As Written In The Lewd Notebook Novels & Stories

He said winking at me "I see, so who is the top in the relationship?" Malcolm asked smirking at me "Nathan is. At first we were in the switch but I decided that being a top wasn't for many and I love being a bottom" I said smirking back "Oh, because most guys are ashamed. Being a bottom is amazing but most wouldn't understand the pleasure we get out of it. They see it as a lower stage of homosexual and they think we're actual pussies" Malcolm said to me

Amber bit her lower lip knowing that it drove the man crazy, took out a notebook and pencil and began to write. Laureti looked at her dumbfounded, eager to know how much she wrote in the little notebook, he was anxious to know, he was even about to interrupt her when she stood up and started walking to read the contents. "No sex," Andrea stared at her wide-eyed. "What are you saying?" I don't understand: Do you accept the deal or not? He asked, clenching his jaw.

a spiral-bound notebook? With exaggerated care, as if handling some priceless artifact, Caleb set the notebook on the table before her. Lila recognized it instantly - the very same journal he'd commandeered during their last confrontation, now being returned of his own volition. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, darting between the proffered item and Caleb's unreadable expression as she tried to divine the trap surely hidden within this unexpected olive branch. But Caleb merely nudged the notebook closer, then withdrew a pen from his jacket pocket. With deliberate movements, he flipped open to a blank page and began to write. Lila watched, mystified, as his meaty hand laboriously traced out a

Josephine shook her head. His eyes darkened, and he extended his slender fingers to her face. "Hand it over." Her palms were sweaty from nervousness as she gripped the book tightly. There were things she had written that should never be read by others, especially him. However, before she could think of a good excuse, Lewis leaned down, held her shoulder with one hand, and snatched the book from behind her with his other hand. Her expression immediately turned frantic, and she stood up to grab it back. However, the difference in their height was too great as he was able to block her with one hand and use the other to flip open the notebook.

It was a covered glass of orange juice, my favourite, along with some fruits, a single rose and a note. I covered my face, feeling the blush spread across my cheeks as I let out a small giggle. My heart fluttered like a hummingbird trapped in a cage as I picked up the note. It was folded in half, the crisp white paper embossed with the letter 'E' in a fancy script. My fingers trembled slightly as I unfolded it. Inside, written in a familiar, loopy handwriting, were just a few words: Good morning, beautiful. Sleep well? I'm so sorry I left you alone in bed, I had to go to the office for something urgent. I'll be back asap- E

I muffled into my palms. Through a tiny gap between my fingers I had full, shameless view. Water still streamed down his chest, his abs, his thighs—every rivulet carving the most obscene paths. His dick was bigger than Brucha’s, though shorter. Thick. Heavy. Perfect crime-scene evidence of what I’d been missing.

“It shifts the measure of a life.” She looked over at him. “We were never trying to be permanent.” “No,” he agreed. “We were trying to be permeable.” She smiled. “Let it pass through. Let it become.” --- 11:44 PM — Bedroom The notebook rested on her lap. The one they had decided not to include in the official canon. Its cover said: Notes for After. In it were pieces. Questions that they had not solved. Phrases too gentle to be clauses. Such as:

Was it perhaps? There was a flash of discomfort a tiny crack in her well-planned triumph. The notebook. That fucking journal. It was a liability as well as an idiotic childish thing full of Ivys innocent ideas and observations. It included information on Sloans whereabouts schedule and secrets. the very things they were attempting to reveal.

Taped to a worn notebook. On the inside cover, Vivienne had written: If this reaches your hands, it means I chose to trust you more than the law. That means you’re the only one who can act outside it. Isolde opened the notebook. The pages weren’t just names. They were roles. Ghostwriters. Procurement liaisons. Fund managers. Judges. Each annotated in Vivienne’s sharp, slanted hand. Some crossed out. Some circled. And then, one entry near the end had different ink.

Callahan picked up the notebook she’d left behind, flipped to a page and paused. She knew exactly which one. The smirk curled on her lips when he read it. Lines of filth, handwritten in her messy scrawl, describing exactly how she’d misbehave for a man in a tie. How she’d beg to be bent over the desk, how she’d cry when he didn’t let her finish. How discipline would feel like heaven if it came from someone who could break her in. He slammed the notebook down on his desk. “What is this?” She shrugged. “A fantasy.”