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Chocolate Fetish
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Chocolate Fetish
I always wondered how long it would be before my Queen-size bed would absorb—steal, crunch, with that stuffing and springs—my chocolates.

(Chapter One--Part One)
[765 words]
Iniquity Asylum

Welcome to hell, all those who have entered my own personal paradise, filled with suffering and damned souls crying for forgiveness. I offer my most humble welcomes and extend a special offer to those looking for a little...clemency--what little I have. The only thing that I ask is that you tender your flawed and stationary psyche, and I offer you a warning in substitution: Don't believe your eyes, don't believe your ears, don't believe anything that you are, were, or think you will be. For if you do, you shall sure fall into my trap, and I shall kill you slowly under these illusions.

Just sit tight, and listen to what I say, for this may be the most life saving, and important thing you listen.

Forget everything about yourself, who you think you are, will be, or can be. Listen to me, and everything I say, for that's the only way you will survive in this world of illusions.

[February 2007]
[email protected]
Blood-Stained (Short Stories) I sighed and realized that tonight was another night that I would have to deal with a broken heart alone. Yes, a broken heart, being slowly nursed by a bottle of liquor to give me great thoughts. [1,672 words] [Psychology]
Chocolate Fetish
Iniquity Asylum

Part One
“Chocolate Fetish”


I threw myself to the bed, fatigue soaked and etched deep in every muscle of my body. ‘What time is it?’ My mind asks my body, or maybe it was the other way around, and I, with much reluctance, looked up at the clock. One-twenty-four a.m. in bold neon green numbers answers my mind’s or body’s or whose-ever question. I congratulated myself silently; this was the first time in many, many insomnia filled nights that I had gotten home when it was still dark. With abhor, I moved my new seemingly impossible goal to get home before 12:00 a.m.

I snorted in amusement. It took me three months to remember that I had an extra key hidden under a rock under my living-room window-sill, and another two to remember to set my house alarm. I sighed and slowly crawled towards my large black pillows. I stretched my hand under the crack between the two largest ones, and closed my eyes, ready to hear the familiar cringle of my emergency candy bag {chocolate for bad hair days, atrocious dates, severe PMSing, excruciating cramps i.e.} only to hear silence. My head shoot up from it’s resting position on my—seemingly boneless—arm, and I frantically throw pillows to the floor, desperately searching for my {poor} missing chocolates; but there was just an oddly blank and lonely spot on my bed where the chocolates were suppose to be. I glared at the ‘innocent’ spot.

I always wondered how long it would be before my Queen-size bed would absorb—steal, crunch, with that stuffing and springs—my chocolates.

I absently left my thoroughly hygienic bedroom to an abhorrent time when I had a diminutive affair with some (I wish) erotically attentive Brazilian. When I said short, I didn’t even get to abnegate (sometimes annoying and vexing) virginity! The guy had some kind of “party” (which I was not invited to) where (sadly many of) the exotic and foreign women went from a delicious sort of praline delicacy to ponderous and repulsive women. There was heavy potation happening that night. Unfortunately, (or possible horrible fortunately depending on the way you looked at it) I just happened to crash the party.

The “affair”, if you call it that, barely lasted a day.

And here I was stuck here without chocolate, a freakin’ virgin, and no man. And it was the weekend. I sighed. My girlfriends always said that vibrators were the best substitution. I sat up, turned to my night-stand drawer and rummaged around for that vibrator my girlfriends bought me (along with countless sex toys) for my twenty-third birthday. Now here I was, a year later and I still hadn’t used them. I held the pink instrument in my hand and looked at it. ‘So I have sunk so low as to masturbate? To the lowest pitch of abject fortune thou art fallen. Or is it a woman made abject by loneliness?’ I threw the disgusting object across the room. I could. I wouldn’t. I wasn’t that desperate. Besides…

I wasn’t even that horny.

My regular—yes, regular, even for a wealthy girl—caller id phone rung suddenly, jotting me out of my self-loathing and disgust. I was tempted—boy was I, and besides who would call me at, another look at the clock told me it was now 1:36 a.m.—to not answer. But who knew whom it could be. Serial killer, prankster, or worse yet, her “boss”? { The one who believed that I should be in a porno with me ‘ripe and voluptuous’ breast? I still shudder at the thought} I picked up the phone anyway.

“ Hello?” I asked, surprised. I didn’t sound tired—more like…terrorified, I almost laughed then calmed myself down.

“ What are you wearing right now?” The voce had a heavy accent I couldn’t place.

I frowned, the voice sounded familiar. It was deep and husky…and arousing. I turned and pressed the red button ‘RECORD’. “ What was that again?” I asked.

“ I said, what are you wearing right now?” The voice stressed ever syllable. Why was the voice so familiar? With my photogenic memory, I should’ve guessed who it was, but I couldn’t, and it annoyed the hell out of me.

“ A big sign that says, ‘Come fuck me now.’” I replied sarcastically.

There was a deep and full chuckle. “ I’ll be right there.”

The line clicked dead. I frowned at the phone, pressing the stop button. I hung up the phone and played back the brisk conversation three times. I hit stop one last time and let the last sentence play back once more. ‘ I’ll be right there.’ That sounded too much like a promise.



"Is there a part 2! 'coz i really want to read a part 2. in case you can't tell, i liked the story. it was good besides the spelling mistake i picked up on. still good though! Keep writing!! Better rating with part 2!!" -- lucy.


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© 2007 Iniquity Asylum
February 2007

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