Anonymous Diary Books Novels & Stories

THE ACT OF SUBMISSION CLAIRE ANDERSON (FL) — 21YRS JEREMY GEOFFREY (ML) — 27YRS Claire Anderson, was that rebellious student that always comes late to classes, sleeps during classes and talks down on teachers when they try to punish her.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about. Just some old notes. Private shit.” Private. Yeah right. The word only made my curiosity burn hotter, mixing with the ache in my cock that hadn’t gone down one bit. While he stood up to grab another bottle of whiskey from the bar cart across the room, I leaned forward quickly and clicked on the locked file. A password prompt popped up. Fuck. I tried the obvious ones fast,his book title, his name, the date on the manuscript. Nothing. Then on a hunch I typed in a phrase from one of his filthiest scenes. The file opened.

Those thoughts filled her mind. So today, she would finally do something about it. She had bought a brand new diary from the store. It was a special one. With leather on it and a strange P monogrammed on the cover. It was far fancier than anything the Dollar Tree should be selling. Finding it was a score that had Kristen grinning. She was enamored with her new diary. She was eager to get started on it. The diary was thick, too. She could write so many of her naughty ideas in them.

And with the black magic I have, I don't even have to recite any spells. "Layyylaa..." I hear a whisper in my head and I quickly spin in my heels to see if someone is behind me, but there's no one there. What was that? "Let me out Laylaa..." The voice says again. I remember the voice. It's coming from inside me. It keeps repeating the words "let me out, let me out, let me out." "Shut up!!" I scream while putting my hands on either side of my head and the next second, the voice is gone.

I cussed, holding my forehead. "This can't be it! There has got to be more!" I couldn't wrap my head around why anyone would lock a series of books inside a heavy safe and bury it. Frustrated, I picked up a hardback notebook, snapped the straps, and opened it. A cursive handwriting came into view. There were dates on each page of the book. I read the first page. "October 19, 1999. Entry for Research 16." "Dear diary,

The last thing I want is for Samantha to walk in on me sneaking through her stuff; she already has trust issues as it is. My eyes catch on a notebook; it looks like a diary. It has the inscription, Dark stories by twisted minds, do not open. I pick the book up, my curiosity instantly piqued. I rise from my squatting position to sit on the edge of the bed. I flip through the pages to see how many there are, and it's well gone, over 500 pages. I should drop the book out of the room the same way I worked out, but I can't.

As she searched through them, her fingers touched something hard. She pulled it out. A small brown diary. Ann stared at it. She had bought it years ago, before she married Daniel. She remembered writing in it during her younger days. Dreams. Plans. Little secrets. Things she couldn't tell anyone. She smiled sadly. She hadn't written in it since her wedding. She sat down and opened the first empty page. For several seconds, she held the pen without writing. Then she finally wrote. Dear Diary, She stopped. The words suddenly felt strange. Then she continued.

"I'm not sure. But I am almost sure no one saw me, can you tell me what is going on right now? Is it some sort of 'no touch book'?" "Well, kinda. You see that book is not a scrapbook. It's a journal." "Okay, whose journal?" "Everyone you saw their pictures there." "Wait, hold on." "Holding on." "You're telling me that that book is a diary? Like not historical data or educative, I don't know, background checks. You are saying it's a diary?" "Well, practically we go by journal but sure diary works too." "If it is a diary, why the hell is it kept in the library? I have never heard of a diary being kept in a library before."

My biggest wish now was to have as many adrenaline-pumping as special moments to record in this diary. ** Dear debauched diary... I smiled as I scribbled the introduction. I always loved to read and write, in my teens I collected diaries, diaries, random notebooks. But after a while I started to feel ridiculous keeping up this habit. Now, years later, for some reason I didn't feel lame anymore. I felt the need to transcribe my adventures and feelings on paper.

OMG! Where in the world is my diary?! I remember I have six diary books. I opened the lowest drawer of my bedside table where I put them and to my surprise, they are also gone! I tried to calm myself down, I need to think clearly. Maybe, at some point in the past, I put them somewhere. Maybe, I chose a place where I can put them so no one can accidentally read them. But where?