No bra voyeur

Just found a box full of my friends panties in my (23f) bf's (22m) closet.... FREAKING OUT. I 'm 23f and I've been dating my 22m boyfriend Andrew since the beginning of university, pretty much. We lived on the same floor and met on move-in day when his roommate invited me to a party in. Just found a box full of my friends panties in my (23f) bf's (22m) closet.... FREAKING OUT by ThrowRABFsPanties in relationship_advice [–] ThrowRABFsPanties [ S ] 0 points 1 point 2 points 1 hour ago (0 children) bunsexy: My Friends Brother who is btw 17 or 18 came for a Sleepover, am 25 . My Parents were out and wanted me to pretty much 'babysit' them while they were away. time went by and I wanted to go for a Walk. As I got back went back to my Room I saw with my own eyes my Brothers Friend smelling my Underwear from my Laundry Basket I was so shoked I stubbornly cleared my throat and he turned away ... My best friend's panties I have a wonderful best female friend and I have on several occations taken her used panties, sniffing them while masturbating. Once when we were on a holiday she was going to have a shower and put her clean underwear in the bathroom, but I said I wanted to have a shower first so she said sure go ahead. One of my friends panties they are size 6 by hanes. I found worned women's panties hidden in my husbands drawer. We have been together for 12 years. We moved in together after 4 years,lived together for 2 years , then got married,have been married for 4 years and 2 years ago we had a baby girl. I agree this sounds a little odd; but you must have your reasons. I can’t think of a good situation where you could just drop your pants and say, “Hey, friend, check out my underwear.” Unless it’s some really, really fabulous underwear. I could se...

2020.09.14 01:24 ThrowRABFsPanties No bra voyeur

I 'm 23f and I've been dating my 22m boyfriend Andrew since the beginning of university, pretty much. We lived on the same floor and met on move-in day when his roommate invited me to a party in. I didn't want to be that girl aka the girl who falls in love with the first dude she sees at college but I pretty much instantly had a major crush- he was so funny and the life of the party and one of those really smart guys that manages to never come off as condescending. We were super flirty for the first few weeks but officially "just friends" until we finally hooked up at a halloween event and we've been together ever since, no major fights or breakups. Our friend group is super intertwined and most of us moved to the same city after graduating last year (some have since left due to corona and other reasons but a core group is still here). He's my best friend and pretty much my parents' second son at this point and he gets along with my brother and sister like a house on fire. We have a fantastic relationship - frequent sex, before corona we'd go on weekend getaways every month or two, we adore each other's families, and obviously we have the same friends. My high school boyfriend was the type who "didn't believe" in Valentine's day or doing anything lovey dovey and Andrew's pretty much the complete opposite; he's honestly the most thoughtful person I've ever met - every anniversary or birthday he gives me some insane gift that's based on an inside joke or vacation or just something I really like and whatever I got him always feels super lame in comparison lol. He moved in with my brother (25M) last year but our leases are almost up and we've decided we want to take the next step and move in together. We're currently in the process of securing a place with the lease officially beginning in November but we haven't signed a contract or paid any money yet.
So, now that I've given you the background on my relationship, I'm going to get to the real shit.
I live with two roommates but I spend a ton of time at my boyfriend and brother's place. My brother is out of town a lot so most of the time it's just me and Andrew, which means we can do the kinda of things you normally can't do with two roommates hanging around. This weekend, my brother was off visiting his girlfriend in another city and I was staying over. My boyfriend was working yesterday morning but we had loose afternoon/evening plans so I decided to just chill at his apartment to wait instead of trekking back and forth across the city. When I woke up, I went rummaging around in his closet for some clothes to steal and long story short I ended up finding a shoebox FILLED with panties, thongs, and bras. The worst thing is that I RECOGNIZED some of them!!!!! I lived in a house of 5 girls during uni and we'd go bra shopping and do our laundry together so I know what my friends' underwear looks like. I even saw a thong that I'd personally bought for my roommate on her 21st birthday!!!!! I also found my best friend's missing La Perla thong- they were so expensive and we were convinced that some hookup had stolen them for some weird wall of panties. I honestly still don't know what to say????? I almost threw up when I saw them and my head hasn't stopped hurting since yesterday. At first I thought they were new and maybe he was cross dressing or cosplaying idk but imo the similarities to my friends' missing/disappeared things is too much. I had to get out of there so I pretty much ran but I wish I'd taken some photos or something because part of me still doesn't believe it. I told him I had to rescue a sick friend yesterday because I still don't even know how I'd broach this conversation. "Hey, are you stealing my friends' panties" like what the fuck???? And what if he's not?? What if he's wearing them or holding them for a friend with an overprotective/conservative girlfriend or they randomly got mixed in with his things when he moved last year and he doesn't even have any idea what's inside that box????? Part of me doesn't even want to bring it up though because what if he does know what's inside the box and he's some weird voyeupervert. Andrew's the love of my life - I've never seen a red flag from him. Even my most militant "I hate men" friends don't have a single bad thing to say about anybody. This is the kind of accusation you can't walk back from and I don't want to blow up my relationship over something that may not even be what I thought! Especially because our friend group is so intertwined - I feel so shaky and nauseous right now thinking about how I'd even explain this to my friends. I've been in my room for the last day pretending everything is normal and my life isn't over but obviously I need to talk to him soon. We're supposed to be moving in together in a month and a half and we've been talking about possibly getting a pet together too. Part of me just wants to pretend I didn't see anything at this point.
Sorry for the rambly post, I'm just really scared of what's going to happen to my relationship and our friend group. I have no fucking clue how I'm supposed to go on while knowing this!! But I also have no fucking clue how to bring it up with my boyfriend without blowing everything up if there's an innocent explanation!!!!!
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2020.06.02 18:28 gazm88 No bra voyeur

I was transfixed, literally. It was impossible for me to move as I looked out of my bedroom window that summer afternoon, down into my neighbor’s yard and saw Bobby and Valerie DeJong fucking.
Their son, Chet, had been my best friend through high school and I knew the family well, but this was the first time in my 18 years of existence on the planet that I’d witnessed a couple in the flesh, screwing each other for all they were worth. It was shocking, mesmerizing and exciting as I stood a couple of feet back from my window, watching them and stroking myself.
They used a patio lounger and Valerie spent a lot of time on her knees, apparently urging her husband as he slammed into her from behind. Their black skin made them look like silhouettes against the sandy paving of their yard, Valerie’s breasts hanging down and swinging as Bobby fucked her. And his cock… it was huge. It looked to be almost a foot long (I know now that was unlikely, but that’s what it looked like) and straight as a rule. It was so long it looked like he couldn’t fit all of it inside her – at least three inches stayed outside Valerie’s pussy.
I had just looked out of the window casually when I’d spotted them. Now over the initial surprise, I was on the verge of cumming as I watched them. Bobby turned Valerie over and kneeled on the lounger, directing his huge tool at her groin. Once inside he started his rhythm again, making Valerie’s eyes close in pleasure as he pumped faster and faster. I came before he did, spurting youthfully across my carpet, but my cock was still rock hard as I watched Bobby’s body stiffen and obviously cum inside Valerie. Unlike the porn movies I’d seen, he didn’t pull out and shoot cum over her, just stayed inside and finished his orgasm.
When they were done the lay naked together on the lounger, his cock still looking enormous as it deflated slowly. I watched for a while before backing away from the window and stroking myself again.
**
Next time I saw Valerie was a few days later, when I called round to see what Chet was up to. We’d both finished high school a couple of weeks before. Chet was headed for a football scholarship at Texas, me to University of Illinois. I hadn’t seen my friend since the weekend and knocked on the DeJong’s front door.
Valerie answered, dressed in some tight jeans and a pink crewneck top. I stumbled over my first words, not able to get the image of her naked out of my mind, but managed to ask for Chet.
“He’s over at his cousins, on his way back I believe. Should be here in a half-hour or so.” Valerie smiled at me and I started to feel a little more comfortable, assuming she knew nothing of my voyeurism. “Would you like to come in and wait for him? I’m just prepping some food for tonight. You’re welcome to wait.”
It seemed natural for me to accept, after all, it’s what I would’ve done many times before that day. I knew that my perception of Valerie had changed, but she didn’t.
We lived in an affluent suburb and back then fewer moms worked, so it was very normal for Valerie to take time to prepare the family dinner, just as my mother did, often baking as well. I followed her into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. She offered me lemonade but then remembered that I preferred soda, so poured me a Coke. My family socialized with the DeJong’s a little, mostly at neighborhood cookouts and the like. We got on well with them but this was twenty years ago and some didn’t… the color of their skin still somewhat unusual in the suburbs. If they ever felt any resentment, none of the family showed it.
We chatted about the coming college days for a few minutes. Rightfully so, she was very proud of Chet’s scholarship but she also showed genuine interest in where I was going and what I expected life to be like in the college world. I’d heard many times that she’d studied Chemistry in Florida, but parents seemed to have a habit of forgetting what they’d told people and tell them again. I guess I’m like that now!
I had ample opportunity to study Valerie, as I’d never seen her before. She had been Chet’s mom for all the years we’d lived next to them, but now she was the lady I’d seen fucking in her yard.
She always had a ready smile and a kind disposition, but for the first time I noticed that she had beautifully smooth skin, very dark and providing a stark contrast for her white teeth that made them seem almost incandescent. She had a good figure, maybe a few extra ponds around her hips, but wonderfully round and distinct breasts that bobbled just enough with her movements to suggest they were heavy when released from her bra.
In the yard Valerie’s hair had been combed back and in a ponytail but today it was hanging around her face, wavy from styling I thought, but very sensual. I’d never thought about her age much before, but she must have been at least forty-three, and looking good for it. My standard for beauty back then was young movie stars and other pin-ups, but it now came to me that my friend’s mother was very beautiful.
“You’ll have fun.” Valerie concluded our college discussion just as the phone rang. “Excuse me.” Valerie spoke with a soft, accent-less voice.
“It was Chet.” Valerie breezed back into the kitchen. “They got tickets for the baseball game tonight, he’s staying over at my sister’s. Sorry.”
“No problem.” I took the last drink of my Coke. “It was nice to talk with you. Thanks for the Coke.” I stood to leave.
“No, wait.” Valerie placed a light touch on my forearm, stopping me in my tracks. “Hold up. Stay a little while. I’d like to talk to you some more.” She seemed a little more awkward than normal but was smiling at me.
I had nowhere to go and wasn’t in the habit of turning down requests from adults so I sat back down at the table. Valerie immediately poured me another drink. She shuffled around the sink, putting things away without saying anything and then she came and sat at the table with me. Our silence had become a little strained suddenly. It felt like Valerie wanted to say something to me and as I had no idea what that might’ve been, I had no clue how to start the conversation. I mostly thought she wanted to talk about Chet. She’d asked me about his girlfriends once or twice, just in a maternal sort of way, not prying or uncomfortable.
Valerie sat across from me with her hands on the table, her fingers intertwining in a way that looked slightly nervous. I felt my own nerves start to build. What could she want?
“I…” She made a false start and her eyes fell to her hands. “I think you saw us the other day. Bobby and I.” She finished her words looking into my eyes.
I thought about pleading innocent, that I didn’t know what she thought I saw, but the look in her eyes suggested there was no room for denial - she knew. I nodded.
“I’m sorry.” She seemed genuinely repentant. “Our yard is so private. The trees mean no one can see in, except from your bedroom, that’s the only angle. I guess we just got carried away.”
There was a faint smile on Valerie’s lips as she spoke, but her tone was quiet. I didn’t feel there was anything I could say that would either make her feel better or excuse my watching them.
“I saw you at the window. Afterwards.” She leaned forward, now a little conciliatory. “I guessed you’d been there for a while. I guessed you’d seen… everything?”
Rather than just nod again, I managed, “I did.”
“I’m so sorry. That wasn’t fair on you.” Valerie reached over and took my hand in hers. Her words sounded sincere.
I tried to reassure her. “It’s okay. It’s no big deal.”
“Are you sure? Do you want to talk about it? I don’t want you to feel bad about it.” Finally her somber tone broke a little, “Bobby and I are married after all.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s okay really. I didn’t think anything of it. I’m sorry I watched for so long… I just couldn’t help it.”
“You hadn’t seen anyone making love before?”
I wanted to answer honestly, but, being the age I was, didn’t want to expose myself as inexperienced in the ways of the world. “Yes, I mean, well, I have, but not… live like that. It was so real, if you know what I mean. I’m sorry you saw me.”
Valerie smiled softly as I spoke. I realized she was still holding my hand, like she was soothing me. I wanted to reassure her I was not psychologically harmed by the experience so blurted out, “It wasn’t a horrible experience, believe me.”
Somewhere, in that moment, the dynamic between us changed. I didn’t realize until later, but the air in the room started to change from the cool of uncomfortable discovery to the heat of a sexual discussion.
“Really? You enjoyed watching us?” I swear Valerie almost smirked.
I didn’t want to admit straight up that I’d “enjoyed” the scene, but wanted to convey that I was far from shocked or hurt by it. “It was… interesting. You know, it was beautiful in some ways. Kind of nice to see people who love each other making love like that.”
“Did it… did it excite you?” Valerie held my gaze and her grasp on my hand tightened a little.
I nodded my admission, hoping the next logical question, in my mind at least, didn’t come.
“That’s nice. I’m glad it wasn’t a bad experience for you.” I half-hoped at this point the discussion would be over, but also noticed that I was becoming excited by the topic, especially in the presence of the woman I’d watched having sex just a few days earlier. “Tell me, what did you find exciting?”
I thought for a few seconds, still unsure how much I wanted to divulge. “I… you looked very beautiful. You looked so good and comfortable together. It was all exciting.”
“Did anything surprise you?”
Hesitatingly, I admitted that one image was clearer than all the others in my mind. “I was surprised… how big he is. I had no idea.”
Now Valerie gave a short laugh. “Yes, he is big. You know all those stories about black men… Sometimes he’s too big, you know? You probably never think like that, but a man can be too big, when a woman can’t take all of him and the rest of his body never meets hers. It’s just a small thing…” we both giggled at the pun, “but occasionally it can be annoying.”
I didn’t have anything to add to her statements, so stayed quiet and let het carry on. “Men don’t need to be big to pleasure a woman, that’s a myth. Well, they need to be big enough, but not huge. Bobby can get huge, but sometimes he doesn’t get as hard as a smaller man would. You understand that?”
“Sure.” I tried to sound casual, but now I was having some size troubles of my own. My cock was straining in my pants.
“You don’t mind if I ask…” Valerie paused, “but what size are you?”
Now, that question caught me off guard. Without thinking too much I took my hand away from Valerie’s and used both hands to indicate a size of about six inches. “About that.”
“You see,” Valerie smiled widely now, “that’s just about perfect.”
Silence fell between us for a few moments there, both of us wondering what had just transpired and evaluating what our next words should be, where we went from here. Forget the whole thing or… “Is that what size it is right now?”
The moment wasn’t lost on me. We’d stepped way over the line of friendship between neighbor and friend’s mother. I thought about resisting, but I was eighteen… my will was weak and after all, I should always tell the truth, right?
“Yes.” I admitted.
“It’s very exciting, talking about sex like this? You think?” Valerie easily held my eyes, making our discussion easier, like there was nothing wrong with it. “Show me? Would you?”
She stood up and moved to the side of the table. The bulge in my pants was mostly hidden under the table, but if I moved there was no way I could hide anything from her. “Don’t be shy.” Valerie urged.
I slowly slid my chair out from the table. Valerie said nothing as the lump in my pants became obvious. I started to undo the belt from my jeans and pull down my zipper. I was aware that she was fully focused on my groin as I fumbled with my underwear and tried to release my cock from the tangle it had created. Finally I managed to expose the red, bulging head.
“Stand up.” Valerie commanded. “I can’t see very well down there. Pull the pants off.”
I stood up on shaky legs and quickly pushed my jeans and underwear down to my knees. My cock bobbed up when I stood – hard and proud, almost vertical in front of my T-shirt.
“You see,” Valerie didn’t take her eyes off me, “that’s a nice size. Looks wonderful.” I looked down and saw my cock twitch. I couldn’t remember ever feeling harder. Valerie stooped a little, looking closer. “Would you mind if I touched it?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, like she knew what the answer of any eighteen year-old would be. She reached out a hand and let her fingers explore my length with the lightest of touches, fingertips only. I watched as her hand moved over every inch of me, up and down the shaft, over the head and around the rim. Her touch was divine and I twitched as she let her gossamer touch wander all over my erection.
“You are so hard.” She didn’t look up. “I’ve not felt a cock this hard in years. Were you this hard when you were watching?”
“Yes.” I had to say something, despite the paralysis she was causing, as she couldn’t hear me nod.
“You look so good, feel so good. Your cock is beautiful.”
Despite the redness of my bulging head I saw my cock as virtually white against the blackness of her skin. Valerie took a slightly tighter hold and stroked me slowly. I started to worry about cumming, already feeling the unmistakable feelings of orgasm start to bubble up. I wanted to warn Valerie what she was doing, but she was way ahead of me.
“Feels like you need some release.” She looked up at me for the first time since she started looking at my cock. “Don’t worry. Do you want me to help you?”
“Oh God, yes. Please.” I was feeling the rise quicker now, much more forceful that I’d felt from my hand or the couple of girlfriends I’d been with.
It’s okay.” She reassured, stroking me again and turning to watch. “Just let it happen.”
I had no other option by then, there was no way I could hold back. Valerie continued her slow strokes as my orgasm built with its increasingly unstoppable force. I felt my cock twitch several times as her light touch encouraged me. When I felt her other hand start to caress my balls the rush of orgasm took me completely.
I closed my eyes as the red hot waves washed over and through my body. I felt my cock start to twitch wildly in her hand, my cum not far away. She continued to caress me as I spurted, a small one fist, then a long line of cum that splashed down on the table… then another, and another. The next didn’t make it as far and some of my white cum landed on Valerie’s black skin, stark and erotic. My cock stayed twitching for almost a minute, dry now but the power of the climax obvious.
When I’d finished Valerie squeezed the last of my cum from my shaft and it seeped out of the end of my cock. Then she unexpectedly leaded down and licked it away from me. Though I couldn’t see her mouth, I was sure she’d swallowed it.
Valerie stood up and turned to me, smiling. “Looks like you needed that.” She turned away and retrieved a cloth to wipe the table. “I hope you didn’t mind, I guess we’ve both seen something intimate of each other. It was very erotic to see you, and feel you cum like that.” I sat down in my chair, my cock still hard and proud.
“It felt good.” I managed, trying to work out what had transpired in the last few minutes.
“Better than doing it yourself while watching the neighbors I bet.” There was a laugh in her tone as she threw the cloth to the sink and sat on the edge of the table.
I sat there wondering what to say next. I couldn’t conceive that this was going any further and wondered how I should wrap things up, literally and figuratively. Surely there was no way Valerie wanted something more? Could we go back to just being neighbors? How did that work? I had no experience in this area.
“You’re still hard.” She observed, pointing at my erection. “You young boys. Insatiable. I’d forgotten how that goes.” I watched as she brought her hand up to her breast, a deliberate, sensual move. “You think you have something more for me?”
As I nodded I felt my cock twitch again. It, at least, knew what was going on here.
“Why don’t you come here and undress me?”
It was an invitation I was never going to turn down. I stood, realized that my pants were still around my legs, and kicked them off. Not wanting anything to get in my way, I pulled off my T-shirt in a flash and stood naked in front of Valerie. She smiled, not in a mom way though.
I fumbled a little with the sides of her shirt before I started to pull it over her head. Valerie raised her arms to help me and I reached up and pulled it away. Her pink bra was full to overflowing as I looked down and took in the wonderful sight.
“Nothing to hide from you here I guess.” Valerie reached behind herself and unclipped her bra. “You’ve seen these.”
I had, but not close-up, so when Valerie pulled away the bra I was stunned at the beauty of her full figure. “You like?” She used her hands to push her breasts up for me. I nodded, marveling at the hard nipples I saw, realizing Valerie was getting naked with me, still thinking about the sex I’d witnessed. “You can touch them.”
I took the invitation as a small reprimand that I wasn’t moving fast enough as it was fairly obvious that I could touch them. I reached up and took both of Valerie’s breasts in my hands. They felt heavy and stayed round as I pushed them in and up. Valerie sighed as I found the buds of her nipples and squeezed them. They felt harder than I’d expected and much bigger. “Suck on them.” She commanded.
I stooped my head to her breast and took her nipple in my mouth. I sucked gently at first, felt Valerie react with pleasure and sucked harder. I rolled my tongue around her and played with her, then repeated my actions on her other nipple while squeezing the one my mouth had just left with my fingers. I felt Valerie’s hand on the back of my head, caressing me and encouraging my pleasuring of her.
While she let me continue to suck on her Valerie’s other hand reached down between us and searched for my cock. She found me still rock hard and made a small moan of approval as her fingers wrapped around me again. Immediately she started to stroke me with her palm and thumb while her fingers reached down as far as they could, touching my balls. I returned the action by bringing my hand to the front of her jeans, gently finding my way between her legs, feeling her heat and pressing hard against her pussy.
“Let’s get these off.” Valerie declared, already unfastening her jeans. I backed off as she pulled down the zipper and pushed them down over her hips. It was impossible not to notice that she wasn’t wearing panties. I tried to get a good look at her pussy when she’d shaken the jeans off her feet but with her dark skin and black pubic hair it was impossible to see. “Come. Let’s go over here.” Valerie took my arm and led me into the lounge, straight to the sofa.
“You want to get a closer look at what you saw from your window?” Valerie seemed to be reading my mind as she sat on the sofa and lay back, opening her legs so I could see her wide open pussy.
I kneeled down on the floor and got close to Valerie’s reclined form. I couldn’t take my eyes from her pussy and now I was able to see the lines of her pussy lips and the tangle of pubes above her slit. As I watched she reached down and used one hand to ease her lips apart and reveal her pink interior. I could see the slick sheen of her excitement and marveled at the stark contrast of her pink against her dark skin.
“You like?” She asked.
“Very much. You’re beautiful.” I meant it, I had never seen a woman with such a beautiful body, and now so available to me.
“Touch me.” Valerie commanded, again encouraging me to go further than just gaze at her.
My fingertips explored all of her folds, tracing over her pussy lips and gently through the cleft of her opening that was slick with her juice. Using my thumb and forefinger I opened her slightly, delighting in the way her skin gave way to my touch. Valerie liked that too, taking her hand away from her groin and moaning at my touch. She moaned again when I let my finger slowly slip into her.
As I worked my finger in and out of Valerie my face was no more than a foot away from her, getting the best view possible. I’d never tasted a pussy before and this seemed like the perfect time so I slowly eased my face down to her, extended my tongue and lapped at her pussy lips tentatively.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Valerie encouraged as I licked up and down her slit. I used my fingers to open her as wide as I could and get the tip of my tongue inside. Valerie tasted good and I continued to experiment, licking slow and then flicking my tongue over her clit like I’d seen on porn movies.
When she felt the rapid movements of my tongue on her clit Valerie brought her hand to my head and whispered, “Not too quick. Just lick me there. The harder the better.”
I took her words to heart and made some long slow licking strokes across her clit. My fingers continued to hold her pussy open as I worked, now really enjoying that I was able to pleasure Valerie and make her moan. “Good.” She managed to breathe between moans.
Her climax took me by surprise. First I knew what was happening was when both of her hands clamped onto my head and push me harder into her pussy, encouraging me to keep licking her and make it harder. Valerie’s moans increased in volume and intensity as I licked her, my nose now hard against her pubic area, smelling her sexy musk. Valerie continued to push my head into her and force her pussy up towards me, her body now all tense as the climax approached.
She gave a final loud gasp that I assumed signaled her orgasm had arrived. I kept on licking hard and felt her pussy shudder and then her muscles contracted several times. Valerie’s hands eventually loosened off my head and let me up to look at her. She inclined her head so she could see me and opened her arms in a gesture that I should climb on the sofa and hug her.
I came up, lay my head on her shoulder and felt her arms wrap around me. My cock pressed into her thigh and I felt her kiss me gently on the top of the head. “You did good Baby. Real good. You made me cum so hard.”
Lying there, comfortably in her arms, I wondered if we were done. We had both cum and I wasn’t sure I was invited to experience the ultimate with her. Much as I wanted to sink my cock into Valerie’s lovely pussy, I wasn’t sure what our next move was. I felt Valerie’s breathing start to calm and brought my hand up to cup her breast. Her nipple was still hard and she squirmed to my touch.
“You’re still hard.” Valerie reached down between our bodies and let her hand rest against my cock. “You feel good. I think you’d feel even better inside me.” She kissed me on the head again. “Would you do that for me?”
I didn’t even nod, simply raised my body away from her and slid down a little. Valerie’s hand slipped away from my cock, but came back to it as I positioned myself closer to her. I had one foot on the floor as I angled towards her and the other leg kneeling on the sofa. I looked at her face for a final confirmation but saw nothing but raw desire. It was as though Valerie needed me inside her, which was an incredible turn on for me.
My cock came to touch her pussy lips, guided by Valerie’s hand. She pulled slightly on my shaft, urging me to thrust inside. I pushed gently, parted her lips and slipped inside. Looking down between us, I watched as my stark white cock disappeared into her warm, dark folds. Valerie gasped a little as I slid in and I simply felt the warmth of her pussy walls as I reached the full length of my penetrating her.
Valerie cooed, “Oh, you feel so good. You got it all in there.”
I could feel that I was all the way in and it was a great feeling. Basking in the warmth of her pussy, I pulled out a little and slipped in again. Valerie shifted her position slightly to allow me to make easier and longer strokes.
As much as I liked seeing the pleasure on Valerie’s face as I pushed in and out of her and the way her big boobs rocked with our motion, I was fascinated by the sight of my cock disappearing into her. I was now pulling out as far as I dared and then plunging fast into her, enjoying every slick stroke and the way her pussy gripped me. Valerie wasn’t just lying without moving either, she was arching her back and thrusting her pelvis to meet my strokes as our rhythm built.
“Does that feel good Baby?” She asked in a breathy voice. “Is this what you wanted to feel when you watched me? Is this what you thought it would be like?”
“Better.” I managed to answer between thrusts.
Valerie’s hands were all over my back now, moving gently with me as I rocked into her. The first burnings of orgasm started when I caught her eyes and she looked at me with an intensity I’d never seen in anyone before. “You gonna cum Baby?” She asked. “You gonna cum for Valerie?”
I nodded, but the gesture was probably lost in my movements as I started to pursue the strokes that would bring my climax closer. I started to get faster as I chased the feeling down, desperate to cum now, needing to and wanting to please Valerie. I felt a bead of sweat drip from my forehead, down between her breasts as I pounded away. Valerie’s hands pulled tighter on my hips, pulling me in as our bodies slammed together.
The climax came relentlessly, almost teasing me as I thought I was there and then it felt like just a couple of strokes away, then right there again. Finally I knew I was cumming and with one final full thrust into Valerie my orgasm breached its confines and burst through me. I felt my chest and leg muscles twitch as my nervous system transmitted the euphoria all through me and then I wasn’t able to thrust - frozen for a moment.
Just as I started to shoot cum into Valery I was able to thrust again and look up to see Valerie’s face, watching as I came inside her.
When I was done I slumped on top of my best friend’s mom, exhausted from the sex we’d shared and still feeling little post-orgasmic shocks running through me. Valerie wrapped her arms around me, hugged tight and then brushed some hair away from my forehead. “Was that good for you Baby?” Her voice soothed as I caught my breath. “Did you like the way Valerie makes love? Was that better than watching?”
“It was good.” I managed between breaths. “Very good. Did you…”
“Hush Baby,” she caressed my cheek with her hand, “you made me feel so good. It was nice to feel a man that can get all the way into me. I’ve needed that for a long time.”
She seemed to shift on the sofa and look towards the kitchen. “The bad news is that you have to go now. Bobby will be home in half an hour, and we wouldn’t want him to find us like this. Would we?”
Of course we wouldn’t, so I quickly got up and started to pull on my clothes. Valerie found a towel and wrapped it around her boobs, explaining that she would have a quick shower. When I was dressed she walked me to the front door and kissed me before opening it. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.” She smiled. “It was nice of you to show me your cock, and let me have it inside me.” I couldn’t have put it better.
Valerie and Bobby lived next door to my parents for another ten years or so. Whenever I saw Valerie I had an instant reaction in my pants, but not once did she ever give me the slightest sign that our secret afternoon was something she even remembered. Valerie was inscrutable like that and I guess our lives were a bit safer for it. As much as I loved the event, and all of the wonderful memories I relived for years, I would never want my parents, or Bobby, or Chet to suspect anything.
I looked out of my bedroom window many times over the years after that day but didn’t once see my next door neighbors having sex.
submitted by gazm88 to sexstories [link] [comments]


2020.05.29 22:19 lilbitez No bra voyeur

X-Post from /relationship_advice
This is going to be long, so strap yourself in, thank you for reading ahead of time. This is my marriage, so I want to be as detailed as possible.
My husband makes my heart sing.
That is what makes this so hard.
We have been together for 7 years in October married for 5 years. I won’t lie, we met online during a very bad period of my life. I had been in a car accident and bed ridden. I joined a skype group, which is how I met his best friend. His best friend then introduced me to him. He lived in one of the Baltic states (Estonia, Belarus, etc.), remember this as it becomes relevant later.
At first, we were just friends, but as I have dated people online before that were in different countries, and it wasn’t like I had a lot going on in my life, we started dating with intent to meet. It became intense quickly. I won’t go into all the details as I don’t see it super relevant to the current issue at hand, but we would skype every day, pretty much all day. Sleep together on Skype, I’d call him when I’d go to the grocery store, I worked nights alone, so I even would call him at work. We were as inseparable as you can be when you are on the other side of the world from each other.
After a year and eight months we met up in Canada and got married. Then a couple of months later we met up in his home country. While I was there, we decided to meet up with his best friend’s girlfriend, who we will call Rachel. She lived in a neighboring country.
To give you a better idea of what I have medically gone through, let’s just say my spine is messed up as well as my nervous system. A lot of people who had what I had, would go on disability and stay home. I knew that unless I got a job (which I did, the night job) I would never be able to get my partner (we will call him) Dave to America. So, I pushed REALLY hard. Flying to his country alone, was still one of the most difficult things I had ever done with how much horrific burning pain I was in.
So naturally while I am there, I have issues physically. While I am having issues, like needing to stay inside or vomiting from pain/medication, Dave and Rachel start hitting it off. They walk in front of me leaving me behind (I wasn’t as fast due to my issues), I had brought with me romantic candles (from our wedding--which Dave knew) for sex, Dave lit them while playing cards with Rachel, they went off on their own a couple of times (with my blessing), but they were starting to get too friendly. Once Rachel left, I asked Dave if he had a crush on her. This was, for all purposes, the first time I had seen him after we got married, my point of view was “what the hell?”. I asked if they had been texting, he said no. I asked to see his phone, he was a little guarded about it, but I saw and they had been texting, thus he lied. I realized for sure he liked her. The issue was he would not admit it. He swore to me that he didn’t know why he lied, he was just worried I would get upset but that he and her had just connected over some obscure European thing from his childhood. I told him I wouldn’t be mad, but I needed to know so we could take next steps. He started crying worried I would leave him. I asked him to swear he didn’t have a crush, he said he didn’t and that he swore.
A couple months ago from today (maybe 9?), I can’t remember exactly how it came up, but I told a joke and he said yes, he did have a crush at Rachel at that time. Well, obviously things got serious quick after he said that. We talked about why he had lied (as well as in therapy) and he said that “at that time I didn’t realize I had a crush on her, but in retrospect I realize it now”. He and I went through a lot in therapy, including asking him to write a letter of apology. We put that issue to bed.
In fall of this year, we reached a climatic point in our relationship. While Dave had a job and went to work every day, he was extremely depressed and stopped contributing to our marriage or any household task. I would ask him about himself, we would talk, I’d ask how I could help, and he would talk the talk but not walk the walk. It was becoming very draining for me. I was in a lot of pain and there is only so much I can do with my disability. The fact that the disabled person in our household, who works more than him has to run everything was beyond me. We had made a deal in the past that he would be the main homemaker despite who was working and who was not due to my limitations and he said he was okay with that but now would not follow through. We had argument after argument. We were in couples therapy, and both in individual therapy as the main reason he was struggling was due to depression (technically he has always been depressed). I reached a point where I told him we were going to have to separate if things didn’t improve. We were having issues with sex (frequency and pleasure on my end), him doing his share (or even just 20%), romance (non-existent in my opinion), and him not helping me when I am in pain and can’t do anything. Once I seriously started talking about separating, he jumped into action. I mean, real concrete action. Things turned 180.
From end of November onwards to early March (DD was March 6th things were SO good, I mean better than ever. Our communication had gone up, he did his share and then some (on some days), he tried really, REALLY, hard. I had never been so in love with him. I got sick in Feb and had to go to the hospital (stomach flu, dehydration, couldn’t stop vomiting) and he just took such good care of me, I can’t even explain.
Before I get to the issue at hand (I know, I know) I want to explain something about him. He comes from a Baltic state as I mentioned. Life there is very hard, and gray (in every sense of the word). His parents neglected him as a child. If they were not neglecting him they were not being nice to him. He was punched in the face as a toddler. He thinks he was also sexually abused on two occasions, not by his parents, but this is relevant. When I met him, he wouldn’t go outside of his home and was living with his mom. His mom wouldn’t speak to him at all. She would come in and vacuum when he was sleeping, she got the cat things for her birthday, but for Dave’s birthday she got him nothing. He has not had a good life. He is incredibly smart, he has learned a lot of things on his own, but socially he is stunted as he has not really had friends besides online. His last years of high school he did remote schooling. I am not saying any of this is an excuse but providing this information for context.
Now to DD, March 6th. I went on his phone. We have an open phone policy within our marriage. I was trying to find a clue for what to get him for his birthday but had this sinking feeling that I sometimes get that he was hiding something (but in general I am more anxious as a person). What I found has shocked me beyond. He had a special app where he was messaging men. Exchanging dick pictures, talking about sex (rape/ fucking animals), and most gut wrenchingly exchanging nude photos of me (hotwife stuff). It looked like he met these people on reddit. I ran to the bathroom, as this was late at night, took some photos of it as I was worried, he would delete it, but he woke up and asked to come in the bathroom. He was looking for his phone and couldn’t find it, as I had it. When I left the bathroom and gave him his phone back, I had forgot to fully exit the app, so he opened his phone, saw it was running and freaked out.
We spent almost all night talking. He says that he does this because it is a way to hurt himself. That he gets a high from the conversation, especially sharing lewd photos of me (either fully naked just body, or just face), and he gets a low after and feels disgusting about himself. He said he only does it when he has nothing to do and is really low. He says he usually does it once a week during a “bad” time and during a good time maybe once/twice a month. He has been doing this since before we were together and throughout the duration of the entire relationship.
He says that he puts on a “persona” where he just tries to be as disgusting and despicable as possible. That this is a voyeur thing, about seeing things that he is not supposed to see. He said that he has masturbated before to photos of couples having sex that he has received. He said he is not gay.
He also has a Reddit account. In the messages he pretends to me and goes through scenarios with people. He uses my real bra size, age, and describes my real looks. I don’t understand if it is a voyeur thing what he is getting from the scenarios. He also messaged two women on Gonewild (very hurtful as I specifically told him I consider this cheating in the past), and said things like “your body is perfect”, he has never said anything like that to me and struggles with compliments.
He also has an imgur account filled with photos of women. He also has photos of women saved on his phone. He uses them to catfish men.
To me, he has to be a bit Bi? (not trying to label anything) to be into asking for cock photos?
Oh and also, I looked at his recent subreddit history (all of this we did together) and he has subreddit after subreddit of gay stuff. Cocks, Penis, Gaybrosgonewild, something Joesbros? (about meeting up with men), dirtyr4r, all sorts. Then there is women ones as well holdthemoan, hairypussy, gonewild, curvy.
The first couples therapy appointment we had after DD, the therapist was just as shocked. We came up with ideas of what can be done, but to be honest, my husband has already burst into action on everything.
I asked him to not delete anything, although after I found Wickr that first night, he instantly deleted it when I walked out of the bathroom, which obviously, doesn’t help my trust at this point. Other than that, he has not deleted anything as per my request. However, he has turned off NSFW stuff on his reddit (which auto turns back on sometimes). He has a nanny app on his phone and computer where I can see what he is doing. But back in April, he turned it off and looked (last big incident), we have since corrected the app so I am the only one who can turn it off. He agreed to not look at porn (as in my mind this is kind of sex addiction), wrote up an entire list of everywhere he has been since he got to America in Sept 2017, from Google analytics.
I mean he said he will do anything, but I am just not sure what he can do.
I brought up the Rachel situation as I had asked him after that happened if there is anything else, he is lying about to tell me then. I have a serious issue with dishonesty. I think an entire marriage is built on trust. I believe in radical honesty. I think if he had told me about this instead of me finding it, everything would be different. Just to briefly mention, he also was shady in the past about texting an ex, although none of their conversation was sexual. I think he just hides things he thinks I might get upset about. But I am not someone that goes super Saiyan in any way?
I try so HARD to be a good wife, I suck his dick anytime he wants, I am always down for sex, I pay all of our bills, I cook most of our meals, I am the breadwinner, I brought him to the US, I paid his parking ticket and wrote his parking ticket appeal, when something goes wrong I handle it. The only thing bad about me is that I am bigger (I am working on losing weight), I have pain, which has gone down recently. I don’t know! I just have worked so hard for us and our marriage. I have sacrificed so much. I just don’t get how he couldn’t tell me this, but then again, I do? It is incredibly shameful. I held him and told him I don’t think any less of him. I don’t hate him.
But lately I feel like it is all about how bad he feels for me finding out. I have been taking care of him. After this initially started he got cluster headaches from the stress. He punched himself in the face when we were first talking about his issues because he hates himself so much. I feel like he is being real, but it is also super manipulative.
I have since switched therapists but our first therapist (who saw both of us separate and together) agreed that he thinks Dave is lying as he said that he asked him point blank if he had done anything like this and he said no. I asked Dave why can’t he be honest to the therapist, he said that if he hasn’t told me he won’t tell the therapist as he trusts me and is closer to me than anyone else.
Dave said he kept this from me because he wanted to tell me once he stopped, once he had a plan.
I just don’t know. Dave is in therapy, we see a couples therapist. I want to be with him, but I am hurting so much. I have nightmares, I don't sleep well, I am paranoid. I feel unsafe sometimes, with myself and with him.
I am also obviously upset about the photos of me, especially because I used to feel so bad about myself, I used to get naked for people online. That was a compulsion of my own that I stopped. To know that he did that, knowing that, makes me upset. But he was doing it to show me off, which also feels nice? Like in general, if he said that was a fetish, I don’t know how much I would mind, and kind of like it? But I am also in the process of building a serious career for myself that I have worked incredibly hard for and the idea that I could lose my job?!
We looked through his old email and I found responses to posts on websites where he offered to let people watch us have sex. I also found a chat between this girl and him, where he spoke with her for a month or so without telling her about me. He would talk about his life and things we were doing together but leave me out of it. But that conversation is over years old.
He is very, very technology savy. He used to use Torr to do this sexting. I feel like if he wants to hide this stuff from me, he can. I just....I just don't believe that he has stopped.
I don’t know where to go from here. He is my husband. We are working through things but I feel like I just can't deal with it all, you know? But at the same time I cannot describe how much I love him. My sun sets with this man. He is the reason I do everything.
For both him and I, we went through phases of hurting ourselves and wanting to kill ourselves. We pushed through to be together and now that we are older have left that behind.
He also promised to work on being more romantic. He bought me things, but he knows I want dates and has not followed through.
I just desperately need support. I am so incredibly depressed. I don't know where to turn. I'm in the process of getting a therapist. I also have no married friends I feel comfortable talking about this? I just AH! I don't know what else to do.
Thoughts? Suggestions? Resources?
submitted by lilbitez to survivinginfidelity [link] [comments]


2020.05.13 04:45 enfu3g0 Normal People Episode 6 Deep Dive: Connell Had One Job

Warning: Spoilers galore.
My other Normal People the Series Episode deep dives: Episode 5 Episode 11
I’m still thinking about Normal People. Not just the series now, but even the novel. I’m starting to forget to use quotation marks in my regular writing. It’s getting bad. So here we are back with another few thousand words on another episode of Normal People the Series to distract me.
Episode 6 is a series landmark. This signals the end of the first “block” that was shot, and the final episode with Executive Producer and Academy Award-nominated director Lenny Abrahamson at the helm. It signals the end of the early years of Connell and Marianne, before taking them from kisses and sunshine and putting them both in much darker places in the second half of the series. This is the last time we see them “together” (as Marianne defines it in this episode) until the series finale. Uniquely for the series, this episode is told in flashback. It revolves around a single story beat – what the fuck happened? How did we go from “it’s not like this with other people” at the end of Episode 5 to Marianne sobbing, alone in her kitchen, over a broken glass?
Character-wise, we’re given longer glimpses into the inner demons of both Connell and Marianne; the demons that are going to batter them and their relationship for the next five episodes. We’re also given more time with some of the supporting cast that will be part of the narrative for the next two episodes. Let’s get started.
We open with Marianne sobbing, alone in her kitchen, over a broken glass. Smash cut to a “six weeks earlier” chyron. Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Too Much” cranks up, and we get Marianne back in the same location, same position. Smiling this time, with a much brighter frame, wearing a different top. Love the transition, Lenny. Marianne says “stay“. Connell is spending most nights at Marianne’s place. He says he has to go back to the room he rents with Niall to grab stuff. Marianne hasn’t met Niall yet, but likes him. Marianne: “Is he your best friend, do you think?” This is foreplay. She means “if you stay you can fuck me“. Connell can’t resist and takes the bait. “No. You are.” He gets up and closes the distance. Carly’s voice swells as they snog. “That I’m wild for your skin and the dance that we’re in. So close now, so close now.” Connell picks Marianne up and plants her ass on the counter. Carly keeps going. “It takes me higher, feel the love.” Connell takes his shirt off. “I’m not afraid to know my heart’s desire.” He strips Marianne’s top off. No bra. Natural light is streaming in behind her. They’re in the face-to-face position, and we all know what’s coming. “When I party then I party too much.” Smash cut to black title screen, silence. “Normal People” That’s just fucking ominous. Using a CRJ party song to foreshadow bad stuff is brilliant and a crime at the same time. The first time I saw this I was expecting a full-blown kitchen counter sex scene set to “Too Much”. The shot looked and sounded amazing. Then it’s taken away. Tremendous opening sequence. Give Lenny the Emmy. Full disclosure: I love Carly Rae Jepsen. Sue me.
Niall is giving Connell grief about spending every night at Marianne’s place. Niall: “Is she your girlfriend yet?” “No.” “What are you playing at? Are you keeping her on her toes?” “Course not.” “She’s too good for ya.” “Yes, I’m aware.” I love this callback to Lorraine in Episode 3. “And you don’t think maybe you should have asked her? Seeing as how you fuck her every day after school?” Again. “Normal People.” Leave it to Lorraine to be our barometer of what normal behavior should be. Can we hear her yelling at Connell right now? “What exactly is the arrangement? You go over to Marianne’s house, you have sex with her, and you don’t ask her to be your girlfriend? Is that it? xxx You’re fucking her! You’re fucking her, and you won’t even touch her in public! What are you afraid of?” I’m convinced that’s what Lorraine would yell at Connell. Leave me to my fanfic. Of course next scene is Connell talking to… Lorraine. And yes, she’s berating Connell again for not thanking Marianne for the lead on the job he got through Sophie. “(Marianne) has been very good to you, you know.” “Right.” “I just hope you’re a bit more appreciative of her now.” “Yep.” “Well?” “Look, apologies have been made, okay? If Marianne isn’t dwelling on it, I don’t see why you are.” Oh Connell, you idiot. Then we get a very condensed version, barely a stinger, of a conversation they have much later in the novel. “How would you feel if I kept going at ya about some stupid teenage mistake that you made?” Lorraine: “Sweetheart, you are the stupid teenage mistake I made.” Sarah Greene gets the best lines.
We get a short scene where Marianne is telling Peggy and Joanna that she has to go home for two days. “It’s just a boring dinner, and a weekend being a dutiful daughter.” Is Marianne lying to them, or herself? Joanna suggests she go see friends. Marianne says that she has no friends back home. Cut to the next conversation. Peggy is quizzing Marianne and Connell. “You guys are fucking, right? You’re together.” Marianne. “Yes, we are.” Peggy: “Everyone’s speculating, even though you never actually touch each other.” Marianne: “It’s not a new thing. We used to hook up in school. Secretly.” To Connell: “I hope you don’t mind me saying that now.” Callback to Episode 5, when Connell asks Marianne if her Trinity friends knew about their history. Marianne: “Yeah. [I would be embarrassed if they found out.] Because it was humiliating.” Now she’s volunteering that information to Peggy. Fine, she’s supposed to be her best friend. But the only person who had any inkling of their history was Joanna, not Peggy. (In the novel, Connell is thinking here about his never talking about being together with Marianne. She’s very popular and a lot of men want her, so he derives social standing from being with her.) Peggy: “You make a very cute couple.” Connell: “Thanks.” Marianne, raised eyebrows. “Couple.” Peggy, fast on the uptake when it comes to sordid affairs: “You’re not exclusive? That’s cool.” Marianne: “Men can be possessive. Men seem more concerned with limiting the freedoms of women than in excising their own.” It’s like she’s predicting the next two years of her life, our girl Marianne.
She’s defined being together with Connell as they’re fucking, and have been fucking a while, but they’re not exclusive, no emotions involved. Connell is a passive bystander and says nothing. (In the novel, there’s a few lines of discussion here about male privilege. Connell then zones out of the discussion. He thinks Peggy is an airhead.) The conversation then veers into male privilege meaning all men are interested in having sex with multiple women. Peggy asks Connell if he’s into that. Connell says “not really“. Peggy says that he can have her and Marianne in a threesome. (That’s not a no, because Connell is thinking that he could fuck Peggy in front of Marianne, but he could never fuck Marianne in front of anyone else. It’s the same part of his brain that prevents public displays of affection with her.) Connell sputters. Marianne saves him by saying she couldn’t because she’s too self conscious. Peggy asks what she’s self-conscious about since she’s “so pretty“. Marianne again predicts her future when she says “I have a coldness about me“. Peggy and Connell say that isn’t true, and Peggy says she just needs to be more in touch with her feelings. Peggy leaves.
Marianne comes back, lays down with her head in Connell’s lap, and she says that she would have done the threesome with Peggy if Connell wanted her to. Connell: “You shouldn’t do what you don’t want to do.” “Had you wanted to, I’d have enjoyed you wanting to. I like doing things for you.” “You can’t do things you don’t want or don’t enjoy just to make me happy.” “But I like making you happy.” Marianne closes her eyes, a contented look on her face. Connell looks like he’s thinking, suddenly rubs his eyes and bolts up from the couch. Marianne asks him what’s wrong. He says he doesn’t know, he felt weird. (There’s that word.) This is perhaps one of the most difficult scenes to interpret without the help of the novel (or the show script). Fortunately, we have that. Connell thinks about hitting Marianne, and that she would let him. The thought makes him physically recoil. That’s why he stands up and walks away from her suddenly. Novel text: “He has a terrible sense all of a sudden that he could hit her face, very hard even, and she would just sit there and let him. The idea frightens him so badly that he pulls his chair back and stands up. His hands are shaking. He doesn’t know why he thought about it. Maybe he wants to do it. But it makes him feel sick.”
Connell wakes up the next morning. He’s naked in bed with Marianne. He wakes her up, and tries to explain what he felt. Marianne snogs him before he can start. He pulls back and says “You know I really love you don’t you.” He goes back to kissing her, then starts to fuck her with his hand. He slides over into missionary to fuck her with his cock, and they both finish. Marianne: “I think I was starting to have feelings for you there at one point.” The both laugh. Connell: “Should have to repress all that stuff Marianne. That’s what I do anyway.” They’re both complicit in keeping this a FWB situation. The novel clarifies that their relationship at this point is pretty domesticated. Marianne cooks, Connell cleans up, they get on social media, and then they have sex. After sex, they talk about intellectually stimulating things (reinforcing that they’re both high IQ, questionable EQ people), and then they have more sex. The sex is so intense that sometimes they feel they have a romantic connection (whatever that means). That’s what Marianne is referring to in the preceding quote, and Connell feels it to, but they don’t talk about that. Anything but that. As voyeurs into their lives, it’s frustrating, by Sally Rooney’s design.
Next scene, Connell asks Marianne to send him naked pictures, which she agrees to happily. (“I like doing things for you.“) He assures her that he’ll delete them, explaining that it’s for her reassurance. She asks him to send her dick pics, but he probably shouldn’t, saying that she’ll never delete them. This leads into sex again. More reinforcement of Connell’s hold over Marianne, and foreshadowing of her trials in the future.
Connell is laid off for two months, igniting a major plot point. Our avatar, Niall, is telling Connell that he’ll sublet the bed since he can't make rent. When Connell says he’d rather go home to Sligo for the summer than ask to crash at Marianne’s, Niall says what all of us want to: “You can’t be fucking serious. You already stay with her five nights a week.” “That’s different, I don’t live with her.” “You think if you move your toothbrush into her bathroom, she’ll get too attached?” “I don’t think that at all, I just wouldn’t want to ask her.” Niall, you, me and everyone else watching Connell drive himself into a wall. “Fuck’s sake, man.” Niall gives up, maybe too easily. How many of us in Niall’s spot would have gone to Marianne and told her his situation, even if Connell disowned us as his friend? I know I would.
A few people say that this is totally unrealistic. It’s one of the very few plot points of Normal People, a device to break up Connell and Marianne for the second time and send them to experience life separately before bringing them back together for the ending. My take is that Rooney goes out of her way to present Connell and Marianne as characters with outsized flaws. One of Connell’s is anxiety over the social gulf between him and Marianne. From the time Rob quizzes him on Lorraine working for Denise in Episode 2, to Marianne’s surpassing him in social standing at Trinity in Episode 4, his bunking in a shoebox with Niall while Marianne lives in a posh apartment with dinner parties every day, having to hold down a job while at Trinity while Marianne’s friends (and all the men pursuing her like Gareth and Jamie) are all rich kids, it snowballs over time. We haven’t even gotten to the Italian villa yet. He has a massive inferiority complex. Does this justify his decision here? That’s up to the viewer. I choose to accept that Connell has the EQ of a doorknob, and suspend my disbelief. I’m just as pissed at Niall for not seeking out Marianne and outing his sorry ass, but that would ruin the plot mechanism. Finally, I’m not letting Marianne off the hook. She’s blissfully unaware of Connell’s neurosis over financial standing at this point, her being the total opposite – she has no concept of the value of money, having never had to pay for anything herself in her life. She’s incapable of reassuring Connell. Now I’m even more pissed at Niall, who’s the only one who could have intervened.
Off to Marianne’s home in Sligo. Her relatives are complimenting her performance at Trinity and reminiscing about their own experiences. The relatives are ignorant of the relationship issues present, particularly between Alan and Marianne. Alan gets compliments as well on his job performance. Mentions of their father clearly triggering Alan. Marianne does the dishes, and Alan comes in to make small talk. Marianne’s expression says nothing good can come of this interaction with Alan. Long shot by Lenny, to convey how alone Marianne is while being accosted by Alan. She gives him lip and he douses her with dishwater. Denise witnesses this, and just walks away.
That evening, we get a scene of Marianne taking a nude selfie to send to Connell. She’s crying, still shaken up by the events of the day. It’s also the only full frontal nude scene of Daisy Edgar-Jones in the show. I’ve been asked what the point of this scene was, given that they were explicitly avoiding gratuitous nudity. I don’t know the actual answer, but this is probably the most vulnerable that Marianne has been so far in the series. She’s back home where she has no friends, her brother just abused her, and her mother doesn’t care. She remembers her last interaction with Connell (at least the last one we saw) and reaches out to him in this way. It’s her nature to do things for other people before taking care of herself. She’s stripped naked now, both physically and emotionally, and she’s sending the memory of this moment to Connell, perhaps as a cry for help. Was the full frontal necessary? Maybe not, but it’s a memorable scene that has not insignificant emotional impact. If you weren’t sure if Marianne was broken, this is further evidence that she is. (For those scoring at home: series count male full frontal 3, female 1.)
Speaking of Marianne being abused, the next scene is her speaking to Denise before returning to Trinity. The exchange is sad and heartbreaking, Denise justifying to her daughter that life is hard for Alan, and that she’s got it easy because she can get away to Dublin and leave Sligo behind. Actress Aislin MacGuckin is excellent as Denise, and probably deserved more screen time. But this isn’t her story. Denise: “It is very difficult for [Alan], Marianne.” “And that’s my fault?” “That’s not what I’m saying.” “You act like it is.” “That’s not how I feel.” “Why are you living life like that, with him dictating everything? Does it make you happy?” “None of this makes me happy.” “Then why are you allowing it to be like this?” “What do you think I should do? Kick him out? How do you think I should handle this exactly? I’d love to have your insight. Because I’m doing the best I can.” No tears at all from Marianne. Heartbreaking, and shows how lucky Connell is with Lorraine.
Marianne is back in Dublin, in bed with Connell. They’re watching a movie. Marianne is sobbing. Connell asks if it’s because the movie got her. She says she’s feeling off. Connell asks jokingly if she’s pregnant. Callback to his dialogue with Lorraine. Marianne says she just got her period. She asks him to get her some tea. They think of having sex, but don’t. It’s kind of a throwaway scene here, but in the novel it’s a connection to Lorraine having Connell out of wedlock. The movie they watched is the 1964 Jacques Demy classic The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, a movie about young lovers. (I won’t spoil it but can highly recommend it if you enjoy unique films about young love.) In the movie, the character Genevieve, played by Catherine Deneuve, is pregnant. So Connell and Marianne talk about what they would do if Connell got her pregnant. What their families would think of that if Marianne decides to keep the baby. It segues into talking about Marianne’s trip home, but she doesn’t tell him about Alan and Denise’s treatment of her. They start kissing, and Connell makes Marianne come with his hand. Marianne says “Imagine how bitter I’m going to be when you meet someone else and fall in love.” Connell replies “I don’t know. This is a pretty good arrangement, from my point of view.” He then notes, internally, that it is within his power to make her happy. There is a lot lost from the adaptation of this scene to screen.
We get a Connell and Marianne montage, including a shot of Connell’s first publisher rejection, which feeds into his burgeoning anxiety. Niall again asks him about moving in with Marianne. Connell cannot express what it is that’s stopping him. We cut to Joanna eviscerating Jamie and his straight white male privilege. All the while Jamie is being handsy with Marianne. Connell makes himself scarce. Marianne finds him on the porch, smoking a fag. He complains about men taking liberties touching her. Marianne: “You don’t want to touch me, but you get to dictate who else does.” “I touch ya.” “As long as there’s about six closed doors between us and another person who might witness you demonstrating some level of affection towards me.” “Grand.” Oy, Connell. “I think I’m gonna go.” Marianne: “Don’t.” “We’re fine.” “Please don’t go.” He stays, but doesn’t ask her. Niall, you, me, and everyone watching: “You have to be fucking kidding me.”
Next day, they’re getting ready to go to Sophie’s pool party. Marianne: “Do you want to skip it?” “You can’t” “Why?” “It’s just a birthday party, Sophie won’t mind.” Connell looks down. Marianne: “You can’t be indebted to someone forever ’cause they get you a job in a crappy restaurant.” “Who said I was indebted to her?” Connell is obviously triggered. Marianne is oblivious. “When you’re a famous writer you won’t be indebted to anyone. You’ll be lording it over the rest of us.” Connell conjures the rejection letter in his head. Mescal projects deep angst. He’s poor, and he’s a crappy rejected writer, so he’ll stay poor.
They’re off to the party with the wealthy friends of Marianne. He gets pulled by Sophie into a pool polo game while Marianne sits on the sidelines. Jamie sits beside her and asks her if she’s right for Connell. We don't see a response. Focus on Mescal’s face. Connell’s anxiety swells as he’s surrounded by the trappings of excess that he’ll never be able to afford. He spies Marianne, swims over to her, sits beside her and manages the Herculean effort of putting his arm around her and kissing her shoulder in view of Marianne’s friends. She appreciates his effort. Connell: “Marianne?” “Yeah?” “It’s nothing.” Connell gets choked up. Marianne completely misses it. Niall, you, me, and everyone watching: “You have to be fucking kidding me.”
Cut back to the scene from the beginning of the episode. Marianne in the kitchen. We hear a door slam. Marianne goes to the sink, drops the glass, and starts sobbing. We see Connell walking away from Marianne’s flat. Cue end credits. Niall, you, me, and everyone watching: “You have to be fucking kidding me.” xxx
Episode music: “Too Much” by Carly Rae Jepsen (pre-title scene)
Directed by Lenny Abrahamson, Written by Sally Rooney and Alice Birch, Director of Photography Suzy Lavelle, Editing by Nathan Nugent, Score by Stephen Rennicks, Production Design by Lucy van Lonkhuyzen, Costumes by Lorna Marie Mugan xxx
If you made it this far, I’m sorry for the walls of text. I’m writing all of this to try and get Normal People out of my head. I’m beginning to think this was all a bad idea. xoxox
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2020.03.30 13:17 captainfantastico True story of a disastrous tinder double date with a "princess."

We’d been in our Johannesburg Airbnb for all of fifteen minutes when my friend, Nick, walked into the living room shirtless. “I’ve got a Tinder date for tonight.” He said.
I was single for the first time in nearly a decade. I knew nothing about dating apps. “That was fast.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you . . . erm . . . exchanged a lot of messages?”
He scratched his neck. “No.”
I lay draped on my front across the enormous plum-coloured living room couch. I pushed down to try to get up but my hands only sank further into its too-soft folds. “Do you know anything about her?”
“Not really, no. She lived in Singapore.” He ruffled his short, lightly greying hair. “I lived in Singapore. So . . .”
“Beautiful romances have been built on less, I suppose.” I supposed, through several layers of intense cushioning.
“There is one thing though.” His eyes narrowed. “She’s twenty-seven. Is that weird?”
This was getting good. I pushed down again, swinging my legs towards the wooden floor. “You need help there?” he asked, as my feet made contact.
“Hell of a couch, that,” I said, once I was finally free of it and upright. “It’s like a Venus flytrap for humans.” I took a few steps towards Nick, who had moved into the kitchen. “So, Nicky, my man, she’s twenty-seven, huh? You’re early forties . . .” I did imaginary calculus in my head as my tongue probed my cheek. “So, yeah, bit weird.”
Our apartment belonged to a young female yoga teacher and was full of new-age books, crystals, and hand-written aspirational notes like Remember you’re magic, baby. I helped myself to a glass of water. Nick opened his mouth, closed his mouth, sighed. “There’s something else . . .”
It thrilled me to hear there was something else.
“Her name is Princess.”
I bit down on my lip. “Princess?”
“Yeah . . . Princess.”
“Interesting.” I tried to hide my glee by steadying myself against the countertop, striking what I hoped was a pose of dignified nonchalance. “Can I see her profile?”
He hesitated.
“Not your messages, of course. Just her profile.”
He reached into his pocket, stopped, pulled his hand away, scrunched his mouth, then pulled out his phone and brought up the profile. I looked down at it and air rushed from my lungs as my mouth plummeted like a broken elevator. “Nothing about this profile photo caused any alarms to ring out?”
“No.” He squinted. “Why would it?”
I turned the phone screen around. It showed a very attractive woman leaning forward with a come-hither look that would make any man and probably most women, and any animal with knees, weak at them. “Maybe that the only thing she’s wearing is a bra?”
He took the phone off me and scrutinised it. “I mean, you can’t really see anything. The photo ends at the waist.”
“Yeah, but of all the things she wanted to show the world, she chose a photo of herself in her underwear. Then there’s her tagline . . .”
If you can’t handle me, swipe left. He’d shown me the mechanics of Tinder earlier on the trip: swipe left meant you weren’t interested.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s . . .” I probed for the right word. “Brash.”
He blew a raspberry. “I can handle brash.”
I swiped to her second picture. “Christ on a bike!” The first photo had weakened my knees, the second rendered me full jellyfish. In it, Princess had abandoned subtlety altogether; she was topless, with just an index finger resting between glossy lips.
“What?” He asked. I turned the phone round to refresh his memory. Not that it was likely he’d forget this photo in a hurry. Or slowly. Or ever.
“Oh. Very artistic, I thought.”
I bit my tongue, nodded, and handed the phone back. Nick looked down at it as if he knew he’d done something wrong but wasn’t sure what. “So you wouldn’t have swiped right on her?”
“No,” I said. “Probably not. But maybe that’s just me. I’m not so good with, well, women in general, really.”
He turned to the kitchen window and gazed out at the pretty courtyard we shared with a dozen other flats. I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking. I wondered if I should share with him what I was thinking.
“Nick . . .” I grappled for a suitably diplomatic tone. “Do you think . . . maybe . . . Princess might be an escort?”
He rubbed at his forearm. “Yeah. I was sort of wondering that too. But I don’t know. And then there’s the whole Singapore connection.”
“Hmm. Yeah.” I nodded. “It’s a strong bond, for sure, the Singapore connection. You lived in Singapore. She lived in Singapore.”
“Exactly. I’m sure that’s why she wanted to meet so quickly.”
“No doubt.”
He squinted. “Yet . . .”
I joined the squint. “Hmm . . .”
“There’s also the age gap, the near-naked photos—”
“Artistic,” I corrected.
“Artistic, yeah.” He began looking through me instead of at me. “I feel like maybe I’ve got all the information I need.”
“You’re still going though, right?”
“Do you think I should?”
“Yeaaah. I mean, it’s easily the most interesting thing you can do tonight.”
He gazed up at the ceiling as if the answer might be painted on it. My eyes wandered to a note on the fridge door: Love, Laugh, Lighten.
He snapped me back with a loud hand clap. “Yeah. I’ll go,” he said, before striding off to his bedroom to get changed. I star-jumped back onto the couch, smiling—there was going to be a good story in this, and only Nick would have to suffer the awkwardness required to get it. All was right with the universe. All was soft with the couch.
A few minutes later he appeared wearing a tight, short-sleeved white shirt. “Get up, dickhead. You’re coming.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Get up. She’s bringing a friend for you.”
I gulped. “Nick, I’m not ready for—”
“Shut up. You’re coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“But I—”
“But I . . .” he said with a whine, and then made air quotes. “It’s easily the most interesting thing you can do tonight.”
He had me there. Or “there” was where I’d trapped us both. Either way, it didn’t seem like I could find a morally defensible way to be somewhere else. He knew this, walked across the room, grabbed me by the arm, ripped me free of the Velcro couch, pushing me out the door.
At a Cuban-themed restaurant on the edge of the Central Business District, we settled into a window seat beside a very large fake palm tree. A waiter in square-rimmed glasses arrived. “Howzit?” he asked, leaving us with two hefty menus.
I looked up from the first of a two-page section devoted to Malibu Cocktails Beginning with the Letter D. “If I were emperor of the world, I’d force all restaurants and bars to limit their menus to just five meals and three signature drinks.”
“If you were emperor of the world, I’d hope you’d have better things to do than that.”
“Look at this,” I said, fanning the pages. “It’s like an encyclopaedia of every cocktail ever mixed.”
The waiter reappeared. “Ready to order?”
“I’ve barely made it through the first dozen pages,” I said. “Can you just pick for me?”
He cocked his head but fired no words.
“What do you recommend?” I asked.
He rolled his top lip towards his nose. “Everything. It’s all good.”
“What’s your favourite cocktail then?” Nick asked.
The man cocked his head more. We were now talking at right angles. “Depends what you like.”
“I like not having to pick from more than five choices.” I pointed at random. “Key West Cooler. That good?”
“That’s good.”
Nick closed his menupedia. “Two of those then, boss.”
I took a moment to admire the room’s spectacularly unsubtle decor: classic car chassis, metal street signs, fake palm trees, and a faded Havana Club logo painted across an entire wall. Countries were complex, but country-themed restaurants? Remarkably simple. Any culture—no matter how old, complex, and multifaceted—could be pulped down to half a dozen trinkets nailed to a wall.
The drinks arrived, and it became clear the waiter had looked us both in the eyes, albeit at a weird angle, and fibbed: the Key West Cooler was not good. Nick took a sip, shuddered, and placed it back on the table as if it might explode.
“Are you excited about the date?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t detected my nerves. I felt as though someone had kicked over a hornets’ nest in the centre of my chest. Another woman being near me and not wanting to get away felt both complicated and vague, like string theory.
He stared out at the street. “I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been on a date. Like a proper date.”
“Is that what this is then?”
“I don’t know. For you and Princess, maybe? I’m just your batman.”
He pinched his nose. “Batman? Jesus Christ, Grandpa. It’s wingman.”
A white Uber had pulled up outside. That nest within me got another swift kicking.
The door’s opened and a smell as sweet as our cocktails wafted in on the breeze. At first, it tickled the hairs of our noses, then it gripped them, then yanked them. We coughed and spluttered as the air became perfumed at a scale of malice rather than enticement. Two women got out of that car. The fake flowers on the table wilted. I recognised the woman in the white strappy dress ending just short of her thighs. It would have left little to an imagination had I not already seen what was under it.
Princess. And I was sitting with her prince.
Her friend stood a head taller and wore a silver dress with tassels at its hem. I noticed the definition on her arms. She looked like she could throw a mean javelin. Nick stood up and waved them over. Two kisses on the cheek later, I’d made the acquaintance of Jackie, Princess’s friend. She had a wide, flat face, chiselled features, a strong jaw, and stunning topaz-blue eyes that pinned me back against the wall.
“She only speaks a little English,” Princess said, taking the seat next to Nick. Princess had delicate features, shiny bronze skin, and lustrous black hair tied up in a high ponytail. Her eyes were lined with slashes of silver makeup. She didn’t belong in this Cuban-cocktail museum. She should have been bathing in a waterfall, helping sell shampoo with a voice-over imploring us to “feel the forever.”
Beyond a nice conversation, I had no expectations or desires for the evening. Women were an intoxicating confusion, a pretty one-way street that led only to a dead-end of wooziness, disappointment, and the feeling I was equal parts bad boyfriend, lover, and human. Going forward, I intended to give single ones the wide berth I reserved for rabid dogs, ticking bombs, and on-fire cars. But then there were Jackie’s eyes, like lighthouse beams steering me from the rocks of celibacy.
“You like Cape Town?” I asked.
“No.”
I’ve always felt that conversations should follow the same basic rules as table tennis: one player serves a topic, and it’s bounced back and forth over a net of discourse. When a rally ends, etiquette dictates that the other person serves. This had been a very short rally. I waited for her to serve. No service was forthcoming.
“Why don’t you like it?”
She squinted, causing the room to darken noticeably. “Don’t know.”
Silence returned, although perhaps it was more accurate to say that it had never really left. Not her native language, I reasoned, and a weird situation—we were the plus ones. So I served a third time. “What do you do here?”
She looked me square in the face, forcing me to raise my oversized, oversugared cocktail as a shield. “Study English.”
Not very hard, I thought.
“And how long have you lived here?”
She leaned back and didn’t answer. The ball had dropped again. I turned to see if Nick was faring better.
“So . . . Singapore?”
“Yeeeeaah.” Princess flashed a smile deep enough to drown in.
“Did you like it there?”
She took her straw deep into the back of her mouth. “Mmmm.”
Nick gripped his glass. “Whereabouts . . . erm . . . I mean . . .” He shifted in his chair. “Did you . . . live?”
She stared up at him as she put the pieces of his question together. “Oh, you know, around.”
“I lived in Marina Bay. Did you live near there?”
Her eyes slid off to the corner of the bar. “Maybe.”
The Singapore connection was becoming more of a Singapore Separation, coincidentally also a cocktail on page eighty-nine of the menu. Nick remained dogged in his pursuit of facts.
“What’s your job then, Princess?”
“Me?” She fluttered her long eyelashes demurely. “No job. I just go where the wind blows me.” She licked her lips.
Nick choked on a mouthful of his drink. “O-kay . . .” He cleared his throat. “And . . . ah . . .” He tugged at the collar of his shirt. I’d never seen him flustered. “Where did the wind . . . err . . . blow you most recently?”
“Amsterdam.”
He slapped the table defiantly. “I used to live there too!” First the Singapore connection, now the Amsterdam alliance?! These two really were fated. “Which part did you live in?”
“Oh, you know, around.” Her English was good; her answers were not. Nick’s jaw clenched. I sensed a battle taking place between his brain and his genitals. With each vague answer, his genitals lost a skirmish.
“How long were you there for?”
She let her shoulders sag. “Six months.”
“Uh-huh. And what did you do there?”
She winked. “This and that.”
“What did you do there”—he lowered his voice—“like . . . for money?”
“Money? Oh, money is overrated.” She giggled.
Nick pinched his neck. Despite Princess’s desire not to hit this topic ball, Nick elected to keep it in play. “For example, I’m a statistician. How do you . . . ehm . . . pay the bills?”
Princess reached over and stroked his forearm. “You look way more handsome than your profile picture, Nick.”
He retreated into his seat. Undeterred, she reached up for his bicep. “Do you work out? You look like you work out.” He turned and shot me a wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of terror. Not wanting my enthusiastic voyeurism discovered, I swivelled back to Jackie and pretended I’d not been listening.
I needed a question. Any question. “Where were you born?”
Fine. That would do. We could work with that. She said a word. It sounded like Germon with a hard G.
“Germany?”
She repeated the word.
“Game on?”
She shook her head. “Game on!”
“Game on?”
I’d retired from that game. Princess leaned over the table. “Gabon! It’s in Africa.”
“Oh! Gabon! Of course. Gabon. Africa. Sorry.” Princess and Jackie traded sceptical looks. While I couldn’t have contributed meaningfully to its Lonely Planet, I had heard of Gabon. “I’ve been to Africa,” I said, puffing out my chest. Then I remembered I was sitting in it. Blood rushed to my face. Jackie took a loud sip of her cocktail, ending this rally, our longest yet. If I didn’t serve quickly, I was sure the game would be over for good.
“Do you have a favourite English word?”
She blinked. Dawn became dusk became dawn. “Favourite what?”
“Word.”
“Sorry?”
I suppressed a sigh. “W-O-R-D.” It was game on in Gabon all over again. “Word. Favourite W-O-R-D. Like tree or trifle or tremendous?”
“W-O-R-D,” said Nick, slowly.
Jackie’s head fell back in recognition. “Word!”
It had taken some effort, but we’d summited the mountain of shared understanding. We had a new topic. While it was no Singapore connection, perhaps from this bud of conversation, a flower of discussion could bloom. Jackie considered her answer carefully, probably wanting to do justice to the question and the time it had taken to understand it. She gave a slight nod and put her drink down.
This was it. I was ready. It was time.
“No.”
No more words came, favourite or otherwise. A small piece of me died—the piece that held hope, I think. I decided to see how long it would take for her to say something if I stopped talking. So, I stopped. She stopped too.
In many ways, she’d never really started.
Princess moved her chair closer to Nick’s. “You’re a very attractive man, Nick.”
He tried to scoot back in his seat but was pinned so tightly to the wall he hit his head. Princess leaned forward, pushing her breasts up in the hammock of her forearms. “There’s no way you’re forty-three.”
“I am,” he said, jumping up from the table and heading towards the toilets. Princess, Jackie, and I sat in a silence broken only by Jackie’s loud slurping. On his return, Nick found Princess had moved her chair so near to his it had become a love seat.
“I’m not really twenty-seven,” she said, as he sat down.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” She breathed on his neck.
“How old are you then?”
“Forty-three, like you.”
“Pfft. If you’re forty-one, I’m a hundred and twelve.”
Her hand disappeared under the table, and he leapt up as if he’d spotted a snake. He made a beeline for the nearest waiter while Jackie and I continued our fascinating exploration of how much can be said without words. Even though I’d never been on a date before, I had the feeling this one was going badly. Nick returned, wiped sweat from his temple, approached his seat, paused, took a step backwards, then opened his palms. “Girls, it has been a lovely evening. Really great. Magic. But we’re . . . erm . . . tired, and so we’re going to head off now. I’ve paid the bill and everything and, err, so . . . uhm . . . yeah, was lovely to meet you both.”
With that, like a bullet fired from the gun of awkwardness, he shot off towards the entrance. If looks could kill, the one Princess was giving Nick would land her on death row. She’d clearly budgeted him to be worth a lot more than a plate of chicken wings and two of the worst cocktails humanity had ever poured. I looked at Jackie but found her expression as inscrutable as ever. Its only constant: derision.
I knew I had to get out of the situation, but how? Hug? Handshake? Haiku?
I felt glued to my chair by a mixture of Jackie’s gaze and the sticky sludge of embarrassment. “Err, yeah.” I wriggled in my seat. “Hmm. Terrific.” I slid sideward out of it. “Good talk . . .” I paused. “Ing. Good talking. Err. Yes. Been great.” I stood up and leaned in to hug Jackie. She sensed it was coming and leaned back, leaving me no option but to pretend I’d merely been stretching. I straightened, rubbing the small of my back, as if I’d finally dislodged an annoying kink, then smiled at them both with my mouth but not my eyes. “Have a great evening,” I said, breezily. Then I waved.
I waved.
Why did I wave? What was I thinking? Was I thinking? How does one think? How could one think better?
On the interminable walk back outside, I decided that if they made idiots bigger than me, I’d never met one. I found Nick leaning against a lamppost, bent over as if winded, that vein throbbing in his neck—his stress tell.
“You alright?” I asked.
“I need a minute.”
“Gabon, I mean, come on, Nick. It wasn’t that bad.” By the end of bad I was laughing so hard I had to lean on his shoulder for support. He kept his eyes on the pavement. “I’m not there yet.”
I was the mayor of there and soon was wiping away tears, which irritated Nick so much that he grabbed my arm and pulled me up the hill towards home. His steps were fast and heavy. “That was an ambush.”
“Dude, you had all the information.”
He grimaced. “I had all the information.”
“I guess she proved a little too brash even for you, huh, Singapore Sam?”
He stopped, our eyes met, and his tetchy facade collapsed. We tumbled shoulder to shoulder, laughing, into a Belgian beer bar. “Did you ever work out if she was an escort?” I asked, as we took seats at the bar.
“No. I mean, she must have been, right?”
I gave a small nod.
“I have no problem with that. I’m sure she’s got her reasons. I just don’t know why she wasn’t honest about it. What about Jackie?”
“I don’t think so. Unless her specialism is seduction by indifference.”
“Yeah, very much the strong, silent type.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think we were starting to click.”
We laughed so much our waiter came over to ask if we were okay.
“Do you regret doing that?” I asked.
Nick’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. Completely. One hundred percent. It was awful.” A young couple passed, holding hands. He took a gulp of his beer. “Ask me again tomorrow . . .”
If you enjoyed this, you'll probably enjoy my other posts at - http://soyoudonthaveto.co.uk
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2020.03.15 18:46 SpidersAllOva Bra no voyeur

This is going to be long, so strap yourself in, thank you for reading ahead of time. This is my marriage, so I want to be as detailed as possible.
My husband makes my heart sing.
That is what makes this so hard.
We have been together for 7 1/2 years married for near 5 years. I won’t lie, we met online during a very bad period of my life. I had been in a car accident and bed ridden. I joined a skype group, which is how I met his best friend. His best friend then introduced me to him. He lived in one of the Baltic states (Estonia, Belarus, etc.), remember this as it becomes relevant later.
At first, we were just friends, but as I have dated people online before that were in different countries, and it wasn’t like I had a lot going on in my life, we started dating with intent to meet. It became intense quickly. I won’t go into all the details as I don’t see it super relevant to the current issue at hand, but we would skype every day, pretty much all day. Sleep together on Skype, I’d call him when I’d go to the grocery store, I worked nights alone, so I even would call him at work. We were as inseparable as you can be when you are on the other side of the world from each other.
After a year and eight months we met up in Canada and got married. Then a couple of months later we met up in his home country. While I was there, we decided to meet up with his best friend’s girlfriend, who we will call Rachel. She lived in a neighboring country.
To give you a better idea of what I have medically gone through, let’s just say my spine is messed up as well as my nervous system. A lot of people who had what I had, would go on disability and stay home. I knew that unless I got a job (which I did, the night job) I would never be able to get my partner (we will call him) Dave to America. So, I pushed REALLY hard. Flying to his country alone, was still one of the most difficult things I had ever done with how much horrific burning pain I was in.
So naturally while I am there, I have issues. While I am having issues, like needing to stay inside or vomiting from pain/medication, Dave and Rachel start hitting it off. They walk in front of me leaving me behind (I wasn’t as fast due to my issues), I had brought with me romantic candles for sex, Dave lit them while playing cards with Rachel, they went off on their own a couple of times (with my blessing), but they were starting to get too friendly. Once Rachel left, I asked Dave if he had a crush on her. This was, for all purposes, the first time I had seen him after we got married, my point of view was “what the hell?”. I asked if they had been texting, he said no. I asked to see his phone, he was a little guarded about it, but I saw and they had been texting, thus he lied. I realized for sure he liked her. The issue was he would not admit it. He swore to me that he didn’t know why he lied, he was just worried I would get upset but that he and her had just connected over some obscure European thing from his childhood. I told him I wouldn’t be mad, but I needed to know so we could take next steps. He started crying worried I would leave him. I asked him to swear he didn’t have a crush, he said he didn’t and that he swore.
A couple months ago from today (maybe 9?), I can’t remember exactly how it came up, but I told a joke and he said yes, he did have a crush at Rachel at that time. Well, obviously things got serious quick after he said that. We talked about why he had lied (as well as in therapy) and he said that “at that time I didn’t realize I had a crush on her, but in retrospect I realize it now”. He and I went through a lot in therapy, including asking him to write a letter of apology. We put that issue to bed.
In fall of this year, we reached a climatic point in our relationship. While Dave had a job and went to work every day, while at home he would not very much. I would ask him, we would talk, I’d ask how I could help, and he would talk the talk but not walk the walk. It was becoming very draining for me. I was in a lot of pain and there is only so much I can do with my disability. The fact that the disabled person in our household, who works more than him has to run everything was beyond me. We had made a deal in the past that he would be the main homemaker. We had argument after argument. We were in couples therapy, and both in individual therapy as the main reason he was struggling was due to depression (technically he has always been depressed). I reached a point where I told him we were going to have to separate if things didn’t improve. We were having issues with sex (frequency and pleasure on my end), him doing his share (or even just 20%), romance (non-existent in my opinion), and him not helping me when I am in pain and can’t do anything. Once I seriously started talking about separating, he jumped into action. I mean, real concrete action. Things turned 180.
From end of November onwards to now things have been SO good, I mean better than ever. Our communication has gone up, he has done his share and then some (on some days), he has tried really, REALLY, hard. I have never been so in love with him. I got sick recently and had to go to the hospital (stomach flu, dehydration, couldn’t stop vomiting) and he just took such good care of me, I can’t even explain.
Before I get to the issue at hand (I know, I know) I want to explain something about him. He comes from a Baltic state as I mentioned. Life there is very hard, and gray (in every sense of the word). His parents neglected him as a child. If they were not neglecting him they were not being nice to him. He was punched in the face as a toddler. He thinks he was also sexually abused on two occasions, not by his parents, but this is relevant. When I met him, he wouldn’t go outside of his home and was living with his mom. His mom wouldn’t speak to him at all. She would come in and vacuum when he was sleeping, she got the cat things for her birthday, but for Dave’s birthday she got him nothing. He has not had a good life. He is incredibly smart, he has learned a lot of things on his own, but socially he is stunted as he has not really had friends besides online. His last years of high school he did remote schooling. I am not saying any of this is an excuse but providing this information for context.
Now to today. Last Friday, I went on his phone. We have an open phone policy within our marriage. I was trying to find a clue for what to get him for his birthday but had this sinking feeling that I sometimes get that he was hiding something (but in general I am more anxious as a person). What I found has shocked me beyond. He had a special ap where he was messaging men. Exchanging dick pictures, talking about sex (rape/ fucking animals), and most gut wrenchingly exchanging photos of me (hotwife stuff). It looked like he met these people on reddit. I ran to the bathroom, as this was late at night, took some photos of it as I was worried, he would delete it, but he woke up and asked to come in the bathroom. He was looking for his phone and couldn’t find it, as I had it. When I left the bathroom and gave him his phone back, I had forgot to fully exit the ap, so he opened his phone, saw it was running and freaked out.
We spent almost all night talking. He says that he does this because it is a way to hurt himself. That he gets a high from the conversation, especially sharing lewd photos of me (never my face), and he gets a low after and feels disgusting about himself. He said he only does it when he has nothing to do and is really low. He says he usually does it once a week during a “bad” time and during a good time maybe once/twice a month. He has been doing this since before we were together and throughout the duration of the entire relationship.
He says that he puts on a “persona” where he just tries to be as disgusting and despicable as possible. That this is a voyeur thing, about seeing things that he is not supposed to see. He said that he has masturbated before to photos of couples having sex that he has received. He said he is not gay.
He also has a Reddit account. In the messages he pretends to me and goes through scenarios with people. He uses my real bra size, age, and describes my real looks. I don’t understand if it is a voyeur thing what he is getting from the scenarios. He also messaged two women on Gonewild (very hurtful as I specifically told him I consider this cheating in the past), and said things like “your body is perfect”, he has never said anything like that to me and struggles with compliments.
He also has an imgur account filled with photos of women. He also has photos of women saved on his phone. He uses them to catfish men.
To me, he has to be a bit Bi? (not trying to label anything) to be into asking for cock photos?
Oh and also, I looked at his recent subreddit history (all of this we did together) and he has subreddit after subreddit of gay stuff. Cocks, Penis, Gaybrosgonewild, something Joesbros? (about meeting up with men), dirtyr4r, all sorts. Then there is women ones as well holdthemoan, hairypussy, gonewild, curvy.
We had couples therapy on Thursday. Our therapist was just as shocked. We came up with ideas of what can be done, but to be honest, my husband has already burst into action on everything.
I asked him to not delete anything, although after I found Wickr that first night, he instantly deleted it when I walked out of the bathroom, which obviously, doesn’t help my trust at this point. Other than that, he has not deleted anything as per my request. However, he has turned off NSFW stuff on his reddit, is looking to download like a “nanny” ap, where I can track anything, agreed to not look at porn (as in my mind this is kind of sex addiction, if he wasn’t using it to hurt himself, I don’t think I would mind as much? I don’t know), wrote up an entire list of everywhere he has been since he got to America in Sept 2017, from Google analytics.
I mean he said he will do anything, but I am just not sure what he can do.
I brought up the Rachel situation as I had asked him after that happened if there is anything else, he is lying about to tell me then. I have a serious issue with dishonesty. I think an entire marriage is built on trust. I believe in radical honesty. I think if he had told me about this instead of me finding it, everything would be different. Just to briefly mention, he also was shady in the past about texting an ex, although none of their conversation was sexual. I think he just hides things he thinks I might get upset about. But I am not someone that goes super Saiyan in any way?
I try so HARD to be a good wife, I suck his dick anytime he wants, I am always down for sex, I pay all of our bills, I cook most of our meals, I am the breadwinner, I brought him to the US, I paid his parking ticket and wrote his parking ticket appeal, when something goes wrong I handle it. The only thing bad about me is that I am bigger (I am working on losing weight), I have pain, which has gone down recently. I don’t know! I just have worked so hard for us and our marriage. I have sacrificed so much. I just don’t get how he couldn’t tell me this, but then again, I do? It is incredibly shameful. I held him and told him I don’t think any less of him. I don’t hate him.
But the last week or so, I feel like it is all about how bad he feels for me finding out. I have been taking care of him. He has been getting cluster headaches from the stress. He punched himself in the face when we were first talking about it because he hates himself so much. I feel like he is being real, but it is also super manipulative.
On Friday, I went back to our therapist and had a solo session. He also agreed that he thinks Dave is lying as he said that he asked him point blank if he had done anything like this and he said no. I asked Dave why can’t he be honest to the therapist, he said that if he hasn’t told me he won’t tell the therapist as he trusts me and is closer to me than anyone else.
Dave said he kept this from me because he wanted to tell me once he stopped, once he had a plan.
I just don’t know. I feel like I am in this limbo. My therapist thinks we should separate, especially because, we are co-dependent big time. But I don’t want to?
I feel like I am losing my grip on what is right for me or what is emotional me? I want to be with Dave and want to push this away. I can’t tell if I am taking it too seriously or not enough? I left this weekend to be with my closest friends. We talked about it all weekend. One thinks I should separate, and the other two think I should wait and see what makes sense, take it day by day.
I mean Dave cheated. But if he had told me he was doing this, I think I wouldn’t have cared so much? Like what bothers me is the lying, the secrets, the doing this behind my back. I am unsure if I can trust him again. Especially because he denies he is bi-curious, which I just think is a repeat of the Rachel situation, where I know something is true in my gut, and he won’t admit it. But perhaps he isn’t there yet in himself?
I am also obviously upset about the photos of me, especially because I used to feel so bad about myself, I used to get naked for people online. That was a compulsion of my own that I stopped. To know that he did that, knowing that, makes me upset. But he didn’t show my face? And he was doing it to show me off, which also feels nice? Like in general, if he said that was a fetish, I don’t know how much I would mind, and kind of like it? But I am also in the process of building a serious career for myself that I have worked incredibly hard for and the idea that I could lose my job?!
I don’t know where to go from here. He is my husband. I want to work through things. But is that what is best for me? I cannot describe how much I love him. My sun sets with this man. He is the reason I do everything.
For both him and I, we went through phases of hurting ourselves and wanting to kill ourselves. We pushed through to be together and now that we are older have left that behind.
I also don’t know if “nanny” software makes sense. I mean he was using as encrypted as it goes for this stuff. He told me he even used tor browser. I don’t think I could follow his string if he tried.
Then, I think perhaps a part of him wanted me to find it?
I am just SO lost. I am going home to him today, but don’t know if we should separate. I am planning on getting a new couple’s therapist for us as well as for myself. I am planning on going to a cheater’s survivors girl group for support. We are also talking about doing something called hopeandfreedom that our therapist recommended, a three-day intensive where everything is divulged.
I just, I can’t tell how bad this is, I can’t tell if I am doing myself a disservice, I don’t know how to re-build trust or if I can trust him. All I know is that he is the love of my life and I don’t want to give up. But is that because I feel like my entire life is him and that everything will fall apart without him?
Help me reddit.

EDIT: Started dating him at 18 (he had recently turned) and I was 21, not 16 years old! My Apologies.
submitted by SpidersAllOva to relationship_advice [link] [comments]


2020.01.29 02:30 Nathan_Wolf Voyeur no bra

I've been a writer and community journalist for forty years. I've always wanted to write a book, but never had the courage to try.
All that has changed. After three years of climbing over writer's blocks and other obstacles I've finally finished my first work of fiction, a full length novel (103,800 words).
As always, I'm looking for feedback from experienced authors and folks who love to read. It is my responsibility as an author to write a story worth reading by using words worth remembering.
SAMPLE CLIP - FIRST 1,500 WORDS Life is good except for the parts which suck, and being homeless sucks almost as much as being old.
In the cold light of autumn dawn, under the uncaring eyes of the Sheriff's eviction team, I shoved the last cardboard box of my belongings into the trunk, and slammed the hatch closed.
Resisting the temptation to render a one-finger salute, I kept my opinion in my pocket and jumped into the Toyota RAV4's passenger seat and shivered. Darlene flipped several strands of flyaway hair out of her eyes for the umpteenth time. She squinted to read the tiny letters with directions to our new home: some godforsaken prepper hideaway in the western mountains. Mapmakers tend to hide the most critical information in the smallest print known to man.
She was like that--a stickler for details.
Finally finished, she smiled. "Let's go!"
She adjusted the mirror and shifted her vehicle into gear. We were on our way to start a new life off the grid.
Her soft and innocent musical voice accented her thoughts with honey and desire. To me, her voice tasted like exotic ear-candy.
She was more than she seemed and used a different song for every mood and season. When angry, sarcastic sandpaper replaced honey as words sandblasted lies and bullshit away from facts until only the unvarnished truth remained.
We met at a nearby saloon where we developed an unlikely May-December romance. Darlene played the part of May at a youthful thirty-six. I fulfilled the role of Daddy December at the Grandfatherly age of sixty-mumble.
Through the process of elimination, we become drinking buddies at our neighborhood tavern. I'm not sure "buddies" is the correct word. More often than not, we happened to be the last people still standing when the bartender bellowed out, "Last call for alcohol!"
Initially, geography was our common bond. The tavern, built in the 1890s, featured a walnut and mahogany bar with an odd little 'L' shaped hook at the far corner of the saloon. The counter and a back wall of brick formed a naturally cozy alcove spacious enough to accommodate three stools.
According to local legend, the original owner ordered the hook's construction to allow him to follow the activities of untrustworthy bartenders while also keeping an eye on equally unreliable patrons. The voyeur and hermit in me loved the obscure hideaway, and I had the place all to myself for several months until the day Darlene arrived. She also fell in love with the strategic lookout post.
At first, I was annoyed by her invasion of my secret space. After a while, I looked forward to her companionship. Like commuters sharing an across-town bus, we got used to each other's presence on the installment plan. Familiarity grew comfortable, and silence gave way to conversation as we observed the ebb and flow of tavern life.
It all started with casual flirting. She flirted. I was casual.
Hell, she flirted with everyone: men, women, and even the bartender's mangy tomcat. While I enjoyed the sometimes risqué banter, I never considered Darlene as potential girlfriend material. She was a young vixen, and I was an old wolf. I entertained myself by sneaking a peek down her v-neck or up her skirt when I thought she wouldn't notice.
One Friday evening, the stars governing our relationship aligned like the bars on a slot machine. Heads turned as Darlene strutted into the tavern: a blur of legs, cleavage, and the predatory smile of a fox. Her apparel left little to the imagination. Her mini-dress might have been a belt in a previous life, and her tissue-thin unbuttoned blouse was open down to her navel. She wore no bra.
"Interesting outfit you're almost wearing."
She hopped up on the adjacent barstool, and I did a double-take.
"Panties optional dress code?" I nodded my head and filed the image in my long-term memory vault.
"Like it? I'm getting laid tonight. One of these stud-muffins will be going home with me," she chuckled with a little shiver and scanned the tavern for targets of opportunity.
I grimaced; my envious glance flavored a bit oddly by jealousy. What a curious blend of emotions for a virtual stranger? I did an inventory of my own.
The tavern was a working man's watering hole. Most of the guys looked like drop-outs from Blubber Buddies or some such weight-watching group. Too many six-packs left many on the greasy side of flabby. Over the last few years, I had gone from two-hundred-seventy-six to a slimmer one-sixty-seven. I had earned the right to gloat.
Wives or girlfriends escorted most of the men. Boyfriends with rainbow rings accompanied several others. Darlene's field of viable partners appeared limited unless she lowered her standards or went in for a threesome.
I pitied the lucky guy who won Darlene's attention. She possessed the uncanny ability to read people like a book and play 'em like a deck of cards.
"Compliments of the house."
Our ogling barkeep placed a beautifully mixed and handcrafted White Russian in front of my lady friend, and did a visual inventory of his own.
She nodded and took a small sip, savoring the drink like a gourmet. "Splendid!"
Tilting her head back, Darlene wolfed it down in one long gulp. Yikes! Talk about thirsty.
:Ahhh!" She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, smiled and bounced down from her seat. Like Alexander the Great, set out to conquer the known world.
I had to admire her style. Radiating sexual availability like a neon sign in the night, she was the Alpha-Fox loose in the hen house, The lass was in a class by herself, and that was a problem. She sparkled like diamonds in a coal bin and scared the daylight out of the men she approached.
If anything, she was too beautiful and too self-assured. With titters, giggles, and seductive glances, she worked her way around the tavern. The males she flirted with were flattered, flustered, and fearful of her aggressive attention. No man dared to take the bait.
After ten minutes of flagrantly flirting, Darlene returned to her seat to regroup and refuel. Our bartender presented her with another complimentary White Russian as his sacrifice to the gods of Wishful Thinking.
"Thank you so much! You are such a sweetheart. Can I have another one to keep this one company?"
Darlene touched his hand, and if her smile had been any warmer, the barkeep would have sparked into flame. A few moments later, our generous drink master reappeared with a trio of tall White Russians.
"One is for you, and the other two are honor guards for the poor dead soldiers." He pointed to the two empty glasses.
"I love this drink."
She inhaled the beverage and sloshed it down in one long gulp. I widened my eyes in puzzlement. How can anyone love a drink without taking the time to savor the subtle by-play of flavors?
Thirst quenched for the moment, Darlene resumed her quest for the night's bed partner. Her second expedition of seduction ended in bewildered disappointment.
"What the hell? I usually have to beat guys off with a stick." Shaking her head in disgust, she demolished another White Russian.
"Maybe you should offer to beat them off with a stick, you know, Fifty Shades of Kinky?"
Darlene's head turned, her eyes narrowed, and her lips thinned to white. She was not amused. "Why? Do you want to get beat off with a stick?" she smiled coyly before dispatching the last White Russian.
"Hell no! I hate splinters," I said.
"He shoots. He scores!" Darlene laughed. She raised her finger and traced a point on the invisible blackboard in the air. "Nice one."
I shrugged my shoulders. The rising heat of a blush warmed my body, and I squirmed in my seat under her gaze. While she studied me, her dark frown of frustration gradually brightened, and her emerald eyes glistened. Her grim expression transformed into the predatory smile of a fox once more.
"I'm as horny as hell," she lowered her voice, "Wanna screw?"
She leaned into me and brushed her nose against mine. I inhaled a cloud of warm vodka breath flavored with the sinful and delicious scent of winter pleasure. Her lips parted into a grin and her little pink tongue licked the outline of milk from her mouth. She rested her forehead against mine and moved her hand to my knee. Slowly she slid her fingers along the inside of my leg. I answered by placing my hand on her thigh and mirrored her journey of exploration.
"Your place or mine?" I whispered.
It was as cliché as shit, but I couldn't help myself. What could I say? She had made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Thus began our strange love affair.
END SAMPLE CLIP Liberty Mountain: No Man's Land https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N64MABX
submitted by Nathan_Wolf to WritersGroup [link] [comments]


2019.12.26 02:22 rhonnie14 Voyeur bra no

Everyone knows about The Deep Web murders. LiveKills. Shannon. We’ve all read the Creepypastas. The horror stories. I believed them then. And now I know they’re real.
At the time, I figured the Deep Web sickness had spread into most dating apps. Bumble, Tinder. But that still didn’t stop me. No, Melissa Ramsey was stubborn… And honestly, I was too horny to care.
I wasn’t pretty. Not in a conventional way. At nineteen, I was a skinny black girl. Big brown eyes hidden behind big glasses. My short straight hair and weird fashion sense did more to showcase a fivehead and scrawny body than my nicer qualities. With a bony ass and small tits, I had nothing to attract boys. Even being a freshman at a nice college like Georgia Southwwestern didn’t mean anything when I lived with the folks instead of on campus. They had a nice house out in the country, sure… but there wasn’t a single hot guy anywhere near us.
So yeah, I was quiet. I had no friends. Way too awkward to strike up a conversation in person… much less with any sexy guys. So I did what any girl or guy in that spot would do: I hit up the apps.
The only problem was Tinder, MeetMe, and Bumble were all strikeouts... and that was with me swiping right on every guy. Even my attempts at posting sexy pics on Gonewild got zero upvotes. I don’t know… Maybe I just didn’t have the face or body the boys wanted. At least not for the studs I wanted.
Of course, the only interest I got were from weirdos and unattractive dudes. Okay, maybe they were in my league but still… why couldn’t one of the hotties like me? Shit, I’d settle for a one night stand or SnapChat sext-a-thon at this point. I wouldn’t even mind the dick and ass pics if it was a fineass guy sending them. After all, Ladybonersgw could only get me so far...
But then came my brutal epiphany. And the truth hurts, let me tell you: the problem was me. Melissa. Not the sexy guys. I was the ugly one. The loser. The female creep.
So I decided to overhaul my image. Like a makeover you see in the movies.
No, I didn’t wear more make-up. I didn’t ditch the glasses. Didn’t stylize my hair or hit the gym. Instead, I made a fake Bumble profile.
I chose the name Tara Heisler. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed Instagram model became my new image. She had tan skin, big boobs. Tall. One of those Southern Belle coed types I’d spent over a decade being harassed by… and over a decade competing with. And now she was me. The perfect Catfish in this thirsty ocean.
The boys didn’t have a chance. I was slaying right and left. No longer did I have to settle for male versions of me. Gone were the awkward, weird types... In came the hotties.
Maybe my theater experience helped me with the texting and chat performances. Or maybe it was just the natural benefit of being a conventional beauty. Then again, that model’s plethora of sexy Instagram photos also helped me win some action.
I could make those hunks do anything. White guys, black guys, jocks, hot nerds, it didn’t matter. They bowed down to my pussy power. And the fucking pics and vids they’d send… Girllllll
My secret porn library grew bigger and better. There were the big dicks, the bubble butts, the gym shots, even guy-on-guy videos. Whatever “Tara” asked for, those boys sent. And they didn’t hesitate when doing it for me. Not when I was on that SnapChat stage playing their dream girl.
Okay so maybe I wasn’t gonna meet my future husband doing this. Not even my future friend with benefit or first serious boyfriend. But still this was a fun way to satisfy my own desperate thirst.
For once, I felt hot. Powerful. A social media queen. And playing the sexy THOT only allowed me to slip deeper into my own desires. These hotties responded to all my fantasies. Pegging, Devil’s Threesomes, watching two cuties fuck each other… All the sexy stuff Melissa was too scared to ask. And all the sexy stuff these prettyboys would never do for a girl like me. Only under the spell of an All-American hottie.
The tantalizing fun lasted through the first few days of winter break. The hot nudes and talks an amazing early Christmas present.
I stayed cautious, of course. Those Creepypastas still lingered in the back of my mind… when I wasn’t overcome with excitement, that is. The inner heat I felt warmed me from both the cold and unease. My anticipation only increased with each new fineass match and steamy pic.
This Tuesday night was more of the same. A few minutes past nine-thirty, and I was still holed up in my room. Sitting at my computer desk. Surrounded by Nicki Minaj and Tarantino posters. Not working on any scripts or monologues like I told mom…
My phone was blowing up with sizzling Snaps. I’d managed to talk a baseball player into doing both twerking and jerking videos…
Grinning, I lowered the phone and slid my hand down toward my pajama pants. Underneath the green fabric… I was bracing for the show. All thanks to Tara.
The bedroom door burst open. In a frenzy, I yanked my hand out and exited SnapChat. My dream delayed.
Mom leaned in the doorway. The sloppy pajamas covered her chubby frame. Straight hair dangled down her back. Mom’s small eyes stuck on me. “You okay, sweetie?” she said in a soft tone.
Like a panicking crook, I struggled to suppress the nerves. Breathing heavy, I checked my phone once more. Glad no big dick or baseball butt was grabbing mom’s nosy gaze.
“Uh, yeah,” I stammered. Folding my arms in the cold room, I faced her. “I’ll come down in a minute.”
Mom flashed me a warm smile. “Okay, we’re about to watch the movie.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said. “I just wanted to finish the strip, I mean script.” Cringing, my grip grew tighter on the phone. To my real entertainment.
Mama chucked. “Okay, we’ll be downstairs.” With that, she leaned back and shut the door.
Now I was back to my fantasy. Back to the boys.
A vibration further fueled my excitement.
I turned my hungry eyes toward the phone. Toward the new Bumble alert: You got a new match
Grinning, I veered straight to the app. And what a match it was…
Michael Barnes. 24 and in great shape. Well over six feet tall. A physique as flawless as his baby blues. His straight brown hair complemented a smooth, slender face. The type of hunk destined for Wall Street success or modeling agencies.
“Hello…” I said to myself. Immediately, I made the first move: Sup sexy
Thankfully, the wait wasn’t long. In seconds, Michael’s reply appeared: Hey cutie. Snap?
My exhilaration only increased. Score another one for Team Tara.
Our flirting continued on SnapChat for another ten minutes. He sent me a few face pics, a sexy gym shot. I responded with the best of Tara’s Instagram. Needless to say, I pushed Michael for more… like a repressed housewife eager for a peek at their neighborhood’s new hottie.
I was glad I wasn’t scaring him off. Michael was rather playful. His arsenal of emojis and sarcasm kept me entertained.
WHAT ARE U WEARING TARA? he typed out in all caps. Followed by a kissing emoji.
Wanting to escalate the sexting session, I deliberated. Then replied: Getting late so… you know, just a bra and thong ;)
I waited and waited for a response. In simultaneous dread and anticipation. Michael had seen my reply. In a painful taunt, his Goddamn Bitmoji kept popping up from time to time. But there wasn’t a word. Not even a is typing tease.
“What the fuck,” I muttered. “Come on, bitch.”
A few more minutes went by. Agonizing anxiety dominated me. The anguish hurt. Unlike me, Tara never lost a man. And she couldn’t lose this one… Not when Michael had enraptured my female gaze.
Bumble gave me another alert. Another new match. I guess there were more fish in this sleazy sea… But still. I couldn’t shake Michael. Right when things were about to get hot and heavy, he just dipped. Sure, Melissa was used to being ghosted by the hotter guys. But not Tara.
Determined, I sent another message: I’m dressed to kill, boo
Trembling, I took a deep breath. Felt even colder in the room.
And then Michael’s pending reply got me hot all over again. The internal excitement came roaring back.
Until I saw his message. A chilling unease extinguished my fire.
HAVE U EVER KILLED BEFORE TARA?? Michael asked. Again, his message was in all caps. The eerie question accentuated by a winking emoji.
I was too scared to talk. Too scared to even text.
Michael’s once-adorable Bitmoji flashed a sinister smile. The image now possessing the aura of a killer doll. Uncanny Valley in overdrive.
And then he started typing…
I stole a glance at the door. Not sure what to do. My aroused feelings replaced by fear.
Michael’s next message arrived: BECAUSE I HAVE
A hash vibration accompanied the next text: REMEMBER THAT STORY ABOUT PATRICK
He sent me a link. A Creepypasta. I Just Saw A Girl I Matched With On Tinder Get Killed.
Trapped in the chilling conversation, I struggled to turn away. I couldn’t.
Michael’s new message appeared: THAT WAS ME
His Bitmoji’s grin only grew wider. More deranged. The big blue eyes like daggers to my soul.
THAT WAS ME MELISSA read his next text.
A hollow horror spread across me. Numbness. The aftereffects of a most unsettling shock.
I didn’t even flinch when Michael sent another message: MELISSA RAMSEY
AMERICUS, GEORGIA
Shivering, I struggled to hold the phone. Tears fell down my face.
In quick succession, the final text arrived: 14 PRICE STREET
Michael’s Bitmoji vanished off my screen. Off into the night. And deep in my sickened gut, I knew right where he was going…
I leapt out of my seat and bolted for the door. In total panic. My night of pleasure turned to a night of horror. No longer was I confident Tara… I was back to helpless Melissa. The timid geek.
Clinging to my phone, I ripped open the door and rushed into the upstairs hallway. The lights were out. Every single one. And somehow, the house was colder…
Scanning the scene, I looked all around me. The other bedroom door was closed. A nearby shelf a towering shadow, the hanging picture frames nothing more than blank canvases in the dark. Downstairs, it was pitch black. I saw nothing. Heard nothing. The dim lamps from my room the only light close by...
“Mama!” I yelled.
I stood there in the freezing silence. Waiting for a soothing voice that never came.
The phone pulsated in my hand. Startled, I confronted SnapChat.
Michael had sent me another link. To a domain and extension I never heard of… but a site that sent chills down my spine. LiveKills.
Uneasy, I stared at the link.
Another message from Michael appeared: ENJOY TARA
I forced myself to mash it.
The video swallowed up my screen. The footage precise and pristine. And in a setting I was all too familiar with… our living room.
I’d caught the middle of a bloodbath. Redness was scattered everywhere, all across our exotic rugs. Over the large flatscreen
My father’s corpse was sprawled across the couch. Deep cuts in his head and throat. His face partially flayed. Mom’s screams a brutal soundtrack to the massacre.
The camera captured mama staggering into a corner. Blood soaked through her pajamas. Weeping, she held her hands out. Out toward a masked man I was certain was Michael… or at least the man I’d been talking to for the last half hour...
The killer stood tall. He wore dark clothes and an even darker ski mask. His long butcher knife coated in blood. The blade marking my mother for a most horrible death.
“No!” I yelled through the tears.
Then I saw it. Beneath the murders, comments piled up. On screen were users of all genders and races and ages. An excited audience. O hes got her now!! Kill dat bitch! I love this guy SO FUCKIN SICK!1 read their messages.
The comments kept piling in. Small boxes showed viewers watching on Skype. Their eyes and expressions hungry for blood.
Overcome by panic, I exited the video. Looked toward the stairs. “Mom!” I screamed out.
The eerie silence lingered. The sound of death.
Fighting through the emotions and terror, I called mom’s phone. A desperate attempt to reach her. To save her.
A buzz sliced through the silence. Behind me, a beam of light caught my eye.
I whirled around. A horrified scream escaped my lips.
Through my bedroom’s lights, I saw mama’s severed head a few feet away. The head positioned like a work of art on the shelf. Blood poured out the neck in a red river. Her long hair smeared across her face’s many slices. The glowing cell phone jammed straight in her shrieking mouth like a candle in a jack o’lantern.
Mom’s scared eyes stayed on me. Unblinking, haunting eyes.
“No!” I screamed. Breaking down in tears, I trembled in the hallway. My knees went wobbly, my arms quivering. I was a scared soldier come face-to-face with Death. All those Dark Web Creepypastas a reality in my own home.
My phone pulsated to life, drawing me back to SnapChat. Back to my parents’ killer.
A new Snap from Michael greeted me.
Even this frightened, I didn’t hesitate to play it. After all, I had nowhere to run. I couldn’t just block this creep… I had to confront him.
A pic of Michael stared back at me. Him in the ski mask. Standing on our staircase. His blue eyes shined through the darkness… Much like his sharp knife.
Blood red font spelled out his final message: UR NEXT TARA The crazy smiling emoji a ferocious finish to this terrifying threat.
The other bedroom door slammed open. And there came my stud charging at me.
Moving quick, Michael raised the butcher knife. Blood dripped off its edge. A huge laptop clasped in Michael’s other gloved hand. Its camera ready to capture my close-up.
“Aw, fuck!” I yelled.
I jumped back in my room. Images of my slaughtered parents flashed through my mind. Dad’s filleted face. Mom’s severed head. The visceral fear forever resting in her dead eyes...
In the frigid hallway, I gripped my cell phone tighter. Anger boiled up inside.
Michael drew the knife back. Ready for the kill.
A fury conquered me. Call it fight or flight. Girl power. Whatever the fuck you want… All I know was I was still scared and in tears when I hurled that phone at the son-of-a-bitch.
The fastball smashed him right in the face.
Crying out, Michael fell into the shelf before hitting the ground. He dropped the blade. The laptop.
Creaking through the night, the shelf toppled over, pinning him to the ground. Mom’s head laid right beside Michael. Her gaze stuck taunting his squirming body. His arms flailed about, splashing through the blood.
I then made my move. Grabbed the butcher knife and confronted the killer.
Michael held up his hands. A futile effort to stop this bitch.
My rage won. With a rebel yell, I plunged the blade into his throat.
Blood splurted over me like war paint. I pushed my hair to the side. Behind bitter eyes, I watched Michael’s arms collapse. Watched blood build up beneath him. Watched his body go still.
Lodged in his neck, the knife was my victory flag. Michael my latest “conquest.”
The adrenaline kept me warm on this winter night. Not to mention helped console me from the tragedy...
Curious, I reached toward the ski mask.
In a quick tug, I yanked it off. And there was the dream guy from Bumble: Michael Barnes. His blue eyes now faded with death. His face less handsome, his body less muscular under the gore.
All the while, the laptop’s frenetic comments kept going. An assembly line of voyeurs.
I confronted their many disappointed faces. The crowd bloodblocked.
“Fuck you!” I screamed. Several vicious stomps smashed the screen into smithereens. Death to LiveKills... at least for tonight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure appear. Creeping in from the dark depths of the other bedroom. A tall figure in dark leggings and a flowing cape. A woman. Her entrance like that of a rock star taking the stage.
The fear coming back, I faced her. Faced the mannequin mask. Its long, mocking smile. The big eyes beneath it. The big boobs beneath the black clothes. And the even bigger knife in her hand…
There was Shannon. The stuff of Creepypasta lore. Right here in the flesh.
Showing off brute strength, Shannon pushed me to the ground. She glided over me. Her movements effortless.
Shannon put the knife to my throat. A headlock I wouldn’t dare try to escape.
In a theatrical motion, Shannon held out her phone. A message already prepared for me was on display. The letters big and crude.
Do what you’re told and you’ll live, bitch The winking emoji next to it did little to comfort me…
So here I am now. In a house I’ve never been to and in a room without a window. I’m trapped. No longer Melissa Ramsey but Tara Heisler. I guess my wish did come true… I’m the bombshell. A bombshell crafted by Shannon and all the others involved at LiveKills.
The process wasn’t easy. This wasn’t botox or a smooth surgery. Instead, my skin was bleached in the cheapest way possible. Similar to the dye they use to keep my hair bleached blonde. Blue contacts now disguise my eyes. Crude surgeries gave me the lousiest silicone for the big boobs.
Now I sit alone in this room. A poor man’s version of that Instagram model I based my Catfish persona on. The laptop and cell phone my only items. The thousands of horny girls and boys my only company… people not unlike me in the days before I met Shannon.
Looking back, I can’t help but wonder if Michael was really the killer or a victim. If he was someone like me. Someone they dolled up for the kills. Someone they forced into this twisted game.
I’ve been told my turn is tonight. My first livestream murder. Shannon is joining me to make sure I go through with it. Both of us armed with those huge knives. I’m not really sure what else to say. What else to do. All I can tell you girls and guys is don’t get too thirsty. Please don’t be Melissa. And if you end up matching with a Tara Heisler, a Southern blonde charmer… be careful. Because it’s either gonna be you or me who makes it through the night.
14
submitted by rhonnie14 to nosleep [link] [comments]


2019.12.20 22:08 rhonnie14 Voyeur bra no

Everyone knows about The Deep Web murders. LiveKills. Shannon. We’ve all read the Creepypastas and NoSleeps. rhonnie14’s stories. I believed them then. And now I know they’re real.
At the time, I figured the Deep Web sickness had spread into most dating apps. Bumble, Tinder. But that still didn’t stop me. No, Melissa Ramsey was stubborn… And honestly, I was too horny to care.
I wasn’t pretty. Not in a conventional way. At nineteen, I was a skinny black girl. Big brown eyes hidden behind big glasses. My short straight hair and weird fashion sense did more to showcase a fivehead and scrawny body than my nicer qualities. With a bony ass and small tits, I had nothing to attract boys. Even being a freshman at a nice college like Georgia Southwwestern didn’t mean anything when I lived with the folks instead of on campus. They had a nice house out in the country, sure… but there wasn’t a single hot guy anywhere near us.
So yeah, I was quiet. I had no friends. Way too awkward to strike up a conversation in person… much less with any sexy guys. So I did what any girl or guy in that spot would do: I hit up the apps.
The only problem was Tinder, MeetMe, and Bumble were all strikeouts... and that was with me swiping right on every guy. Even my attempts at posting sexy pics on Gonewild got zero upvotes. I don’t know… Maybe I just didn’t have the face or body the boys wanted. At least not for the studs I wanted.
Of course, the only interest I got were from weirdos and unattractive dudes. Okay, maybe they were in my league but still… why couldn’t one of the hotties like me? Shit, I’d settle for a one night stand or SnapChat sext-a-thon at this point. I wouldn’t even mind the dick and ass pics if it was a fineass guy sending them. After all, Ladybonersgw could only get me so far...
But then came my brutal epiphany. And the truth hurts, let me tell you: the problem was me. Melissa. Not the sexy guys. I was the ugly one. The loser. The female creep.
So I decided to overhaul my image. Like a makeover you see in the movies.
No, I didn’t wear more make-up. I didn’t ditch the glasses. Didn’t stylize my hair or hit the gym. Instead, I made a fake Bumble profile.
I chose the name Tara Heisler. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed Instagram model became my new image. She had tan skin, big boobs. Tall. One of those Southern Belle coed types I’d spent over a decade being harassed by… and over a decade competing with. And now she was me. The perfect Catfish in this thirsty ocean.
The boys didn’t have a chance. I was slaying right and left. No longer did I have to settle for male versions of me. Gone were the awkward, weird types... In came the hotties.
Maybe my theater experience helped me with the texting and chat performances. Or maybe it was just the natural benefit of being a conventional beauty. Then again, that model’s plethora of sexy Instagram photos also helped me win some action.
I could make those hunks do anything. White guys, black guys, jocks, hot nerds, it didn’t matter. They bowed down to my pussy power. And the fucking pics and vids they’d send… Girllllll
My secret porn library grew bigger and better. There were the big dicks, the bubble butts, the gym shots, even guy-on-guy videos. Whatever “Tara” asked for, those boys sent. And they didn’t hesitate when doing it for me. Not when I was on that SnapChat stage playing their dream girl.
Okay so maybe I wasn’t gonna meet my future husband doing this. Not even my future friend with benefit or first serious boyfriend. But still this was a fun way to satisfy my own desperate thirst.
For once, I felt hot. Powerful. A social media queen. And playing the sexy THOT only allowed me to slip deeper into my own desires. These hotties responded to all my fantasies. Pegging, Devil’s Threesomes, watching two cuties fuck each other… All the sexy stuff Melissa was too scared to ask. And all the sexy stuff these prettyboys would never do for a girl like me. Only under the spell of an All-American hottie.
The tantalizing fun lasted through the first few days of winter break. The hot nudes and talks an amazing early Christmas present.
I stayed cautious, of course. Those Creepypastas and rhonnie14 stories still lingered in the back of my mind… when I wasn’t overcome with excitement, that is. The inner heat I felt warmed me from both the cold and unease. My anticipation only increased with each new fineass match and steamy pic.
This Tuesday night was more of the same. A few minutes past nine-thirty, and I was still holed up in my room. Sitting at my computer desk. Surrounded by Nicki Minaj and Tarantino posters. Not working on any scripts or monologues like I told mom…
My phone was blowing up with sizzling Snaps. I’d managed to talk a baseball player into doing both twerking and jerking videos…
Grinning, I lowered the phone and slid my hand down toward my pajama pants. Underneath the green fabric… I was bracing for the show. All thanks to Tara.
The bedroom door burst open. In a frenzy, I yanked my hand out and exited SnapChat. My dream delayed.
Mom leaned in the doorway. The sloppy pajamas covered her chubby frame. Straight hair dangled down her back. Mom’s small eyes stuck on me. “You okay, sweetie?” she said in a soft tone.
Like a panicking crook, I struggled to suppress the nerves. Breathing heavy, I checked my phone once more. Glad no big dick or baseball butt was grabbing mom’s nosy gaze.
“Uh, yeah,” I stammered. Folding my arms in the cold room, I faced her. “I’ll come down in a minute.”
Mom flashed me a warm smile. “Okay, we’re about to watch the movie.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said. “I just wanted to finish the strip, I mean script.” Cringing, my grip grew tighter on the phone. To my real entertainment.
Mama chucked. “Okay, we’ll be downstairs.” With that, she leaned back and shut the door.
Now I was back to my fantasy. Back to the boys.
A vibration further fueled my excitement.
I turned my hungry eyes toward the phone. Toward the new Bumble alert: You got a new match
Grinning, I veered straight to the app. And what a match it was…
Michael Barnes. 24 and in great shape. Well over six feet tall. A physique as flawless as his baby blues. His straight brown hair complemented a smooth, slender face. The type of hunk destined for Wall Street success or modeling agencies.
“Hello…” I said to myself. Immediately, I made the first move: Sup sexy
Thankfully, the wait wasn’t long. In seconds, Michael’s reply appeared: Hey cutie. Snap?
My exhilaration only increased. Score another one for Team Tara.
Our flirting continued on SnapChat for another ten minutes. He sent me a few face pics, a sexy gym shot. I responded with the best of Tara’s Instagram. Needless to say, I pushed Michael for more… like a repressed housewife eager for a peek at their neighborhood’s new hottie.
I was glad I wasn’t scaring him off. Michael was rather playful. His arsenal of emojis and sarcasm kept me entertained.
WHAT ARE U WEARING TARA? he typed out in all caps. Followed by a kissing emoji.
Wanting to escalate the sexting session, I deliberated. Then replied: Getting late so… you know, just a bra and thong ;)
I waited and waited for a response. In simultaneous dread and anticipation. Michael had seen my reply. In a painful taunt, his Goddamn Bitmoji kept popping up from time to time. But there wasn’t a word. Not even a is typing tease.
“What the fuck,” I muttered. “Come on, bitch.”
A few more minutes went by. Agonizing anxiety dominated me. The anguish hurt. Unlike me, Tara never lost a man. And she couldn’t lose this one… Not when Michael had enraptured my female gaze.
Bumble gave me another alert. Another new match. I guess there were more fish in this sleazy sea… But still. I couldn’t shake Michael. Right when things were about to get hot and heavy, he just dipped. Sure, Melissa was used to being ghosted by the hotter guys. But not Tara.
Determined, I sent another message: I’m dressed to kill, boo
Trembling, I took a deep breath. Felt even colder in the room.
And then Michael’s pending reply got me hot all over again. The internal excitement came roaring back.
Until I saw his message. A chilling unease extinguished my fire.
HAVE U EVER KILLED BEFORE TARA?? Michael asked. Again, his message was in all caps. The eerie question accentuated by a winking emoji.
I was too scared to talk. Too scared to even text.
Michael’s once-adorable Bitmoji flashed a sinister smile. The image now possessing the aura of a killer doll. Uncanny Valley in overdrive.
And then he started typing…
I stole a glance at the door. Not sure what to do. My aroused feelings replaced by fear.
Michael’s next message arrived: BECAUSE I HAVE
A hash vibration accompanied the next text: REMEMBER THAT STORY ABOUT PATRICK
He sent me a link. A NoSleep. I Just Saw A Girl I Matched With On Tinder Get Killed. rhonnie14’s popular Deep Web story.
Trapped in the chilling conversation, I struggled to turn away. I couldn’t.
Michael’s new message appeared: THAT WAS ME
His Bitmoji’s grin only grew wider. More deranged. The big blue eyes like daggers to my soul.
THAT WAS ME MELISSA read his next text.
A hollow horror spread across me. Numbness. The aftereffects of a most unsettling shock.
I didn’t even flinch when Michael sent another message: MELISSA RAMSEY
AMERICUS, GEORGIA
Shivering, I struggled to hold the phone. Tears fell down my face.
In quick succession, the final text arrived: 14 PRICE STREET
Michael’s Bitmoji vanished off my screen. Off into the night. And deep in my sickened gut, I knew right where he was going…
I leapt out of my seat and bolted for the door. In total panic. My night of pleasure turned to a night of horror. No longer was I confident Tara… I was back to helpless Melissa. The timid geek.
Clinging to my phone, I ripped open the door and rushed into the upstairs hallway. The lights were out. Every single one. And somehow, the house was colder…
Scanning the scene, I looked all around me. The other bedroom door was closed. A nearby shelf a towering shadow, the hanging picture frames nothing more than blank canvases in the dark. Downstairs, it was pitch black. I saw nothing. Heard nothing. The dim lamps from my room the only light close by...
“Mama!” I yelled.
I stood there in the freezing silence. Waiting for a soothing voice that never came.
The phone pulsated in my hand. Startled, I confronted SnapChat.
Michael had sent me another link. To a domain and extension I never heard of… but a site that sent chills down my spine. LiveKills.
Uneasy, I stared at the link.
Another message from Michael appeared: ENJOY TARA
I forced myself to mash it.
The video swallowed up my screen. The footage precise and pristine. And in a setting I was all too familiar with… our living room.
I’d caught the middle of a bloodbath. Redness was scattered everywhere, all across our exotic rugs. Over the large flatscreen
My father’s corpse was sprawled across the couch. Deep cuts in his head and throat. His face partially flayed. Mom’s screams a brutal soundtrack to the massacre.
The camera captured mama staggering into a corner. Blood soaked through her pajamas. Weeping, she held her hands out. Out toward a masked man I was certain was Michael… or at least the man I’d been talking to for the last half hour...
The killer stood tall. He wore dark clothes and an even darker ski mask. His long butcher knife coated in blood. The blade marking my mother for a most horrible death.
“No!” I yelled through the tears.
Then I saw it. Beneath the murders, comments piled up. On screen were users of all genders and races and ages. An excited audience. O hes got her now!! Kill dat bitch! I love this guy SO FUCKIN SICK!1 read their messages.
The comments kept piling in. Small boxes showed viewers watching on Skype. Their eyes and expressions hungry for blood.
Overcome by panic, I exited the video. Looked toward the stairs. “Mom!” I screamed out.
The eerie silence lingered. The sound of death.
Fighting through the emotions and terror, I called mom’s phone. A desperate attempt to reach her. To save her.
A buzz sliced through the silence. Behind me, a beam of light caught my eye.
I whirled around. A horrified scream escaped my lips.
Through my bedroom’s lights, I saw mama’s severed head a few feet away. The head positioned like a work of art on the shelf. Blood poured out the neck in a red river. Her long hair smeared across her face’s many slices. The glowing cell phone jammed straight in her shrieking mouth like a candle in a jack o’lantern.
Mom’s scared eyes stayed on me. Unblinking, haunting eyes.
“No!” I screamed. Breaking down in tears, I trembled in the hallway. My knees went wobbly, my arms quivering. I was a scared soldier come face-to-face with Death. All those Dark Web Creepypastas a reality in my own home.
My phone pulsated to life, drawing me back to SnapChat. Back to my parents’ killer.
A new Snap from Michael greeted me.
Even this frightened, I didn’t hesitate to play it. After all, I had nowhere to run. I couldn’t just block this creep… I had to confront him.
A pic of Michael stared back at me. Him in the ski mask. Standing on our staircase. His blue eyes shined through the darkness… Much like his sharp knife.
Blood red font spelled out his final message: UR NEXT TARA The crazy smiling emoji a ferocious finish to this terrifying threat.
The other bedroom door slammed open. And there came my stud charging at me.
Moving quick, Michael raised the butcher knife. Blood dripped off its edge. A huge laptop clasped in Michael’s other gloved hand. Its camera ready to capture my close-up.
“Aw, fuck!” I yelled.
I jumped back in my room. Images of my slaughtered parents flashed through my mind. Dad’s filleted face. Mom’s severed head. The visceral fear forever resting in her dead eyes...
In the frigid hallway, I gripped my cell phone tighter. Anger boiled up inside.
Michael drew the knife back. Ready for the kill.
A fury conquered me. Call it fight or flight. Girl power. Whatever the fuck you want… All I know was I was still scared and in tears when I hurled that phone at the son-of-a-bitch.
The fastball smashed him right in the face.
Crying out, Michael fell into the shelf before hitting the ground. He dropped the blade. The laptop.
Creaking through the night, the shelf toppled over, pinning him to the ground. Mom’s head laid right beside Michael. Her gaze stuck taunting his squirming body. His arms flailed about, splashing through the blood.
I then made my move. Grabbed the butcher knife and confronted the killer.
Michael held up his hands. A futile effort to stop this bitch.
My rage won. With a rebel yell, I plunged the blade into his throat.
Blood splurted over me like war paint. I pushed my hair to the side. Behind bitter eyes, I watched Michael’s arms collapse. Watched blood build up beneath him. Watched his body go still.
Lodged in his neck, the knife was my victory flag. Michael my latest “conquest.”
The adrenaline kept me warm on this winter night. Not to mention helped console me from the tragedy...
Curious, I reached toward the ski mask.
In a quick tug, I yanked it off. And there was the dream guy from Bumble: Michael Barnes. His blue eyes now faded with death. His face less handsome, his body less muscular under the gore.
All the while, the laptop’s frenetic comments kept going. An assembly line of voyeurs.
I confronted their many disappointed faces. The crowd bloodblocked.
“Fuck you!” I screamed. Several vicious stomps smashed the screen into smithereens. Death to LiveKills... at least for tonight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure appear. Creeping in from the dark depths of the other bedroom. A tall figure in dark leggings and a flowing cape. A woman. Her entrance like that of a rock star taking the stage.
The fear coming back, I faced her. Faced the mannequin mask. Its long, mocking smile. The big eyes beneath it. The big boobs beneath the black clothes. And the even bigger knife in her hand…
There was Shannon. The stuff of Creepypasta lore. Of rhonnie14 horror. Right here in the flesh.
Showing off brute strength, Shannon pushed me to the ground. She glided over me. Her movements effortless.
Shannon put the knife to my throat. A headlock I wouldn’t dare try to escape.
In a theatrical motion, Shannon held out her phone. A message already prepared for me was on display. The letters big and crude.
Do what you’re told and you’ll live, bitch The winking emoji next to it did little to comfort me…
So here I am now. In a house I’ve never been to and in a room without a window. I’m trapped. No longer Melissa Ramsey but Tara Heisler. I guess my wish did come true… I’m the bombshell. A bombshell crafted by Shannon and all the others involved at LiveKills.
The process wasn’t easy. This wasn’t botox or a smooth surgery. Instead, my skin was bleached in the cheapest way possible. Similar to the dye they use to keep my hair bleached blonde. Blue contacts now disguise my eyes. Crude surgeries gave me the lousiest silicone for the big boobs.
Now I sit alone in this room. A poor man’s version of that Instagram model I based my Catfish persona on. The laptop and cell phone my only items. The thousands of horny girls and boys my only company… people not unlike me in the days before I met Shannon.
Looking back, I can’t help but wonder if Michael was really the killer or a victim. If he was someone like me. Someone they dolled up for the kills. Someone they forced into this twisted game.
I’ve been told my turn is tonight. My first livestream murder. Shannon is joining me to make sure I go through with it. Both of us armed with those huge knives. I’m not really sure what else to say. What else to do. All I can tell you girls and guys is don’t get too thirsty. Please don’t be Melissa. And if you end up matching with a Tara Heisler, a Southern blonde charmer… be careful. Because it’s either gonna be you or me who makes it through the night.
14
submitted by rhonnie14 to mrcreeps [link] [comments]


2019.12.20 22:08 rhonnie14 No bra voyeur

Everyone knows about The Deep Web murders. LiveKills. Shannon. We’ve all read the Creepypastas and NoSleeps. rhonnie14’s stories. I believed them then. And now I know they’re real.
At the time, I figured the Deep Web sickness had spread into most dating apps. Bumble, Tinder. But that still didn’t stop me. No, Melissa Ramsey was stubborn… And honestly, I was too horny to care.
I wasn’t pretty. Not in a conventional way. At nineteen, I was a skinny black girl. Big brown eyes hidden behind big glasses. My short straight hair and weird fashion sense did more to showcase a fivehead and scrawny body than my nicer qualities. With a bony ass and small tits, I had nothing to attract boys. Even being a freshman at a nice college like Georgia Southwwestern didn’t mean anything when I lived with the folks instead of on campus. They had a nice house out in the country, sure… but there wasn’t a single hot guy anywhere near us.
So yeah, I was quiet. I had no friends. Way too awkward to strike up a conversation in person… much less with any sexy guys. So I did what any girl or guy in that spot would do: I hit up the apps.
The only problem was Tinder, MeetMe, and Bumble were all strikeouts... and that was with me swiping right on every guy. Even my attempts at posting sexy pics on Gonewild got zero upvotes. I don’t know… Maybe I just didn’t have the face or body the boys wanted. At least not for the studs I wanted.
Of course, the only interest I got were from weirdos and unattractive dudes. Okay, maybe they were in my league but still… why couldn’t one of the hotties like me? Shit, I’d settle for a one night stand or SnapChat sext-a-thon at this point. I wouldn’t even mind the dick and ass pics if it was a fineass guy sending them. After all, Ladybonersgw could only get me so far...
But then came my brutal epiphany. And the truth hurts, let me tell you: the problem was me. Melissa. Not the sexy guys. I was the ugly one. The loser. The female creep.
So I decided to overhaul my image. Like a makeover you see in the movies.
No, I didn’t wear more make-up. I didn’t ditch the glasses. Didn’t stylize my hair or hit the gym. Instead, I made a fake Bumble profile.
I chose the name Tara Heisler. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed Instagram model became my new image. She had tan skin, big boobs. Tall. One of those Southern Belle coed types I’d spent over a decade being harassed by… and over a decade competing with. And now she was me. The perfect Catfish in this thirsty ocean.
The boys didn’t have a chance. I was slaying right and left. No longer did I have to settle for male versions of me. Gone were the awkward, weird types... In came the hotties.
Maybe my theater experience helped me with the texting and chat performances. Or maybe it was just the natural benefit of being a conventional beauty. Then again, that model’s plethora of sexy Instagram photos also helped me win some action.
I could make those hunks do anything. White guys, black guys, jocks, hot nerds, it didn’t matter. They bowed down to my pussy power. And the fucking pics and vids they’d send… Girllllll
My secret porn library grew bigger and better. There were the big dicks, the bubble butts, the gym shots, even guy-on-guy videos. Whatever “Tara” asked for, those boys sent. And they didn’t hesitate when doing it for me. Not when I was on that SnapChat stage playing their dream girl.
Okay so maybe I wasn’t gonna meet my future husband doing this. Not even my future friend with benefit or first serious boyfriend. But still this was a fun way to satisfy my own desperate thirst.
For once, I felt hot. Powerful. A social media queen. And playing the sexy THOT only allowed me to slip deeper into my own desires. These hotties responded to all my fantasies. Pegging, Devil’s Threesomes, watching two cuties fuck each other… All the sexy stuff Melissa was too scared to ask. And all the sexy stuff these prettyboys would never do for a girl like me. Only under the spell of an All-American hottie.
The tantalizing fun lasted through the first few days of winter break. The hot nudes and talks an amazing early Christmas present.
I stayed cautious, of course. Those Creepypastas and rhonnie14 stories still lingered in the back of my mind… when I wasn’t overcome with excitement, that is. The inner heat I felt warmed me from both the cold and unease. My anticipation only increased with each new fineass match and steamy pic.
This Tuesday night was more of the same. A few minutes past nine-thirty, and I was still holed up in my room. Sitting at my computer desk. Surrounded by Nicki Minaj and Tarantino posters. Not working on any scripts or monologues like I told mom…
My phone was blowing up with sizzling Snaps. I’d managed to talk a baseball player into doing both twerking and jerking videos…
Grinning, I lowered the phone and slid my hand down toward my pajama pants. Underneath the green fabric… I was bracing for the show. All thanks to Tara.
The bedroom door burst open. In a frenzy, I yanked my hand out and exited SnapChat. My dream delayed.
Mom leaned in the doorway. The sloppy pajamas covered her chubby frame. Straight hair dangled down her back. Mom’s small eyes stuck on me. “You okay, sweetie?” she said in a soft tone.
Like a panicking crook, I struggled to suppress the nerves. Breathing heavy, I checked my phone once more. Glad no big dick or baseball butt was grabbing mom’s nosy gaze.
“Uh, yeah,” I stammered. Folding my arms in the cold room, I faced her. “I’ll come down in a minute.”
Mom flashed me a warm smile. “Okay, we’re about to watch the movie.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said. “I just wanted to finish the strip, I mean script.” Cringing, my grip grew tighter on the phone. To my real entertainment.
Mama chucked. “Okay, we’ll be downstairs.” With that, she leaned back and shut the door.
Now I was back to my fantasy. Back to the boys.
A vibration further fueled my excitement.
I turned my hungry eyes toward the phone. Toward the new Bumble alert: You got a new match
Grinning, I veered straight to the app. And what a match it was…
Michael Barnes. 24 and in great shape. Well over six feet tall. A physique as flawless as his baby blues. His straight brown hair complemented a smooth, slender face. The type of hunk destined for Wall Street success or modeling agencies.
“Hello…” I said to myself. Immediately, I made the first move: Sup sexy
Thankfully, the wait wasn’t long. In seconds, Michael’s reply appeared: Hey cutie. Snap?
My exhilaration only increased. Score another one for Team Tara.
Our flirting continued on SnapChat for another ten minutes. He sent me a few face pics, a sexy gym shot. I responded with the best of Tara’s Instagram. Needless to say, I pushed Michael for more… like a repressed housewife eager for a peek at their neighborhood’s new hottie.
I was glad I wasn’t scaring him off. Michael was rather playful. His arsenal of emojis and sarcasm kept me entertained.
WHAT ARE U WEARING TARA? he typed out in all caps. Followed by a kissing emoji.
Wanting to escalate the sexting session, I deliberated. Then replied: Getting late so… you know, just a bra and thong ;)
I waited and waited for a response. In simultaneous dread and anticipation. Michael had seen my reply. In a painful taunt, his Goddamn Bitmoji kept popping up from time to time. But there wasn’t a word. Not even a is typing tease.
“What the fuck,” I muttered. “Come on, bitch.”
A few more minutes went by. Agonizing anxiety dominated me. The anguish hurt. Unlike me, Tara never lost a man. And she couldn’t lose this one… Not when Michael had enraptured my female gaze.
Bumble gave me another alert. Another new match. I guess there were more fish in this sleazy sea… But still. I couldn’t shake Michael. Right when things were about to get hot and heavy, he just dipped. Sure, Melissa was used to being ghosted by the hotter guys. But not Tara.
Determined, I sent another message: I’m dressed to kill, boo
Trembling, I took a deep breath. Felt even colder in the room.
And then Michael’s pending reply got me hot all over again. The internal excitement came roaring back.
Until I saw his message. A chilling unease extinguished my fire.
HAVE U EVER KILLED BEFORE TARA?? Michael asked. Again, his message was in all caps. The eerie question accentuated by a winking emoji.
I was too scared to talk. Too scared to even text.
Michael’s once-adorable Bitmoji flashed a sinister smile. The image now possessing the aura of a killer doll. Uncanny Valley in overdrive.
And then he started typing…
I stole a glance at the door. Not sure what to do. My aroused feelings replaced by fear.
Michael’s next message arrived: BECAUSE I HAVE
A hash vibration accompanied the next text: REMEMBER THAT STORY ABOUT PATRICK
He sent me a link. A NoSleep. I Just Saw A Girl I Matched With On Tinder Get Killed. rhonnie14’s popular Deep Web story.
Trapped in the chilling conversation, I struggled to turn away. I couldn’t.
Michael’s new message appeared: THAT WAS ME
His Bitmoji’s grin only grew wider. More deranged. The big blue eyes like daggers to my soul.
THAT WAS ME MELISSA read his next text.
A hollow horror spread across me. Numbness. The aftereffects of a most unsettling shock.
I didn’t even flinch when Michael sent another message: MELISSA RAMSEY
AMERICUS, GEORGIA
Shivering, I struggled to hold the phone. Tears fell down my face.
In quick succession, the final text arrived: 14 PRICE STREET
Michael’s Bitmoji vanished off my screen. Off into the night. And deep in my sickened gut, I knew right where he was going…
I leapt out of my seat and bolted for the door. In total panic. My night of pleasure turned to a night of horror. No longer was I confident Tara… I was back to helpless Melissa. The timid geek.
Clinging to my phone, I ripped open the door and rushed into the upstairs hallway. The lights were out. Every single one. And somehow, the house was colder…
Scanning the scene, I looked all around me. The other bedroom door was closed. A nearby shelf a towering shadow, the hanging picture frames nothing more than blank canvases in the dark. Downstairs, it was pitch black. I saw nothing. Heard nothing. The dim lamps from my room the only light close by...
“Mama!” I yelled.
I stood there in the freezing silence. Waiting for a soothing voice that never came.
The phone pulsated in my hand. Startled, I confronted SnapChat.
Michael had sent me another link. To a domain and extension I never heard of… but a site that sent chills down my spine. LiveKills.
Uneasy, I stared at the link.
Another message from Michael appeared: ENJOY TARA
I forced myself to mash it.
The video swallowed up my screen. The footage precise and pristine. And in a setting I was all too familiar with… our living room.
I’d caught the middle of a bloodbath. Redness was scattered everywhere, all across our exotic rugs. Over the large flatscreen
My father’s corpse was sprawled across the couch. Deep cuts in his head and throat. His face partially flayed. Mom’s screams a brutal soundtrack to the massacre.
The camera captured mama staggering into a corner. Blood soaked through her pajamas. Weeping, she held her hands out. Out toward a masked man I was certain was Michael… or at least the man I’d been talking to for the last half hour...
The killer stood tall. He wore dark clothes and an even darker ski mask. His long butcher knife coated in blood. The blade marking my mother for a most horrible death.
“No!” I yelled through the tears.
Then I saw it. Beneath the murders, comments piled up. On screen were users of all genders and races and ages. An excited audience. O hes got her now!! Kill dat bitch! I love this guy SO FUCKIN SICK!1 read their messages.
The comments kept piling in. Small boxes showed viewers watching on Skype. Their eyes and expressions hungry for blood.
Overcome by panic, I exited the video. Looked toward the stairs. “Mom!” I screamed out.
The eerie silence lingered. The sound of death.
Fighting through the emotions and terror, I called mom’s phone. A desperate attempt to reach her. To save her.
A buzz sliced through the silence. Behind me, a beam of light caught my eye.
I whirled around. A horrified scream escaped my lips.
Through my bedroom’s lights, I saw mama’s severed head a few feet away. The head positioned like a work of art on the shelf. Blood poured out the neck in a red river. Her long hair smeared across her face’s many slices. The glowing cell phone jammed straight in her shrieking mouth like a candle in a jack o’lantern.
Mom’s scared eyes stayed on me. Unblinking, haunting eyes.
“No!” I screamed. Breaking down in tears, I trembled in the hallway. My knees went wobbly, my arms quivering. I was a scared soldier come face-to-face with Death. All those Dark Web Creepypastas a reality in my own home.
My phone pulsated to life, drawing me back to SnapChat. Back to my parents’ killer.
A new Snap from Michael greeted me.
Even this frightened, I didn’t hesitate to play it. After all, I had nowhere to run. I couldn’t just block this creep… I had to confront him.
A pic of Michael stared back at me. Him in the ski mask. Standing on our staircase. His blue eyes shined through the darkness… Much like his sharp knife.
Blood red font spelled out his final message: UR NEXT TARA The crazy smiling emoji a ferocious finish to this terrifying threat.
The other bedroom door slammed open. And there came my stud charging at me.
Moving quick, Michael raised the butcher knife. Blood dripped off its edge. A huge laptop clasped in Michael’s other gloved hand. Its camera ready to capture my close-up.
“Aw, fuck!” I yelled.
I jumped back in my room. Images of my slaughtered parents flashed through my mind. Dad’s filleted face. Mom’s severed head. The visceral fear forever resting in her dead eyes...
In the frigid hallway, I gripped my cell phone tighter. Anger boiled up inside.
Michael drew the knife back. Ready for the kill.
A fury conquered me. Call it fight or flight. Girl power. Whatever the fuck you want… All I know was I was still scared and in tears when I hurled that phone at the son-of-a-bitch.
The fastball smashed him right in the face.
Crying out, Michael fell into the shelf before hitting the ground. He dropped the blade. The laptop.
Creaking through the night, the shelf toppled over, pinning him to the ground. Mom’s head laid right beside Michael. Her gaze stuck taunting his squirming body. His arms flailed about, splashing through the blood.
I then made my move. Grabbed the butcher knife and confronted the killer.
Michael held up his hands. A futile effort to stop this bitch.
My rage won. With a rebel yell, I plunged the blade into his throat.
Blood splurted over me like war paint. I pushed my hair to the side. Behind bitter eyes, I watched Michael’s arms collapse. Watched blood build up beneath him. Watched his body go still.
Lodged in his neck, the knife was my victory flag. Michael my latest “conquest.”
The adrenaline kept me warm on this winter night. Not to mention helped console me from the tragedy...
Curious, I reached toward the ski mask.
In a quick tug, I yanked it off. And there was the dream guy from Bumble: Michael Barnes. His blue eyes now faded with death. His face less handsome, his body less muscular under the gore.
All the while, the laptop’s frenetic comments kept going. An assembly line of voyeurs.
I confronted their many disappointed faces. The crowd bloodblocked.
“Fuck you!” I screamed. Several vicious stomps smashed the screen into smithereens. Death to LiveKills... at least for tonight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure appear. Creeping in from the dark depths of the other bedroom. A tall figure in dark leggings and a flowing cape. A woman. Her entrance like that of a rock star taking the stage.
The fear coming back, I faced her. Faced the mannequin mask. Its long, mocking smile. The big eyes beneath it. The big boobs beneath the black clothes. And the even bigger knife in her hand…
There was Shannon. The stuff of Creepypasta lore. Of rhonnie14 horror. Right here in the flesh.
Showing off brute strength, Shannon pushed me to the ground. She glided over me. Her movements effortless.
Shannon put the knife to my throat. A headlock I wouldn’t dare try to escape.
In a theatrical motion, Shannon held out her phone. A message already prepared for me was on display. The letters big and crude.
Do what you’re told and you’ll live, bitch The winking emoji next to it did little to comfort me…
So here I am now. In a house I’ve never been to and in a room without a window. I’m trapped. No longer Melissa Ramsey but Tara Heisler. I guess my wish did come true… I’m the bombshell. A bombshell crafted by Shannon and all the others involved at LiveKills.
The process wasn’t easy. This wasn’t botox or a smooth surgery. Instead, my skin was bleached in the cheapest way possible. Similar to the dye they use to keep my hair bleached blonde. Blue contacts now disguise my eyes. Crude surgeries gave me the lousiest silicone for the big boobs.
Now I sit alone in this room. A poor man’s version of that Instagram model I based my Catfish persona on. The laptop and cell phone my only items. The thousands of horny girls and boys my only company… people not unlike me in the days before I met Shannon.
Looking back, I can’t help but wonder if Michael was really the killer or a victim. If he was someone like me. Someone they dolled up for the kills. Someone they forced into this twisted game.
I’ve been told my turn is tonight. My first livestream murder. Shannon is joining me to make sure I go through with it. Both of us armed with those huge knives. I’m not really sure what else to say. What else to do. All I can tell you girls and guys is don’t get too thirsty. Please don’t be Melissa. And if you end up matching with a Tara Heisler, a Southern blonde charmer… be careful. Because it’s either gonna be you or me who makes it through the night.
14
submitted by rhonnie14 to AllThingsScary [link] [comments]


2019.12.20 22:07 rhonnie14 No bra voyeur

Everyone knows about The Deep Web murders. LiveKills. Shannon. We’ve all read the Creepypastas and NoSleeps. rhonnie14’s stories. I believed them then. And now I know they’re real.
At the time, I figured the Deep Web sickness had spread into most dating apps. Bumble, Tinder. But that still didn’t stop me. No, Melissa Ramsey was stubborn… And honestly, I was too horny to care.
I wasn’t pretty. Not in a conventional way. At nineteen, I was a skinny black girl. Big brown eyes hidden behind big glasses. My short straight hair and weird fashion sense did more to showcase a fivehead and scrawny body than my nicer qualities. With a bony ass and small tits, I had nothing to attract boys. Even being a freshman at a nice college like Georgia Southwwestern didn’t mean anything when I lived with the folks instead of on campus. They had a nice house out in the country, sure… but there wasn’t a single hot guy anywhere near us.
So yeah, I was quiet. I had no friends. Way too awkward to strike up a conversation in person… much less with any sexy guys. So I did what any girl or guy in that spot would do: I hit up the apps.
The only problem was Tinder, MeetMe, and Bumble were all strikeouts... and that was with me swiping right on every guy. Even my attempts at posting sexy pics on Gonewild got zero upvotes. I don’t know… Maybe I just didn’t have the face or body the boys wanted. At least not for the studs I wanted.
Of course, the only interest I got were from weirdos and unattractive dudes. Okay, maybe they were in my league but still… why couldn’t one of the hotties like me? Shit, I’d settle for a one night stand or SnapChat sext-a-thon at this point. I wouldn’t even mind the dick and ass pics if it was a fineass guy sending them. After all, Ladybonersgw could only get me so far...
But then came my brutal epiphany. And the truth hurts, let me tell you: the problem was me. Melissa. Not the sexy guys. I was the ugly one. The loser. The female creep.
So I decided to overhaul my image. Like a makeover you see in the movies.
No, I didn’t wear more make-up. I didn’t ditch the glasses. Didn’t stylize my hair or hit the gym. Instead, I made a fake Bumble profile.
I chose the name Tara Heisler. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed Instagram model became my new image. She had tan skin, big boobs. Tall. One of those Southern Belle coed types I’d spent over a decade being harassed by… and over a decade competing with. And now she was me. The perfect Catfish in this thirsty ocean.
The boys didn’t have a chance. I was slaying right and left. No longer did I have to settle for male versions of me. Gone were the awkward, weird types... In came the hotties.
Maybe my theater experience helped me with the texting and chat performances. Or maybe it was just the natural benefit of being a conventional beauty. Then again, that model’s plethora of sexy Instagram photos also helped me win some action.
I could make those hunks do anything. White guys, black guys, jocks, hot nerds, it didn’t matter. They bowed down to my pussy power. And the fucking pics and vids they’d send… Girllllll
My secret porn library grew bigger and better. There were the big dicks, the bubble butts, the gym shots, even guy-on-guy videos. Whatever “Tara” asked for, those boys sent. And they didn’t hesitate when doing it for me. Not when I was on that SnapChat stage playing their dream girl.
Okay so maybe I wasn’t gonna meet my future husband doing this. Not even my future friend with benefit or first serious boyfriend. But still this was a fun way to satisfy my own desperate thirst.
For once, I felt hot. Powerful. A social media queen. And playing the sexy THOT only allowed me to slip deeper into my own desires. These hotties responded to all my fantasies. Pegging, Devil’s Threesomes, watching two cuties fuck each other… All the sexy stuff Melissa was too scared to ask. And all the sexy stuff these prettyboys would never do for a girl like me. Only under the spell of an All-American hottie.
The tantalizing fun lasted through the first few days of winter break. The hot nudes and talks an amazing early Christmas present.
I stayed cautious, of course. Those Creepypastas and rhonnie14 stories still lingered in the back of my mind… when I wasn’t overcome with excitement, that is. The inner heat I felt warmed me from both the cold and unease. My anticipation only increased with each new fineass match and steamy pic.
This Tuesday night was more of the same. A few minutes past nine-thirty, and I was still holed up in my room. Sitting at my computer desk. Surrounded by Nicki Minaj and Tarantino posters. Not working on any scripts or monologues like I told mom…
My phone was blowing up with sizzling Snaps. I’d managed to talk a baseball player into doing both twerking and jerking videos…
Grinning, I lowered the phone and slid my hand down toward my pajama pants. Underneath the green fabric… I was bracing for the show. All thanks to Tara.
The bedroom door burst open. In a frenzy, I yanked my hand out and exited SnapChat. My dream delayed.
Mom leaned in the doorway. The sloppy pajamas covered her chubby frame. Straight hair dangled down her back. Mom’s small eyes stuck on me. “You okay, sweetie?” she said in a soft tone.
Like a panicking crook, I struggled to suppress the nerves. Breathing heavy, I checked my phone once more. Glad no big dick or baseball butt was grabbing mom’s nosy gaze.
“Uh, yeah,” I stammered. Folding my arms in the cold room, I faced her. “I’ll come down in a minute.”
Mom flashed me a warm smile. “Okay, we’re about to watch the movie.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said. “I just wanted to finish the strip, I mean script.” Cringing, my grip grew tighter on the phone. To my real entertainment.
Mama chucked. “Okay, we’ll be downstairs.” With that, she leaned back and shut the door.
Now I was back to my fantasy. Back to the boys.
A vibration further fueled my excitement.
I turned my hungry eyes toward the phone. Toward the new Bumble alert: You got a new match
Grinning, I veered straight to the app. And what a match it was…
Michael Barnes. 24 and in great shape. Well over six feet tall. A physique as flawless as his baby blues. His straight brown hair complemented a smooth, slender face. The type of hunk destined for Wall Street success or modeling agencies.
“Hello…” I said to myself. Immediately, I made the first move: Sup sexy
Thankfully, the wait wasn’t long. In seconds, Michael’s reply appeared: Hey cutie. Snap?
My exhilaration only increased. Score another one for Team Tara.
Our flirting continued on SnapChat for another ten minutes. He sent me a few face pics, a sexy gym shot. I responded with the best of Tara’s Instagram. Needless to say, I pushed Michael for more… like a repressed housewife eager for a peek at their neighborhood’s new hottie.
I was glad I wasn’t scaring him off. Michael was rather playful. His arsenal of emojis and sarcasm kept me entertained.
WHAT ARE U WEARING TARA? he typed out in all caps. Followed by a kissing emoji.
Wanting to escalate the sexting session, I deliberated. Then replied: Getting late so… you know, just a bra and thong ;)
I waited and waited for a response. In simultaneous dread and anticipation. Michael had seen my reply. In a painful taunt, his Goddamn Bitmoji kept popping up from time to time. But there wasn’t a word. Not even a is typing tease.
“What the fuck,” I muttered. “Come on, bitch.”
A few more minutes went by. Agonizing anxiety dominated me. The anguish hurt. Unlike me, Tara never lost a man. And she couldn’t lose this one… Not when Michael had enraptured my female gaze.
Bumble gave me another alert. Another new match. I guess there were more fish in this sleazy sea… But still. I couldn’t shake Michael. Right when things were about to get hot and heavy, he just dipped. Sure, Melissa was used to being ghosted by the hotter guys. But not Tara.
Determined, I sent another message: I’m dressed to kill, boo
Trembling, I took a deep breath. Felt even colder in the room.
And then Michael’s pending reply got me hot all over again. The internal excitement came roaring back.
Until I saw his message. A chilling unease extinguished my fire.
HAVE U EVER KILLED BEFORE TARA?? Michael asked. Again, his message was in all caps. The eerie question accentuated by a winking emoji.
I was too scared to talk. Too scared to even text.
Michael’s once-adorable Bitmoji flashed a sinister smile. The image now possessing the aura of a killer doll. Uncanny Valley in overdrive.
And then he started typing…
I stole a glance at the door. Not sure what to do. My aroused feelings replaced by fear.
Michael’s next message arrived: BECAUSE I HAVE
A hash vibration accompanied the next text: REMEMBER THAT STORY ABOUT PATRICK
He sent me a link. A NoSleep. I Just Saw A Girl I Matched With On Tinder Get Killed. rhonnie14’s popular Deep Web story.
Trapped in the chilling conversation, I struggled to turn away. I couldn’t.
Michael’s new message appeared: THAT WAS ME
His Bitmoji’s grin only grew wider. More deranged. The big blue eyes like daggers to my soul.
THAT WAS ME MELISSA read his next text.
A hollow horror spread across me. Numbness. The aftereffects of a most unsettling shock.
I didn’t even flinch when Michael sent another message: MELISSA RAMSEY
AMERICUS, GEORGIA
Shivering, I struggled to hold the phone. Tears fell down my face.
In quick succession, the final text arrived: 14 PRICE STREET
Michael’s Bitmoji vanished off my screen. Off into the night. And deep in my sickened gut, I knew right where he was going…
I leapt out of my seat and bolted for the door. In total panic. My night of pleasure turned to a night of horror. No longer was I confident Tara… I was back to helpless Melissa. The timid geek.
Clinging to my phone, I ripped open the door and rushed into the upstairs hallway. The lights were out. Every single one. And somehow, the house was colder…
Scanning the scene, I looked all around me. The other bedroom door was closed. A nearby shelf a towering shadow, the hanging picture frames nothing more than blank canvases in the dark. Downstairs, it was pitch black. I saw nothing. Heard nothing. The dim lamps from my room the only light close by...
“Mama!” I yelled.
I stood there in the freezing silence. Waiting for a soothing voice that never came.
The phone pulsated in my hand. Startled, I confronted SnapChat.
Michael had sent me another link. To a domain and extension I never heard of… but a site that sent chills down my spine. LiveKills.
Uneasy, I stared at the link.
Another message from Michael appeared: ENJOY TARA
I forced myself to mash it.
The video swallowed up my screen. The footage precise and pristine. And in a setting I was all too familiar with… our living room.
I’d caught the middle of a bloodbath. Redness was scattered everywhere, all across our exotic rugs. Over the large flatscreen
My father’s corpse was sprawled across the couch. Deep cuts in his head and throat. His face partially flayed. Mom’s screams a brutal soundtrack to the massacre.
The camera captured mama staggering into a corner. Blood soaked through her pajamas. Weeping, she held her hands out. Out toward a masked man I was certain was Michael… or at least the man I’d been talking to for the last half hour...
The killer stood tall. He wore dark clothes and an even darker ski mask. His long butcher knife coated in blood. The blade marking my mother for a most horrible death.
“No!” I yelled through the tears.
Then I saw it. Beneath the murders, comments piled up. On screen were users of all genders and races and ages. An excited audience. O hes got her now!! Kill dat bitch! I love this guy SO FUCKIN SICK!1 read their messages.
The comments kept piling in. Small boxes showed viewers watching on Skype. Their eyes and expressions hungry for blood.
Overcome by panic, I exited the video. Looked toward the stairs. “Mom!” I screamed out.
The eerie silence lingered. The sound of death.
Fighting through the emotions and terror, I called mom’s phone. A desperate attempt to reach her. To save her.
A buzz sliced through the silence. Behind me, a beam of light caught my eye.
I whirled around. A horrified scream escaped my lips.
Through my bedroom’s lights, I saw mama’s severed head a few feet away. The head positioned like a work of art on the shelf. Blood poured out the neck in a red river. Her long hair smeared across her face’s many slices. The glowing cell phone jammed straight in her shrieking mouth like a candle in a jack o’lantern.
Mom’s scared eyes stayed on me. Unblinking, haunting eyes.
“No!” I screamed. Breaking down in tears, I trembled in the hallway. My knees went wobbly, my arms quivering. I was a scared soldier come face-to-face with Death. All those Dark Web Creepypastas a reality in my own home.
My phone pulsated to life, drawing me back to SnapChat. Back to my parents’ killer.
A new Snap from Michael greeted me.
Even this frightened, I didn’t hesitate to play it. After all, I had nowhere to run. I couldn’t just block this creep… I had to confront him.
A pic of Michael stared back at me. Him in the ski mask. Standing on our staircase. His blue eyes shined through the darkness… Much like his sharp knife.
Blood red font spelled out his final message: UR NEXT TARA The crazy smiling emoji a ferocious finish to this terrifying threat.
The other bedroom door slammed open. And there came my stud charging at me.
Moving quick, Michael raised the butcher knife. Blood dripped off its edge. A huge laptop clasped in Michael’s other gloved hand. Its camera ready to capture my close-up.
“Aw, fuck!” I yelled.
I jumped back in my room. Images of my slaughtered parents flashed through my mind. Dad’s filleted face. Mom’s severed head. The visceral fear forever resting in her dead eyes...
In the frigid hallway, I gripped my cell phone tighter. Anger boiled up inside.
Michael drew the knife back. Ready for the kill.
A fury conquered me. Call it fight or flight. Girl power. Whatever the fuck you want… All I know was I was still scared and in tears when I hurled that phone at the son-of-a-bitch.
The fastball smashed him right in the face.
Crying out, Michael fell into the shelf before hitting the ground. He dropped the blade. The laptop.
Creaking through the night, the shelf toppled over, pinning him to the ground. Mom’s head laid right beside Michael. Her gaze stuck taunting his squirming body. His arms flailed about, splashing through the blood.
I then made my move. Grabbed the butcher knife and confronted the killer.
Michael held up his hands. A futile effort to stop this bitch.
My rage won. With a rebel yell, I plunged the blade into his throat.
Blood splurted over me like war paint. I pushed my hair to the side. Behind bitter eyes, I watched Michael’s arms collapse. Watched blood build up beneath him. Watched his body go still.
Lodged in his neck, the knife was my victory flag. Michael my latest “conquest.”
The adrenaline kept me warm on this winter night. Not to mention helped console me from the tragedy...
Curious, I reached toward the ski mask.
In a quick tug, I yanked it off. And there was the dream guy from Bumble: Michael Barnes. His blue eyes now faded with death. His face less handsome, his body less muscular under the gore.
All the while, the laptop’s frenetic comments kept going. An assembly line of voyeurs.
I confronted their many disappointed faces. The crowd bloodblocked.
“Fuck you!” I screamed. Several vicious stomps smashed the screen into smithereens. Death to LiveKills... at least for tonight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure appear. Creeping in from the dark depths of the other bedroom. A tall figure in dark leggings and a flowing cape. A woman. Her entrance like that of a rock star taking the stage.
The fear coming back, I faced her. Faced the mannequin mask. Its long, mocking smile. The big eyes beneath it. The big boobs beneath the black clothes. And the even bigger knife in her hand…
There was Shannon. The stuff of Creepypasta lore. Of rhonnie14 horror. Right here in the flesh.
Showing off brute strength, Shannon pushed me to the ground. She glided over me. Her movements effortless.
Shannon put the knife to my throat. A headlock I wouldn’t dare try to escape.
In a theatrical motion, Shannon held out her phone. A message already prepared for me was on display. The letters big and crude.
Do what you’re told and you’ll live, bitch The winking emoji next to it did little to comfort me…
So here I am now. In a house I’ve never been to and in a room without a window. I’m trapped. No longer Melissa Ramsey but Tara Heisler. I guess my wish did come true… I’m the bombshell. A bombshell crafted by Shannon and all the others involved at LiveKills.
The process wasn’t easy. This wasn’t botox or a smooth surgery. Instead, my skin was bleached in the cheapest way possible. Similar to the dye they use to keep my hair bleached blonde. Blue contacts now disguise my eyes. Crude surgeries gave me the lousiest silicone for the big boobs.
Now I sit alone in this room. A poor man’s version of that Instagram model I based my Catfish persona on. The laptop and cell phone my only items. The thousands of horny girls and boys my only company… people not unlike me in the days before I met Shannon.
Looking back, I can’t help but wonder if Michael was really the killer or a victim. If he was someone like me. Someone they dolled up for the kills. Someone they forced into this twisted game.
I’ve been told my turn is tonight. My first livestream murder. Shannon is joining me to make sure I go through with it. Both of us armed with those huge knives. I’m not really sure what else to say. What else to do. All I can tell you girls and guys is don’t get too thirsty. Please don’t be Melissa. And if you end up matching with a Tara Heisler, a Southern blonde charmer… be careful. Because it’s either gonna be you or me who makes it through the night.
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