It was another lonely walk home well after night had fallen. Living in a small town meant public transportation was terrible: no matter what shift I chose at work, I could either catch a bus from work or a bus to work—but never both, because the

It was another lonely walk home well after night had fallen. Living in a small town meant public transportation was terrible: no matter what shift I chose at work, I could either catch a bus from work or a bus to work—but never both, because the

FrogButt Frotting

Sometimes You Just Really Want To Be A Massive Ball Of Fat. It Doesn’t Start That Way. For Me, It Started With A Love Of Burly Men. I’d Watch Videos Of Stocky Furry Men For Hours, Stroking Myself Till I Was Absolutely Soaked. The Interest Soon

It Started As Kind Of A Dare, Really. I Had Never Been Brave Enough To Make The First Move In Anything, Really, So I Had Come To Feeling A Bit On The Neglected Side. All Right, That’s Putting It Mildly: I Was In My Junior Year And Worried I Was

Sometimes You Just Really Want To Be A Massive Ball Of Fat. It Doesn’t Start That Way. For Me, It Started With A Love Of Burly Men. I’d Watch Videos Of Stocky Furry Men For Hours, Stroking Myself Till I Was Absolutely Soaked. The Interest Soon

When I Was Younger, I Used To Enjoy Visiting The Library. Our Town Actually Had One Of Decent Size, Which In Turn Meant A Decent Selection For My Niche Interests—Mostly Art Books And The Far East. I’d Often Spend The Weekends Browsing, Stacking

Sunday Morning In The Call Center, And The Place Was Empty And Dead As Usual. Not Too Many Drivers Went Out On The Weekends So A Skeleton Crew Of One Could Handle The Call Volume Pretty Easily. Admittedly, The Comforts Of A Low-Stress, Low-Activity

The Craigslist Ad Was A Familiar One. It Had Been A While Since I’d Heard Anything From The Rat, But Tonight It Seemed He Was In Town And On The Prowl Again. The Subject Line As Usual Simply Read: Stop. Look. Obey. I Never Could Resist Him.

Nobody Ever Asks Me What It’s Like To Be A Murderer. It’s Like The Old Saying Goes: If You Do Your Job Well Enough, One Shouldn’t Be Able To Tell You Were Doing It At All. Ars Est Celare Artem. I’d Like To Say Getting Rid Of People Is A Hobby

I Was Marching The Length Of The Border Fence For The Hundred And Thirty-Seventh Time Today. Dark Clouds And Thunder Had Been Looming Above For A While Now, But I Still Hadn’t Seen Any Rain. But That’s Okay. I Wasn’t Looking For Rain—I Was

I Had Been Looking Forward To Vacationing At The Coach’s Place In The Woods For A While Now. Sometimes You Just Need A Break From The Day-To-Day Grind, And This Was One Of Those Times—After A Few Hard Months At Work With No Real Time Off, A Long

From The Moment I First Heard The Music, I Knew I Would Have To Follow It. The Convention Was Noisy And Full Of People But The Notes Somehow Stood Out, A Bright Spot Like Biting Into A Fresh Blueberry Baked Into A Muffin—Which Is Actually Kind Of

The Bear Left His Tent While The Dawn Was Still Breaking. He Gathered Up Enough Firewood To Keep Him Warm For The Morning And Set Up His Campfire In The Pit. It Was Still Early And There Was No Need To Work Too Hard Just Yet. He Sat And Watched The

I Slept In On Sunday Morning Till It Was Already Sunday Afternoon. My Mates Had Already Gotten Up, Leaving Me The Whole Big Warm Bed To Sprawl Out In—Which Basically Meant Rolling Into The Deep Indentation In The Mattress Where Rockwell Had Been

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