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submitted by yefef3416Jul to Home_Made_Fun [link] [comments]


2019.12.26 02:22 rhonnie14 The Dark Web Is Now Impacting Dating Apps

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 vids nude

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
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2019.12.20 22:07 rhonnie14 Voyeur nude vids

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 foulweather [link] [comments]


2019.12.20 22:06 rhonnie14 Nude voyeur vids

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 Odd_directions [link] [comments]


2019.12.20 22:05 rhonnie14 I Should’ve Known The Deep Web Would Start Hitting Dating Apps

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 ThrillSleep [link] [comments]


2019.12.20 22:05 rhonnie14 Diary Of A Female Creep

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 libraryofshadows [link] [comments]


2019.12.20 18:56 rhonnie14 Nude voyeur vids

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 Horror_stories [link] [comments]


2019.12.20 11:47 rhonnie14 Vids voyeur nude

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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