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Story Critique / Re: Amazon Ultra
« Last post by Zathoth on Yesterday at 12:00:49 AM »
I could see that twist coming, but it doesn't matter, fun story!
Story Critique / Amazon Ultra
« Last post by stex85 on 02:32:31 PM 04/28/17 »
Let me know your thoughts guys. I crave validation!

I got an email from Amazon about a month ago saying that I had the opportunity to be part of a trial group for Amazon Ultra. The spiel promised access to all the regular Amazon Prime stuff, Amazon video with some extras for some of the shows, making of's, etc. Amazon music, which to be honest I never used (I‘ve got Spotify for that) and a new delivery plan. For a hefty monthly fee I could get unlimited immediate delivery on everything! Drones apparently, hence the cost. They said it was fast and discreet. It also said that it could link to my emails, social media and phone to be able to predict what items I would need and automatically order them, it would even anticipate the time I would need them. Well, obviously I signed up. I mean, it was expensive but I had to try it. Emma, my wife was definitely not very happy, we had a bit of an argument about that one. I’ll sign her up for her own account, that way she can see for herself!

It took a while to get set up. I had to download the app and give over the passwords to my Facebook, Twitter and Google. When the app was installing it also asked for some weird permissions I hadn’t seen before. I only skimmed it before clicking ok so I can’t remember what it said off the top of my head. I just remember thinking it was odd. After a month of monitoring my habits the app then advised me to leave all the doors in my house open and at least top floor window for optimal delivery access. I went with the bathroom because you know, it’s probably the one room you want to air out. The wife wasn’t a fan of the draft though.

Anyway, to start with it was amazing. I woke up the next day and went to brush my teeth and realised I was out of toothpaste. I hopped in the shower and as I got out, I heard a whirring sound, felt a slight breeze and lo and behold, there was a new tube of toothpaste in a little package on the sink... I’d had a curry on my own last night (Emma was out on an office party), and suffice to say, I was especially pleased to see a parcel containing a new pack of super soft toilet paper chilled by the early morning sky. The drone was hovering by its gifts waiting for me to acknowledge the delivery. I pressed the green button to signify I wanted the product and it flew off, back to wherever it came from. When the Mrs said she was going on a business trip there was an 8 pack of beer and a blu ray waiting on the coffee table for me without even a thought, all accompanied by a soothing whirr. It had started to anticipate my wants! If you’d asked me then I’d have given the service 5 stars, no questions. There were restrictions however, you couldn’t just order yourself items to anywhere. It had to be to your designated shipping address, a safety feature I rather enjoyed.

If they couldn’t find a way in they would leave the item on the doorstep and bump against the door till someone pressed the green button. I thought it was strange, but the email did stress how discreet the service was so I didn’t complain too hard, after all, these things were so convenient! So when I heard a gentle knocking on my door I knew what to expect. Instead of some treat I hadn’t thought of in its delivery basket it was a long box, the box was ripped slightly. This wasn’t unusual with some of my packages. The items were always ok so I just assumed it was due to the speed of processing. I saw a metallic glint through the hole. I unwrapped it and realised that what I held was a long, sharp butcher’s knife. I saw a torn portion of the label, it was addressed to Emma. Now Emma doesn’t cook, perish the thought, so needless to say I was puzzled. She was on another work trip and said she would be unreachable for the next week so I accepted it.  A few days later two more packages turned up also addressed to Emma. I shouldn’t have opened them but my curiosity got the better of me. It was a bone saw and duct tape. I had no idea why she would want them, the tape I could understand but who needs a bone saw? She works in an office for god’s sake!

Slowly more packages arrived, each one filling me with an increasing sense of dread. A pair of ladies black leather gloves (Emma never wears gloves), rat poison (we have no rats) and a huge jug of drain cleaner. The industrial kind. The kind that melts flesh. I checked the label. I tried calling her to check that these were legitimate deliveries but, as promised, her phone cut straight to answer machine. So I accepted them. They were easily returned and, despite my nagging sense of unease, there had to be a reasonable explanation for it. I was just letting my imagination run riot.

I awoke on the day of Emma’s return with a sick feeling in my stomach, I hadn’t been sleeping for the previous few nights and was exhausted. I groggily opened my eyes and saw a drone hovering at the foot of the bed. I looked in its delivery basket and what I saw made my stomach drop. It was a plain, square cardboard box addressed to Emma. The corner was ripped. Through the rip I could see a black sleek barrel of a pistol. I tore the box apart and looked at the invoice. This delivery had a time attached, it had arrived an hour early. My heart lurched. Everything else I could dismiss as an error or a glitch but this? This gave me a time, this gave me a method. Amazon was doing its job as advertised. It knew she planned to kill me and wanted to make things as easy as possible! I was just lucky to have signed us both up! As I hit the reject button on the drone I heard the key in the door.

My relief at watching the weapon fly out of the open window was swiftly replaced by rage. That fucking BITCH! After all our years together she would do this to me? She was probably fucking someone else as well. She’s never in the house. As she walked up the stairs I imagined her with a thousand lovers, drinking champagne and laughing as they plotted their lives after the minor inconvenience that was my life had been removed. She walked into the bedroom and I screamed at her that I knew what she planned to do. That slut laughed in my face. IN MY FACE. The red mist of my fury descended and, through the rush of blood in my ears I heard a faint whirr. I felt the drone put the hammer in my upraised hand and as I brought it down onto my former lover’s head, I see her smile turn to a look of fear. Grey matter slowly oozed from the wound as she fell backward onto a tarpaulin that was already being pulled into place by two drones. They really were so convenient. As I poured drain cleaner onto the body a thought gave me pause.

You know what? I don’t think I ever did sign her up for an account.
Story Critique / 4:44 (A PoemPasta)
« Last post by Three of Swords on 10:27:45 AM 04/28/17 »
I awake with a start
And stare into the black night
Something is off, I don't know what
But it fills me with apprehension and fright
Somewhere a frozen clock reads

I crawl out of my bed
And set off through the house
Moving silently
Like a gray little mouse
Still and quiet, a frozen clock reads

Everything is good
All is in its own space
But there's something wrong
That I can't quite place
Cold and solid, a frozen clock reads

I am suddenly overwhelmed with sadness
And I see something
Is this temporary madness?!
It turns to face me
As an unmoving, frozen clock reads

Those soft, silver eyes burnt into my memory
Somehow I know this beings name
It's swaying like an anenomy
Zastheris, at that name, cold depression runs through my veins
Dead and tired, a frozen clock reads

He reaches out, his mouth agape
And slowly with his blackened claws
Gently caresses my face
"I wonder what your parents will say when they find you've left your body in your bed"
A scream streaks through the air, a frozen clock still reads
Your Stories / Mazatlan (Lovepasta Entry)
« Last post by Abysmii on 09:04:20 PM 04/27/17 »
The weeks leading up to my first college spring break were filled with simultaneous anxiety and eagerness.  I had busted my ass at a part-time job the previous semester to save up for the flight and hotel.

The day before the flight I started to pack my bags for the week-long, tequila-filled bonanza all my frat brothers were telling me about.  A lot of it was clear exaggeration, rumors from previous fraternity residents, and recycled Adam Sandler movie plots.  Still, it had me more than excited.  My ex had just recently left me, and while it wasn’t an ugly break-up, I was struggling to cope with the aftermath.

The flight from Tucson to Mexico was a grueling 4 hours, but we made it to the Riu Emerald hotel.  Nightly noise violations, minor furniture damage, and lots of bar hopping was our M.O. for 5 days straight.

On the second to last night, we hit up Arena Caliente.  That wasn’t the real name, more of a code word employed by the owners to keep an air of secrecy and exclusivity.  Most importantly, it kept the amount of tourists to a manageable and discreet level.

The club was well equipped to entertain and deprive us of our dignity and money.  Loud, thumping music with pulsating lights.  A well-stocked bar helmed by gorgeous, luscious, and very buxom women.  One in particular locked eyes with me.  Her hair was a soft yet striking black.  Her eyes and smile were enticing and exotic.  Her figure had all the right curves in all the important places.

I hadn’t known until that moment just how much my dry spell had left me slake with thirst.  Memories of the break up came flooding back.  It wasn’t due to boredom or conflict, but for our complete lack of sexual chemistry.  I’m pretty vanilla, and she wanted to push the satin envelope.  I had spent the last few months in self-pity and embarrassment, questioning my adequacy as a lover.  I did what every stupid asshole in a spring break movie does: I walked straight up to her and started ordering drinks.

After 8 cervezas and 3 tequila shots, she asked if I’d like to get a private table with her.  I asked about the cost and almost spit out my beer at the number.  Then I remembered quickly that the exchange rate was in my favor and those zeros were meaningless.  After handing her the cash, she walked from around the bar, took my hand, and escorted me to a round couch with a small table in the middle.  The table already had liquor and mixers on it, from which she poured a drink for me.  I hadn’t noticed the curtain that could be pulled around the table to create a makeshift room, so it felt dreamlike when she drew it to give us some privacy.

I was surprised when she sat on my lap, excited when we started kissing deeply, and shocked when she all but ripped my pants off.  Maybe it was the booze or how horny I had been, maybe it was just her; but before I knew it I was half naked in a club with little more than a bed sheet hiding me and my one-night stand from a room of 200 people.  She took me into her hands and did things I had all but forgotten the sensation of. We caressed and fondled, biting and scratching with moans of lustful passion.

Before things could finish, she leaned in close, taking a sash from somewhere beneath her clothes and wrapped it around my eyes.  I gladly obliged, happy to finally be pursuing my sexual destiny.  Everything was dark and sensually wet, and then just went dark.

24 hours, invasive surgery, and 55 stitches later, the balloon full of cocaine was removed.  I had my frat brothers to thank for saving me last minute in a back alley.  I’ve never felt a more disturbing mixture of hatred and arousal at someone before.  At the same time, I can’t hate the succubus too much.  I can only imagine how sex workers are punished south of the border.
Story Critique / Memory Lapse [Lovepasta Entry]
« Last post by Knadire on 09:17:07 AM 04/26/17 »
Ever since I was a child, I’ve had problems remembering things.
I don’t mean the typical left your keys at home, didn’t write your paper last night, had your mother come home to find the meat still in the freezer kind of forget. I mean I’ll lose moments of my life completely. I’ll sometimes wait on being served at a restaurant only to find my food arriving with no memory of even ordering anything. Entire conversations have been lost to this fault and I have no way of predicting or controlling it. It’s entirely seamless, and from what I can tell I don’t act out of character during these lapses.
It’s something I’ve come to accept as normal, and I’ve learned to trust my decisions during them. I can usually pick up the pieces from where I was left off.
It was after one of these moments that I came to my senses to see a very disturbing sight.
With her bare skin pimpled with gooseflesh, and the soft hills of her breasts reaching hard, erect peaks, she lay bound and gagged. Though she was set against the familiar sheets of my own bed, her discomfort was a stark contrast. She squirmed against her restraints, only pulling them tighter still. I could tell she was not tied for long, but the skin under the taught rope was already beginning to redden. Smoky, dark lines of makeup streaked wetly down her cheeks as she looked up at me, her eyes darted from me to the closed door I blocked.
It didn’t take long after noticing the steel utility knife on the nightstand that I began to piece things together. This was why I felt so inexplicably angry, so frustrated. I immediately was brought back to the overwhelmingly loud electronic pulse of the club. She thought the smoke and bright lights would hide her. Oh, but I saw. I saw the sultry, longing look in her eyes as she pulled him aside. The way her hips gyrated to the beat. The way she tugged at his collar, luring him closer still.
Tonight this bitch was going to pay for what she did.
I never thought I would ever be capable of murder, but it was much easier than I thought it would be. Once she was cut her spasms only lasted a few moments. Soon, she looked to me like nothing more than a twine-tied roast in a pool of its own juices. I sat on the edge of the bed and wiped the sweat from my brow, my breath still heavy with exhilaration. After letting my adrenaline dissipate a little, I knew I had to take immediate action. A million thoughts raced through my head; where to hide the body, how to clean the sheets, what to do with the blade.
Though it seemed the least important at the time, the first thing I decided to tackle was disposing of her belongings. I scanned the room before finding a bra-topped pile of clothes in the corner. I picked them up in hopes of stuffing them into a bag and taking them somewhere to dump, when something slipped from one of the pockets.
I picked it up off the floor, and after scanning it a few times over to make sure I was reading right, I felt my hand begin to shake and my legs give out from under me. I knew upon reading this that it was not just the moments leading up to this that had slipped my mind.
For there, at the top of the small card picturing a busty woman, in plain, black type, was printed:
“Ruby Ravenous
Gentleman’s Escort
Binding Specialist”
Your Stories / Re: Tursiops
« Last post by Secoura on 05:47:22 PM 04/23/17 »
I really like this story and the way it went from an odd situation to revealing what was going on.  The writing is excellent.
General Discussion / Re: Not So Much A Face Reveal.
« Last post by Ignis Purgamentum on 04:41:50 PM 04/21/17 »
Story Critique / Old Lady Havers
« Last post by Deerpoob on 04:32:02 PM 04/21/17 »
Our little town has a strange tradition.

Every valentine's day, we would hang out these straw dolls, always two of them, hung at the neck from the front porch near the door.  You might ask why we have such a macabre tradition on Valentine's. Well then, let me tell you about old lady Havers.

Old lady Havers was a medicine woman of sorts. She lived outside of town and she was weird. She'd keep cats, rabbits, mice and insects in her little hut, and hang dozens of different herbs, some of which no one could recognize, from her rafters. But she was kind and soft, and always willing to help anyone who came to her.

Anyways, the old woman had a… strange tradition. It was said that young lovers who weren't meant to be would go to her to be wedded. Sons and daughters from families that didn't get along (or that got along too well), star crossed lovers if you're being romantic. The tradition for this ceremony, or so I'm told, was the binding of the two around the neck with a necklace of flowers, a symbol of nature's acceptance of their union or some such. The two would usually elope then, and not be heard from for many years, if at all. And yet the stories were believed enough that when something finally went wrong, the townsfolk acted on it as if this blasphemous ceremony was real.

A young couple was found out in the woods just a few miles out of town near the river, hung by their necks, back-to-back, arms intertwined, hanging like a twisted rotting fruit from an old oak. Old lady Havers didn't stand a chance, and she was dragged out of her home and given only the most cursory of trials before she herself was hung for murder and witchcraft.

Now this all took place when I was young, but the stories still linger, and the superstition of couples never entering the woods by the overgrown path that leads to old lady Havers’ place still holds clout. And every once in awhile, a traveller might stumble into town saying they saw a pair of hanging corpses off in the distance, or an old woman slinging a large object hanging from a rod over her shoulder, walking through the mist.
Story Critique / Stacy's Love Story
« Last post by Skill Flea on 04:17:00 PM 04/21/17 »
He had the appearance of your average skinny white guy. Probably in his late twenties, living on his own in a beautiful home by the lake. Stacy knew his bedroom was on the second floor because on weekdays the lights in the house would be off by 10-10:30 pm, except for the room adjacent to the largest window of the house. Perhaps he was doing really well for himself or he simply inherited the large estate from his family. The backstories never seemed to interest her for one reason or another. After watching him for some time, she decided that his schedule made him seem robotic. Human beings are incredibly intelligent creatures but are victimized by their predictable habits. With this man, he always hid his spare house key under a fake rock, which laid under a thorny rose bush.

If there was any glitches in his robotic-like schedule they would occur on Fridays. He would often come home very late that day and would walk up his driveway with a huge stupid grin on his face, a contradiction to his normal routine. Nothing wrong with having a little fun, though he probably shouldn’t be at the wheel. The best approach was to use the nightfall as cover on a Friday, then slip into his house using the spare and walk right in. Stacy had the brains but didn’t have the brawn, so avoiding an initial altercation was a necessity for success.

She picked her target day and the plan went off without a hitch. Armed with latex gloves, an overcoat, and a bag of goodies; she was inside and soon had the place to herself. Her goal was to find the master bedroom and set everything up before he got back home, so she went upstairs to scope out what she had to work with. There was nothing particularly interesting or noteworthy, except for the queen-sized bed that acted as the centerpiece for the room. Stacy took her hand and began feeling the soft, smooth fabric of the linen bed sheets. By the time she was done sniffing the pillows, she could feel her knees weaken in anticipation and stepped out to find a bathroom.   

Once inside, she let her bag drop to the tiled floor with a loud clang. She began to strip and soon found herself in the shower massaging her breasts. As her right hand began to travel southward and she could feel her heart pumping loudly in her chest. She took the time to memorize the rhythm and focused on the crescendo of the beat with every passing second. Her fingers began moving faster and soon she found herself on the ground in total bliss. The concoction of adrenalin and dopamine rapidly rushed through her veins and completely overtook her within a few minutes. She finished a lot quicker than she had anticipated.

While everyone occasionally enjoys a pleasing appetizer, Stacy was now ready for the main course. She stepped out of the shower and attempted to quickly dry herself off. Then she paused to assess how she looked in the mirror. Stacy knew that she had a great bod but wished she had more of her mom’s genes or, at the very least, didn’t have her father’s chicken legs. She applied her make-up, lipstick, and eye-liner and was ready to go. Heaving the bag over her shoulder, she opened the bathroom door, and stepped out into the hallway.

Stacy let her bag drop to the carpeted floor with a loud clang and her spirits dropped with them. A very familiar man sat right outside the bathroom door, arm’s length from her, in a chair that had not previously been there. Stacy simply stood there, unable to react as the naked man looked at her and slowly grabbed her by the throat. He began choking her and violently dragged her towards the bedroom where she continued to struggle. Completely overpowered, she soon felt herself being chloroformed, followed by being haphazardly thrown onto the bed like a rag doll. Stacy heard the distant sound of metallic objects being dumped out of a bag before passing out.         


Story Critique / Dreams
« Last post by lavecki on 04:08:36 PM 04/21/17 »
Growing up, I always knew what I wanted to be. A husband and a father. It was my dream. There was nothing in this world that I had wanted more.
I met Lidia at college. The first time I saw her I swear my heart stopped. I knew this woman would be my wife. We were in the same classes and after a couple weeks I managed to ask her out. Of course I fumbled over my words, and my hands were shaking I was so nervous, but I got them out and she smiled and accepted. After that it was a whirlwind.
I proposed to her a couple years after that and she accepted. We had a two year engagement, saving up by working multiple jobs so we could afford our wedding. It was the happiest time of my life. That is, until a few months after we were married.
The test was positive. We were having a baby. My dreams were finally coming true. I was a husband and soon I would be a father. There was nothing more in this world that I wanted.
Funny thing about pregnancy, they sometimes result in multiple births. At the four month mark we discovered we were having twins, a boy and a girl. We were so happy. We spent the next few weeks deciding on names. Brittany and Brian.
I bought a crib and filled a closet full of clothes. They were so small that my hand could fill the outfits. Lidia would laugh at this. She was so beautiful when she smiled.
We were sitting around at about eight months. Lidia suddenly grabbed her abdomen and screamed. She looked at me and, through gritted teeth, exclaimed that something was wrong. We rushed to the emergency room. I think I ran more than a few red lights but I didn’t care. When we got there she was rushed into an operating room and I was shunted aside.
Worry, dread, panic, fear, this was all I felt as I sat on a cold blue plastic bench, waiting to see what would become of my wife. A doctor came out. He asked, “We might not be able to save your wife and the babies, who should we save if it comes to that?” Who should they save? Who. I pleaded with him to save my wife. We could always make another child but there was only one Lidia. I don’t remember him leaving.
I remember him coming back though. My wife had bled out. Apparently one of the babies had become detached in utero and caused an abdominal bleed. “Brittany” had also not made it. I was led into a room where my son was. A nurse handed him to me.
And there I was, holding a crying infant. I looked down at him and all I could see was the monster who killed my wife. I set him down and walked away. Surely someone would want him. Dreams don’t always come true.
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