Teenage Dirtbag Style 소설 & 이야기

He ran barefoot towards the other pile of garbage. Ethan rose up from another end of the garbage pile and looked overhead. He had blue-green eyes and thick, black bangs covering his forehead and his ears. He wore a peach colored, dirty and tattered sweatshirt and dirty, white knickers. He had purple bruises on his malnourished hands, mosquito bite marks on his feet and a pale, translucent skin. "What is it, Tik?" He asked as the other boy, Tik, ran towards him "Look, a perfume bottle!" He said as he shoved a fancy, French perfume bottle in front of him which read 'Eau de Cologne'

A tall man strolled gaily through the motor park; oblivious of the stares he was provoking, his cloths was the object of their stares. It was as if he had bought a variety of clothings both native and western and had decided to try them all on. He had a denim hat perched on top a dog eared style native cap the Yoruba called abetí ajá, the pointy dog ears sticking out like bat wings, a monkey jacket on a babariga robe, a pair of Jordan sneakers on a native hunters knee sized dogo shorts, he looked absolutely ridiculous in his bastardized outfit that the passerby’s concluded he was either at the early stage of lunacy or he had recently escaped from a mental home.

Hell, I didn’t even take the keys. I snuck into the room, looking around to see if maybe the police had discovered where I ran off to the moment I turned eighteen. Everything in the room was untouched, everything right where I had left it. Even the skin that I had left behind in the tub was still there, just appearing drier; less slimy. I grabbed an old plastic bag that I had used for some of my stuff, and picked up the skin, stuffing it into the bag. It felt like a thin rubber and had the stench of old pennies. I grip it tight as it threatens to slide in between my long fingers. I inhale, trying to keep the bile down, disgusted by my own cutaneous membrane. One plastic bag, partially filled

I called one of Peter’s apprentices. He ran towards my side, slightly bowing his head and waiting for my order. Bragging his well-toned biceps just wearing a ripped sleeveless shirt, knee level shorts and a high cut converse. I assume from his way of clothing he wasn’t able to join his gang in abducting Nate. While Peter and his other members are in an all-black leather concept. So classic gangster style if you ask me.

It's engraved in his skin like a brand seared into flesh. I gulp dryly and resume drawing. Down to his hip, I start tracing the outline of his shorts. The discarded one. Yes! The same one I stole and I fucked myself with, every damn year. It's not the usual neat and sweet-smelling boxers his fans are used to, this one is dirty, filthy… nasty. A perfect combo of what a girl needs to ride her pussy on and happily drip on daddy. So I give them that pleasure. I sketch out damp areas that signify a dose of his spunk, and thin slimy areas that lead to big darker areas, these one signify a lady’s wetness drooling all over.

the male replied, eyeing my disheveled appearance with caution. I must admit, I looked like a street bum. My scruffy, unkempt appearance was a disguise. The human press always loved to speculate about America's eligible bachelors like we were ripe for the pecking order. The last thing we needed was to be followed by the paparazzi. My jeans were dirty and torn at the knees, my plain black t-shirt clung to me, my boots were well worn, my hair was outgrown and creeping past my ears, merging with my beard. The only thing I carried of any value was the antique watch around my wrist that had been a gift from my grandfather. Aaron and I had borrowed Neal's truck, so to any onlookers, we were just a

His white-blond hair though, that made him easy to pick out. Jamie hoped the boy was Nate, that at the end of the day they'd save at least one kid. It was what Tabby would have wanted. The children wearing the uniforms were gone, but they still had that one snapshot of the girls talking to Nate that linked him to this. Only the camera that had caught sight of Nate on the street didn't have him in clean jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. No, he wore dirty, ripped cargo pants and at least two T-shirts layered over each other that looked dug out of the garbage. His hair was darker, probably smeared with something.

Zion already sprawls in the back like he owns the damn minivan with one arm hooked over the seat while basketball shorts sling so low the waistband are a temptation. His thighs spread wide enough to scream ‘plant your needy little ass right here, sis, and don’t pretend you haven’t been dreaming about it.’ I’m nineteen and my pussy has been on a hair-trigger for him since the day our parents swapped rings in that tacky backyard ceremony. He’s twenty-two and looks like the kind of guy who could ruin your life, film it, and make you thank him for the viral clip. I crawl in with my sundress riding up my thighs. There are no panties because Jada’s psycho ass slid into my DMs at 3 a.m. with a voic

Toby was a tall man, but she’d be willing to bet that Colin Taggart was taller by several inches and broader all the way around. Despite the cold, he wore Birkenstock sandals on his big feet, strapped over a pair of heavy wool socks, worn and frayed, but clean. Baggy khaki pants were topped by a tie-dyed T-shirt hanging down past his thighs. His hair was spectacularly orange-red and coarse like a pony’s mane; it curled and matted in a hairstyle that might have been a deliberate attempt at dreadlocks or just lack of care. He’d pulled the whole mass away from his face with a substantial, ink-stained rubber band. He hadn’t been at the funeral, she thought. She’d have

He runs his hands through his sweat-drenched hair, pacing now and working himself up. "They were wearing tattered cloaks that looked like they got kicked out of a Halloween store. Moldy. Probably smelled like a basement that flooded in 1947." He gestures wildly at nothing. “Look at this!” He twisted, inspecting an imaginary dirt on his arms. “Those bitches look like they shopped in thrift stores all their lives...very poor fashion taste" He hissed. "Who knows how many dry-cleaning cycles it will take to get graveyard funk out of your soul? I’m gonna need a silkwood shower and probably soak myself in bleach. Twice.”