyond the ceiling, beyond the room, beyond the body — where pleasure had been outlawed but obedience still paid in cigarettes and synthetic morphine.
The act looped, recorded, filed. Nothing was felt. Only performed. Flesh clicking into flesh like code. And somewhere in the corner, a typewriter clicked without a typist, spelling out the last lines of an obsolete instruction manual
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She was seated upon the other as if by some silent decree, her posture rigid, uncertain whether this act was permitted, expected, or already condemned. The room was dim, the walls sweating with age, and somewhere outside a door creaked endlessly, like a hinge caught in deliberation. The girl beneath her did not speak. Her face was hidden, obscured by the weight of the other’s body, or perhaps by the weight of the situation itself. What passed between them — mouths, skin, a shuddering breath — felt less like desire and more like a process, some inscrutable ritual they had been instructed to perform without understanding the language it was written in. Above them, a mirror hung crooked, reflecting only fragments: a knee, an elbow, a shadow that might have been a hand or a moth. Neither of them looked into it. They were not ashamed, exactly — but they were watched, somehow. Watched by the silence, by the air itself, by a faceless clerk in a back office who would one day file a report on this moment, mislabel it, and seal it away in a drawer that never opened again
She was seated upon the other as if by some silent decree, her posture rigid, uncertain whether this act was permitted, expected, or already condemned. The room was dim, the walls sweating with age, and somewhere outside a door creaked endlessly, like a hinge caught in deliberation. The girl beneath her did not speak. Her face was hidden, obscured by the weight of the other’s body, or perhaps by the weight of the situation itself. What passed between them — mouths, skin, a shuddering breath — felt less like desire and more like a process, some inscrutable ritual they had been instructed to perform without understanding the language it was written in.
Above them, a mirror hung crooked, reflecting only fragments: a knee, an elbow, a shadow that might have been a hand or a moth. Neither of them looked into it. They were not ashamed, exactly — but they were watched, somehow. Watched by the silence, by the air itself, by a faceless clerk in a back office who would one day file a report on this moment, mislabel it, and seal it away in a drawer that never opened again
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he bed was narrow, the sheets coarse, but they didn’t notice. The girl with dark hair moved slowly, deliberately, her head buried between the other’s thighs. There was no moaning, no performance — only breath, skin, the quiet mechanics of human contact in a world that had tried to strip it away. The other girl lay back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as though expecting someone — or something — to burst in. But nothing did. It was just them. For a few moments, they weren’t subjects, weren’t watched, weren’t weighed down by duty or fear. They were simply alive, and that was enough of a crime.
he bed was narrow, the sheets coarse, but they didn’t notice. The girl with dark hair moved slowly, deliberately, her head buried between the other’s thighs. There was no moaning, no performance — only breath, skin, the quiet mechanics of human contact in a world that had tried to strip it away. The other girl lay back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as though expecting someone — or something — to burst in. But nothing did. It was just them. For a few moments, they weren’t subjects, weren’t watched, weren’t weighed down by duty or fear. They were simply alive, and that was enough of a crime.
