Diary Of An Oxygen Thief Novels & Stories

David's snoring in the bed beside me, oblivious to what had happened. His arm slung over the pillow where my head should be. But I'm here, in the dim glow of my phone screen, scribbling this out in my diary, because if I don't, it'll eat me alive. Today wasn't just a slip; it was a dive, headfirst into something I've been circling for months. Or years, if I'm honest. ***** At Zephyra Art Gallery, I didn't just let it happen. I started it. Me. Poppy. The good wife, the one who packs David's lunch with snacks, fruit and love notes. What the hell is wrong with me?

My first memoir in a new diary. My old diary was filled with stories and stories of girls I've fucked and turned but after this incident that happened on 23/4/2027 I had to start a new diary. So... I was angry that mum was remarrying. I really hate the thought that she couldn't keep her pussy at check after dad's death and jumped into another man's arms. However, she kept reassuring me that it's going to be fine but I hate it as hell.

She set it on the ottoman and opened the latch. The lock was broken. Her breath caught in her throat. “No. No, no—” she whispered. The box was empty. Her diary was gone. Her most intimate confessions, written in the rawest moments of pain and hope. Every twisted memory from Russia. Every wound Cynthia left on her skin and soul. Every moment of self-loathing, every hesitant word about Damian… even that one vivid entry—the night she gave herself to him, trembling, finally feeling safe. All of it. Gone.

“Oh, you guys are not going to believe this. Our little spy is a massive freak.” I adjusted my posture, holding the diary up to the ambient light of the limo. “‘If he pushed me against the bookshelves, I wouldn’t even fight back,’” I read, my voice dripping with dark amusement. “‘I want him to take control. I want him to rip this stupid sweater off me. I can practically feel his hands gripping my thighs, bruising my skin, pushing his huge dick inside my tight and wet aching pussy while he whispers my name…’”

Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, Oliver crouched beside me with a small notebook in hand and solemnly read aloud his thought report from the night before. "...In summary, when my owner blasted weird, loud, and annoying noises on the outdoor dancer speaker yesterday, she profoundly expressed her unique insight into postmodern deconstructive art. Her uniquely independent spirit deeply captivated me. "I love her so much that I'm drawn to her like a moth to a flame." He finished reading and looked at me expectantly. "My owner, did I use that phrase correctly?" "Half correct," I said, mixing paint without looking up. "You're definitely the moth, but I'm not the flame; I'm an electric bug zap

"Each time, it grows sweeter. Each time, your husband’s love seasons the meat. You are a exquisite vintage, my little bird. And I am so very thirsty." With a sudden, violent shove, the entity threw me forward. I hit the floor hard, my palms scraping against the loose floorboards I had just pried open. The diary—my precious lifeline—skidded across the stone and disappeared under the heavy wardrobe. I gasped for air, the oxygen burning my lungs like fire. I scrambled to my feet, spinning around to face the room. It was empty. The sunlight was streaming through the high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The shattered vase of lilies lay on the floor, the water soaking into

O’er cliff and cave, through mist and gloom, She carries life back to the womb. A phantom swift, a breath, a sigh, The thief who makes the dragons cry. Skylar I jolt awake, disoriented because of the very real dream I was having where a golden dragon was talking to me. I shake my head. Okay, maybe that wasn’t a dream. Maybe that was real. Or was it? “My lady! My lady, you have to get up. The thief stole the egg! King Augustus is furious!” one of my maids says.

He whispered, taunting. I rubbed my legs together, needing some friction there. “Keep those legs apart, ruby. Spread them wider.” “Please,... Doctor, I… please…” I tried to keep them apart, my body squirming uncontrollably like a worm laced with salt. I rubbed my thighs together, but it wasn't enough. I needed penetration to release the pressure. “Please what ruby? You think I don't notice how you stare at me all day at book club? “Mmmm.” I whimpered like a pathetic slut.

She doesn't even get a chance to open her bag or write in her diary before the lecturer screams at them to open their books. So, she takes her favourite therapy method and disguises it inside her book. She randomly starts doodling. There are so many things to write. Dear Diary… The way he looked at her last night. He genuinely stared. And the things he said. She starts scratching his name again. Over and over, filling the margin until the ink runs thick. D.O.R.I.A.N Then, the glowing eyes… The way he could track her pulse… There’s the enemy complication. So many intricate puzzles to solve. So little time.

Terrifyingly, horribly awake. I stepped closer despite myself, my feet moving against every instinct to run. My mouth hung open as I took in the details—each photo was of me. Not just one, not just a handful. Me, in dozens of places, dozens of moments. Old photos, some faded with time, dating back six years. And new ones—chillingly recent, one from just last week. The arrangement was methodical, precise. From floor to ceiling, pinned in perfect rows, each picture dated in small handwriting at the top corner. It was not random obsession—it was a diary. My diary. My life, stolen and catalogued without my consent.