The Dumont Diaries Novels & Stories

Feverton, a town founded during the colonial days, is a sort of relic of those far-gone days. Named by the white explorer, William Lugard, the town was known by another name before the coming of the white men. Ilu Emo(Strange town.) Hundreds of stories existed about the strange occurrences in the town and even stranger stories existed about the strange people who lived there, which made people stay away. Over time, most of these stories became lost in the past, as the people of the colonized lands lost most of what made them who they were. But the truth, just like the sun, the moon, and the stars never remain hidden for long.

I step back behind the bar and pick up my glass. “Babycakes.” I smile at her when she enters the room. She looks at me awkwardly. “Yes, boss.” “Do you know whose dick you just blew?” I ask her, taking a sip from my glass. “No.” She replies with a deep, frustrated sigh. I didn't think she would. What would a seventeen-year-old runaway know about Amar Diamandis?

The windows were open, giving me a good view of the children running around downstairs. I placed my suitcases down and stood in the empty living room. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. I started writing in the old diary that was placed at the very top of my suitcase when I was seven years old. I wrote about how I became acquainted with the boy next door on the first page. His name was Dominic Hatterson, and he cried when he fell down. When I closed my eyes after pulling him back up to his feet, I saw myself in a dress in my mind.

Part of me wanted to drop to my knees right there despite the danger. The panic room door sealed behind us with that same heavy click as before. Red lights came on, showing the small space and monitors flickering to life on backup power. I plugged the USB into a secure port on the panel while Damien checked the screens for more intruders outside. “Shit look at this,” I said, scrolling through the files. Stolen manuscript pages mixed with screenshots of our private emails. The dirty ones. Me telling Damien how I wanted him to fuck my throat till I gagged. Him describing exactly how he’d breed my ass raw.

MY STEPSON. I didn't know Lucien was back from camp, when I went home early from work. My handbag placed steady on the crook of my right arm. I was about to fix my key into the door, when I noticed it was open. Kenny was away for a business trip, and Lucien, his son, was supposed to be in camp. I stepped inside, putting away my heels, the cool tile, sending a shiver up my bare legs.

, don’t make me lose respect for you!" I turned to leave, but then remembered my diary was still in his possession. I coldly added, "Give me back my diary!" "It's in my room. Want to come with me to get it?" "Forget it. It’s easy to misunderstand when a man and a woman are alone together. I’ll wait for you in the lobby." I pressed the elevator button and quickly disappeared from Dominic’s sight in my high heels. He looked up and caught a glimpse of the cut on his lip in the reflection of a shop window, chuckling softly to himself. Sure, I was a bit wild lately, but I was a lot more interesting than before, wasn’t I? Once back in his room, Dominic Blackwood quickly pulled out the thick notebo

Clement acted like he didn't even notice and kept trying to shove the bowl closer to my mouth. The more I smelled it, the more nauseous I felt. I raised my hand and pushed it away. Some of the soup sloshed out and spilled onto the blanket. Clement's face tightened, and his voice turned cold. "What is it now? We've already apologized about the avalanche. What more do you want? "Enough already. Stop pulling that long face." He sounded so impatient, as if I were being unreasonable for no reason. I looked at the soiled blanket and sighed. "I hate mutton."

​"You’re going to ruin your eyes," I said. ​Damien didn't look up from the floor. He was sitting cross-legged on the rug in the center of the dark living room, the low orange glow from the gas fireplace hitting the sharp line of his jaw. Scattered around his boots were the faded manila folders we used to keep in the kitchen drawer of our flat on Rue Saint-Denis. ​"The Paris numbers don't add up," he said. His voice was thick, dry from hours of silence. He turned a yellowed tax receipt over, his thumb tracing the old French stamp at the top. "They never did."

I wonder he has his ass fucked or not. There were even a few diaries. I picked up one and hear I found something extremely useful. It had the details of all the murders he had done with the name and accomodation of the victim. Damon should have never stored it but here he did it and now I can torture him with this. I left the place taking the diary too running down the pipe and jumping off the boundary wall....

Hi peekaboo diary. So happy that I changed the old Diary that seems to be filled with only bad memories. But I promise you, that I'm filling you with hot and steamy memories. So let's just recap about my life. I'm Rumi. I married my high school boyfriend and have two beautiful children. However, my marriage turned into divorce because of that asshole. I spent nearly 20 years with the same man, faithful, and loyal. On the eve of Christmas eve, in the northeast winters, my friend Sara and I met up at a local restaurant bar to grab some drinks and catch up on all the happenings in our lives.