Romans & histoires Books Similar To Diary Of An Oxygen Thief

But relaxation wasn't what I had in mind. I stood up and walked over to the bookshelf, running my fingers along the spines of the books until I found what I was looking for. The worn leather-bound volume felt heavy in my hands as I carried it over to the coffee table and opened it to the marked page. The intricate illustrations of whips, chains, and other BDSM paraphernalia made my pulse quicken with anticipation.

Something about those words pulls me in closer, and before I can stop myself, I step inside the section. Unlike the other shelves, these ones are not filled with thick books. Instead, I see journals, photo albums, records, and many leather-bound diaries lined up neatly. My hand slowly reaches for the closest one. I do not know why, but it feels like the right thing to do. The diary looks very old. Its leather cover is worn and faded from many years of useage. I open it carefully. The moment I turn to the first page, something falls out. It is a photograph, and I gasp softly in surprise.

The soft thud against the mattress was barely audible, but in the silence of the room, it felt deafening. My fingers grazed the rusted zipper. It resisted slightly before giving way with a slow, reluctant rasp. The scent of faded fabric and something inherently her curled into my nose. Inside, the contents were mundane— old clothes, everyday necessities, the kind of things that spoke of survival, not comfort. Then, my eyes landed on it. A battered book. A stack of certificates. And at the very bottom, a diary. Bingo. A slow smirk tugged at my lips. I took out my phone, adjusted the angle, and snapped a quick picture of the certificate before restoring everything else to its original place.

Chapter 2: She Tasted Like Trouble And Felt Too Familiar II They fell into an easy rhythm after that. The store was narrow, shelves leaning a little too far with secondhand fiction, occult guides, poetry chapbooks, and oddly specific memoirs no one asked for — but somehow, they sold. Aria loved it: the smell of aging paper mixed with dust, the hush that seemed to settle like a blanket, and the way time warped in corners where lives were stacked so densely on shelves you could almost hear their echoes.

Olson Embers: A Collection of Dark Fiction by Kenneth W. Cain Visions of the Mutant Rain Forest, by Bruce Boston and Robert Frazier Tribulations by Richard Thomas Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast by Jonathan Winn Flowers in a Dumpster by Mark Allan Gunnells The Dark at the End of the Tunnel by Taylor Grant Through a Mirror, Darkly by Kevin Lucia Things Slip Through by Kevin Lucia Where You Live by Gary McMahon Tricks, Mischief and Mayhem by Daniel I. Russell

I didn’t hesitate. I pulled Fifty Shades of Grey first (cliché, yes, but I needed an entry point), then The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty by Anne Rice, Story of O, a slim volume called The New Topping Book just to balance it out, and two anthologies with titles like Bound Hearts and Surrender to Me. The stack felt heavy in my arms, like contraband. I carried them to the my corner and hid them under the table. I sat down, and opened the first book.

"Everything in here might be haunted." "Yeah, but this one's got weird energy." She sliced the tape and flipped the flaps open. A mix of hardcovers and leather - bound journals, yellowed at the edges. One smelled like cloves and mildew. Another had pages stuck together with something she didn't want to name. She set them aside, one by one, cataloging quietly. Piper — cat, queen, bookstore menace — stalked over the counter like she owned it and plopped herself on the pile.

Maybe this was a side he’d kept hidden from her, a side that only came out when he was alone? The bookshelf too, was full of clues to Jacob’s secret. The Story of O . Billionaire Blackmail . Fifty Shades of Grey . Delta of Venus . Books by the Marquis de Sade and Leopold von Sacher Masoch. The Marketplace . Every book Emily selected was erotica. She wished she’d found this stash years ago. How exciting would those evenings alone have been then?

It also had nymphs drawn on the cover and side of the leaves. "There will also be a red book like aged blood, next to it will be a light blue diary, drawing clouds." The young woman went after the other books while remembering which books to pick up on which shelves to pick up. The red book had a pungent smell, as if it had been painted with blood and pain. Artemisia felt totally uncomfortable picking up that book, it was as if everything that had happened badly to her and that she had forgotten would come back with force and brutality because of that book.

He had no idea he was right in front of me all along and had been running in the wrong direction. It made this all the more pathetic for him as I watched his earthworm-like self writing in pain as he clutched his bleeding knee and head as he cried. The sight of it was pitiful. "Oh Thierry, you know I read a book once, I think it was titled THE ART OF MURDER. I learnt a lot from that book, you know. If I had you back at my home in Italy, I would have taken a page from the book and made sure to kill you with one of my personal favourites. You want to know what it is, Thierry?" I asked him, the sound of my voice getting drowned out by his stupid whimpers