Poppy Sinclair Novels & Stories

I imagined confronting the woman, calling her every name I knew, shaking her until she begged for mercy. The room felt smaller than ever, walls closing in. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the streetlights outside. I clenched my fists, pressed my face into the pillow, wishing I could disappear. I didn’t step out of my room. I didn’t eat. I didn’t move. But I made a silent vow: this wasn’t over. One way or another, he would pay for what he did. And that woman… she had no idea what was coming.

To the Big DILF’s cabin? I laugh so loud I snort, fingers flying. Me: His name is Nick. And yes. Daddy’s orders. Sabrina: He’s gonna ruin you. On a bearskin rug. In front of a fireplace. While holding a whiskey. Me: You’ve been real quiet since you realized you’d be into it too. Sabrina: Bitch, I encourage it. Climb that man like a jungle gym. Leave your earrings on the mantel like a power move. Me:

“But….if you talk, I won’t touch your family. Your wife. Your little girl. Three years old, right? Curly hair?” His scream tore out of him. “PLEASE! Please don’t touch them! I swear I didn’t know she was yours!” I straightened, feigning boredom. “You touched my woman,” I said quietly. “My dove.” My fingers brushed the metal table beside me. The tools. Pliers. Blades. Hooks. I picked up the pliers. His breathing turned frantic. “Tell me,” I said softly. “It was—IT WAS NINA BLAKE!” he cried. “And her stupid college friends—the SASSY group! They paid us!”