Naked Twister Novels & Stories

I felt a sudden, weird breeze around my thighs. Slowly, I followed her gaze downward. The towel. The white cotton towel that was supposed to be securely knotted around my waist was currently sitting in a sad, crumpled pile on the bloody floor right between my feet. I was completely naked. My brain froze for a solid two seconds. "Gah!!" I choked out, my hands immediately flying down to cover myself, my face turning into different shades of red. Vine’s face went from pale to a deep, violently dark crimson in a split second. The paralyzing shock finally broke, and she let out a sound that didn't even sound human.

"I am apparently very bad at Twister." "You seem coordinated," I said. "I am coordinated," he said. "Twister is not about coordination. Twister is about being willing to put yourself in a ridiculous position without caring how it looks. Valentina has no ego about looking ridiculous. I, apparently, have too much." "This is a self-aware observation," I said. "She pointed it out," he said. "Many times. With supporting demonstrations." He looked at the box. "Do you play?" "I used to," I said.

Suddenly it explode in my face and its glistening glittery ashes-like parts reformed into a wand. "Woww..."I opened my palm and it rested on it slowly. As it touched my palm, I felt its pleasing coldness and smooth texture was amazing. I held it with both of my hands and checked every inch of my wand. It was fully detailed and elegant. It was Royal Blue twelve inches stick and a snowflake at the holder part where my thumb should settle. "Not bad," If I was not problematic and down, I would be jumping and bragging about how beautiful it was. I would keep saying how amazing it is. If the situation was just different. But at least, it left my mood up and brought me the courage to continue today

“Not visibly. But I can see it. You’re trying so hard to stand straight when your shoulders want to cave in.” I squeezed my face, forcing a laugh. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Mr. Wilson. You don’t know me.” “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But I’ve seen people like you before. People who carry themselves with too much pride because if they don’t, they’ll crumble.” My nails dug into the strap of my bag. “You don’t know anything about what I’ve been through.”

Outside, she could hear the sounds of family life: William on a conference call in his study, the twins arguing about something in their room, Catherine's music drifting down from upstairs. The twins were thirteen now, in eighth grade, navigating the complicated waters of adolescence. Jackson was captain of his middle school soccer team, popular and outgoing. James was in advanced art classes, quieter but confident in his own way. They were best friends despite their differences, protective of each other in the way only twins could be. Catherine was seventeen, a senior in high school, already accepted to several top universities. She'd grown into a poised, brilliant young woman who wanted to