Hope You BAMFs Missed This Pretty Face
Oh. My. God.
Put your hand up if you thought I was dead?!
I'm not!
Pretty exciting.
Since the last time I posted some sort of filler as to why, oh why, I hadn't posted earlier a person of whom I don't remember got all, "Hey AmericanAffair. YA'LL CAN'T DO THAT!" So I won't.
But. It includes. Uhm.
*Montage of me fucking around in my room*
Lots of important things.
But I'm back! Back with motherfucking vulgar. And I'm back and ready for some new ideas. Back and ready for...
YOUR SUPER SECRET WELL KEPT HIDDEN LUSCIOUS DESIRES PART 2!
I really hope you remember part 1. It was back when I was just a teensy, tiny, little horny perv who wanted SEX. SEX. SEX.
However, I've grown up in the past 3 months. Fuck yes I have. Seriously, I've learned how to jack off AND type homework. You know what kinda skill that takes?
Kidding. I don't do my homework, silly.
Anyway. I hope you all remember it from before, because this time has some tweaks and I'm too much of a lazy asshole to copy and paste. Just type out a pretty little comment below that, instead of just containing some hawwwtt ass sex requests, may or may not also contain something I consider DIFFICULT or CHALLENGING.
And for you kiddos who haven't seen the writer development going on down here, and for all you fuckers who are gonna pull a
OH. MY. GOD. AMERICANAFFAIR IS SUCH A FUCKING WHOORE BITCH SLUT. SHE DIDN'T GET MOD APPROVAL.
*coughcoughdarkbluerain coughcough*
Here's a little piece of something I wrote out a short while ago.
Buried six feet under six layers of flesh, exsisting is whoever you think you love. It's hard to see if it's for the one and only me. Because it's feeling like living a lie, nothing less than a pawn to games life play. Fingers once thought they held the upper deck, is it stupidity or naievity?
Break down the body like a cardboard box, brittle bones snap with the inhale of stale air nowadays. Lock it away, the general public isn't ready for a massacre of which to this degree. And did we not see it coming, but lift not a finger? Are we any better than a man with a ticking bomb strapped to his chest and a fear to keep him secured in lies?
To which, this makes no sense. And to whom it implys and specifically addressed is neither you nor I.
All that makes sense is this is not what I thought. This is bigger than it should have got. I could've been, should've been, would've been. You might've been, should've been, would never have been.
Disgraceful. Dishonest. Discommuncative. Disloyal. Disapproving.
Denying?
Shut your pretty lips while they're still there with a swipe of tongue and a dash of teeth. Seal intoxocated moans and groans like a creaking haunted house. And keep those pesky, wandering hands to yourself. Manners are seemingly hard to comeby.
And I thought you said I'm so much better than this.
He's got his hands all fucking over you. “You're beautiful. I love you. Touch me. Let me touch you. You like that, baby? Yeah. Get on your knees. Expensive bitch.”
He's got his claim all fucking over you. “I know you said no biting. But you look so much better brusied.”
“Oh,” is that your voice? No, it couldn't be. The prodigy son moaning for a man for his cash? No. “God, yes, there.” Impossible. Highly unlikely. Someone else is controlling your vocal chords. It feels better to convince yourself you're a marionette.
“You like that?” Tempted to classify these noises he's making as purring, and to the unexperienced ear, it would sound like it. But the guy on his back was a KFC and McDonald's stockholder, half of their yearly revenue looked like it was inside his bloody guts. At least he'd probably taste good to a cannibal, if not a little over salted. The guy on his back is making noises like a monster truck engine. Huge, loud, and grunting.
“More,” that's what a real purr sounds like.
“More what?” His sweaty fingers are clasped around his fragile hips as his thrusts produce a distinct slap of balls to skin.
“More,” you roll your eyes. “Daddy.” Your voice squeaks slightly whenever faking a moan, knowing of the need to get off because this other dude is close and your cock is just hardly leaking pre-cum.
“Bitch,” that same fat palm slaps your ass and leaves a perfect five-star symbol on the pale skin. “Tell me you want it harder.”
“I want it, more, more,” there is no way those are your moans. Inside the head, furiously is the brain trying to focus himself on somewhere completely aware from here. A scene that didn't reflect on this. The would've's. The could've's. The possibilities. And the sex.
Your free hand was madly jerking running up and down your impressive length, as the guy was ramming ass like a machine in the worst of ways.
“Cum for me, slut, all over your fucking hand,” he orders, tightening the hold because he doesn't want to let loose first.
And you obligie with a loud moan, almost scream, and screwing eyes shut when that feeling of this fat ass cumming inside, wanting to vomit. At least you made him put a rain coat on. Those I'll pay extra's are never worth it. Prostitute knowledge.
The mirror was giving a dirty reflection back of his face, streaked heavily with lines from tears cutting down his cheeks and eyes bloodshot and coated in a ring of red from wiping away the evidence that can't be hidden.
Water was running from the tap, finger perched in the steady fall until the temperature felt freezing enough to make color return to the paler than average complexion he currently adorned.
Cupping shakey hands under the faucet, he brought the water to his lips and swallowed harshly, coughing at the same time. A gasp of air later, he regained average breathing pace and turned the switch to bring the stream from waterfall to steady, never ending drip.
Inside his rib cage beat his heart, fragile and weary after so many attempts of break and tear. Outside of the muscle, the ribs themselves were just hardly staying intact. Every intake of fresh air felt like being punched in the stomach and chest, making breathing just that much more useless and painful.
Maybe if he stopped breathing, it would go away. His eyes would glaze over with a haze of happiness, he'd collapse on the linoleum bathroom floor, underneath the dripping sink. Legs would buckle underneath his light weight, and no one would even find them until someone wondered why the apartment smelt like death and the bills weren't being paid.
In a casket he could sleep forever. No one can hurt you when your six feet under. Buried with, at least, whatever dignity he had left. In a casket he could finally fade away.
Everyone wants to be noticed, thats what they say. Make them remember your name, because when your gone, that's all they've got left.
Not he. He wanted to disappear without a trace. Run away, nothing more than a name you can't remember with a face. He wanted to let his parents forget about the son they'd never really had, and forget about the choices they wish he'd never really made.
In a cheap casket, the most unexpensive they could find. In a cheap blanket. In his cheap clothes. Embedded in the Earth, worth about as much history as a dead rat.
You know you're far gone when death looks like a pretty nice forever vacation. You know you're already dead when Hell is here and happiness comes in a simple 666.
It just felt stupid. Idiotic. It was like skipping stones on a paper ocean. The truth underneath the fragile pulp will always break through. There was a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and some really old toothpaste splayed out in front of him.
“Clean yourself up,” the bellhop at the motel he'd stumbled out of said. He sounded harsh, reprimanding. Like a parent figure he craved.
Shocker, shocker, headline rocker. A boy with daddy issues. And mommy issues. Selling the body on the streets to compensate the love he never felt.
Fuck that shit.
There was five hundred dollars of fast money in his back pocket, mouth tasted like spit, and there was a bar down the street that hadn't heard of a alcohol limit since it opened up as a speakeasy. This might not be the high life, but a hit could send him flying much faster.
Just type out that comment that has something you want to see. Or just some little word or phrase that sparks something in your head and you're like, "OH! I WONDER WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF SOMEONE WROTE SOMETHING BASED OFF THIS!" Or a song lyric. Things of that nature are beautiful, and uber easy.
Damn. I missed having nights flooded with comments. But I got shit to post before the clock strikes midnight and I turn back into John Wayne Gacy Jr.
Put your hand up if you thought I was dead?!
I'm not!
Pretty exciting.
Since the last time I posted some sort of filler as to why, oh why, I hadn't posted earlier a person of whom I don't remember got all, "Hey AmericanAffair. YA'LL CAN'T DO THAT!" So I won't.
But. It includes. Uhm.
*Montage of me fucking around in my room*
Lots of important things.
But I'm back! Back with motherfucking vulgar. And I'm back and ready for some new ideas. Back and ready for...
YOUR SUPER SECRET WELL KEPT HIDDEN LUSCIOUS DESIRES PART 2!
I really hope you remember part 1. It was back when I was just a teensy, tiny, little horny perv who wanted SEX. SEX. SEX.
However, I've grown up in the past 3 months. Fuck yes I have. Seriously, I've learned how to jack off AND type homework. You know what kinda skill that takes?
Kidding. I don't do my homework, silly.
Anyway. I hope you all remember it from before, because this time has some tweaks and I'm too much of a lazy asshole to copy and paste. Just type out a pretty little comment below that, instead of just containing some hawwwtt ass sex requests, may or may not also contain something I consider DIFFICULT or CHALLENGING.
And for you kiddos who haven't seen the writer development going on down here, and for all you fuckers who are gonna pull a
OH. MY. GOD. AMERICANAFFAIR IS SUCH A FUCKING WHOORE BITCH SLUT. SHE DIDN'T GET MOD APPROVAL.
*coughcoughdarkbluerain coughcough*
Here's a little piece of something I wrote out a short while ago.
Buried six feet under six layers of flesh, exsisting is whoever you think you love. It's hard to see if it's for the one and only me. Because it's feeling like living a lie, nothing less than a pawn to games life play. Fingers once thought they held the upper deck, is it stupidity or naievity?
Break down the body like a cardboard box, brittle bones snap with the inhale of stale air nowadays. Lock it away, the general public isn't ready for a massacre of which to this degree. And did we not see it coming, but lift not a finger? Are we any better than a man with a ticking bomb strapped to his chest and a fear to keep him secured in lies?
To which, this makes no sense. And to whom it implys and specifically addressed is neither you nor I.
All that makes sense is this is not what I thought. This is bigger than it should have got. I could've been, should've been, would've been. You might've been, should've been, would never have been.
Disgraceful. Dishonest. Discommuncative. Disloyal. Disapproving.
Denying?
Shut your pretty lips while they're still there with a swipe of tongue and a dash of teeth. Seal intoxocated moans and groans like a creaking haunted house. And keep those pesky, wandering hands to yourself. Manners are seemingly hard to comeby.
And I thought you said I'm so much better than this.
He's got his hands all fucking over you. “You're beautiful. I love you. Touch me. Let me touch you. You like that, baby? Yeah. Get on your knees. Expensive bitch.”
He's got his claim all fucking over you. “I know you said no biting. But you look so much better brusied.”
“Oh,” is that your voice? No, it couldn't be. The prodigy son moaning for a man for his cash? No. “God, yes, there.” Impossible. Highly unlikely. Someone else is controlling your vocal chords. It feels better to convince yourself you're a marionette.
“You like that?” Tempted to classify these noises he's making as purring, and to the unexperienced ear, it would sound like it. But the guy on his back was a KFC and McDonald's stockholder, half of their yearly revenue looked like it was inside his bloody guts. At least he'd probably taste good to a cannibal, if not a little over salted. The guy on his back is making noises like a monster truck engine. Huge, loud, and grunting.
“More,” that's what a real purr sounds like.
“More what?” His sweaty fingers are clasped around his fragile hips as his thrusts produce a distinct slap of balls to skin.
“More,” you roll your eyes. “Daddy.” Your voice squeaks slightly whenever faking a moan, knowing of the need to get off because this other dude is close and your cock is just hardly leaking pre-cum.
“Bitch,” that same fat palm slaps your ass and leaves a perfect five-star symbol on the pale skin. “Tell me you want it harder.”
“I want it, more, more,” there is no way those are your moans. Inside the head, furiously is the brain trying to focus himself on somewhere completely aware from here. A scene that didn't reflect on this. The would've's. The could've's. The possibilities. And the sex.
Your free hand was madly jerking running up and down your impressive length, as the guy was ramming ass like a machine in the worst of ways.
“Cum for me, slut, all over your fucking hand,” he orders, tightening the hold because he doesn't want to let loose first.
And you obligie with a loud moan, almost scream, and screwing eyes shut when that feeling of this fat ass cumming inside, wanting to vomit. At least you made him put a rain coat on. Those I'll pay extra's are never worth it. Prostitute knowledge.
The mirror was giving a dirty reflection back of his face, streaked heavily with lines from tears cutting down his cheeks and eyes bloodshot and coated in a ring of red from wiping away the evidence that can't be hidden.
Water was running from the tap, finger perched in the steady fall until the temperature felt freezing enough to make color return to the paler than average complexion he currently adorned.
Cupping shakey hands under the faucet, he brought the water to his lips and swallowed harshly, coughing at the same time. A gasp of air later, he regained average breathing pace and turned the switch to bring the stream from waterfall to steady, never ending drip.
Inside his rib cage beat his heart, fragile and weary after so many attempts of break and tear. Outside of the muscle, the ribs themselves were just hardly staying intact. Every intake of fresh air felt like being punched in the stomach and chest, making breathing just that much more useless and painful.
Maybe if he stopped breathing, it would go away. His eyes would glaze over with a haze of happiness, he'd collapse on the linoleum bathroom floor, underneath the dripping sink. Legs would buckle underneath his light weight, and no one would even find them until someone wondered why the apartment smelt like death and the bills weren't being paid.
In a casket he could sleep forever. No one can hurt you when your six feet under. Buried with, at least, whatever dignity he had left. In a casket he could finally fade away.
Everyone wants to be noticed, thats what they say. Make them remember your name, because when your gone, that's all they've got left.
Not he. He wanted to disappear without a trace. Run away, nothing more than a name you can't remember with a face. He wanted to let his parents forget about the son they'd never really had, and forget about the choices they wish he'd never really made.
In a cheap casket, the most unexpensive they could find. In a cheap blanket. In his cheap clothes. Embedded in the Earth, worth about as much history as a dead rat.
You know you're far gone when death looks like a pretty nice forever vacation. You know you're already dead when Hell is here and happiness comes in a simple 666.
It just felt stupid. Idiotic. It was like skipping stones on a paper ocean. The truth underneath the fragile pulp will always break through. There was a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and some really old toothpaste splayed out in front of him.
“Clean yourself up,” the bellhop at the motel he'd stumbled out of said. He sounded harsh, reprimanding. Like a parent figure he craved.
Shocker, shocker, headline rocker. A boy with daddy issues. And mommy issues. Selling the body on the streets to compensate the love he never felt.
Fuck that shit.
There was five hundred dollars of fast money in his back pocket, mouth tasted like spit, and there was a bar down the street that hadn't heard of a alcohol limit since it opened up as a speakeasy. This might not be the high life, but a hit could send him flying much faster.
Just type out that comment that has something you want to see. Or just some little word or phrase that sparks something in your head and you're like, "OH! I WONDER WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF SOMEONE WROTE SOMETHING BASED OFF THIS!" Or a song lyric. Things of that nature are beautiful, and uber easy.
Damn. I missed having nights flooded with comments. But I got shit to post before the clock strikes midnight and I turn back into John Wayne Gacy Jr.