Love Diaries

Caution: This True Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Heterosexual, Fiction, True Story, Mystery, Safe Sex, Size, Hairy, Big Breasts, Slow, Nudism,

Desc: True Sex Story: Preface - Elle has a secret diary, where she chronicles her love adventures.

The suffering that comes from being in love is never light. I can still cast my mind back to those joyless days; days when I wriggled and juddered from hurt; nights when I sobbed in stillness while slumped down on the biting floor—scourged and aggrieved.

My nickname is Elle. By nickname, I suggest to say that it is not my factual name. I picked this label to conceal my tangible identity. Not because I enjoy doing things in secrecy. I don't. I like it better to be plain-spoken and open. As I am about to unveil my secret love stuff, I will mask the factual identities of everyone I will be giving an account of. The ensuing names are not the true names of the persons in their existent life. They are just monikers I selected.

The setting of the diary has been modified too. All place names taken down are not genuine and unbiased. They may be fictitious and imagined—or actual places that the diary events have not ever taken place.

We all transcribe private stuff into our diaries, don't we? I believe so. I made up my mind to go a step further and put into writing a Love Diary. In this chronicle, I file and document my love adventures and ordeals, depending whether I am in the feeling to pen anything—or perhaps I feel like not recording whatever thing.

When I was growing up into an adult and tall, it never smacked me to realize I would fall in love some destined day. I was aware of love and bits and pieces like that. Yet linking such facts to myself seemed illogical and senseless. I delighted in being a kid. I solely wanted to be a minor and not grow up into adulthood.

Whenever my mates chattered about kissing, hugging, and principally being in love, I constantly became shy and nervous. Such 'nonsense' made me feel like a fish out of water. I would have rather talked about sports and movies than falling in love.

Then came my season of transformation; I am not precisely sure how I came to become this bold and daring. I am speculating that fear just slipped away from me. I am now dauntless and fearless. I don't mind what someone thinks and says about me. What matters is living my life and handling it the way I precisely want it to be ushered.

I was still my nervous self when I dated for the first time. I didn't have the courage to move towards this guy and also make him aware, "Hey, you have seized my attention and thoughts, you know?"

Mulley was the first guy I dated. He was the one who stepped his way to me, time and again—until I at last felt at ease and relaxed around him. He had a silly mannerism of making me chuckle and creasing up my cheeks at him. Then he would censure me for giggling too hard at his killing jokes. Honestly speaking, he was an excellent dude. No uncertainties about it!

Three years onward following my first time falling in love, I stumbled on online dating by a stroke of unplanned luck. I had no scheme to date on the internet. It was just something that came about. I caught myself wholly dazzled and spellbound to contend it; it was like when you have fared off your way to the prom, and upon arriving there, you unintentionally hit into this impressive guy who holds on to you fast enough and checks you from falling.

When you stare into his crystal-like shimmering eyes, you cannot refuse him from keeping you tight in his arms. He is your reality version of Prince Charming, extraordinary and jaw-dropping.

That is what online dating was to me. It doesn't cease there on the internet. It gently worms its way into reality so that you at last end up in the tender but athletic arms of that person who victoriously won your heart.

"Karrie, hi! This is Elle." I sound vague and in two minds as I speak on the phone. My home is Las Vegas, Nevada. Karrie settles in Manhattan, New York. Yes. We are widths of spaces apart. Yet we unfailingly are in unbroken conversation and contact.

"Elle pretty, how are you, my love?"

Karrie is my china—or closest friend. Not my lover. We don't have to be misconstrued for that. I am on my knees. "Please!"

"Sugar, I am okay. The bitter weather is torturing me here. You know how much I hate freezing towns like Vegas."

"Has he written to you yet, or phoned you?" Her voice is anxiously expecting and suspicious of something I haven't become aware of yet. What could it exactly be? Who is this 'him' as a matter of fact?

"Who are you talking about, Karrie?" I am starting to get doubtful and edgy. Ethically speaking, I have no idea who this guy is. He could be the threatening spook of Hitler; he could be an undercover agent of Boko Haram; he could be anything wicked and demonic.

"You mean no one has dropped a note into your mailbox yet; anyone that you are friendly with?"

I think I have a clue where we are going. "Do you mean Rhys? Thus far, he is the only one who has mailed me."

"Exactly!" She sounds seriously cheerful and laid-back. "What did he say? Was he sweet like honey? Tender and soft-tempered?"

In this diary, unimagined occurrences will be stashed under the guise of fiction. Where actual events seem too visible and undisguised, I will without doubt add some small pieces of invented tales so that my objectives keep going on safely in secreted means. I don't want to disclose everything markedly clear. I am not going to do that!

So Karrie is the mastermind behind these arrangements? I should have known earlier and locked for her in the warehouse a bitter surprise. How dare she, frankly speaking?

"Karrie, you contrived this set-up with that guy—Rhys, right?"

She giggles at me like I have said something funny. I am not teasing jokes at anyone here, mind you!

"Elle, that guy positively wants you. I swear he does."


"He won't pardon me if I don't aid him in getting you. He backed me up a couple times as I was falling in love. Now he wants me to do the same exact thing for him. He is dying to have you—no any slight joking about that, my friend."

"How long have you known him? I have been friendly to him for just four months now. We scarcely talk, or text too."

"Since we were kids; say six or seven years old. I know him in person more than you do."

I can't breathe in or out. I deeply want to accomplish this. I suppose I don't have sufficient courage to work this out. "So what are you implying? That I get involved with him? Is that it?"

"You won't be remorseful that you did it in the first place, girl. Give it a try. He won't molest you, or lay a finger on you. I guarantee you."

"If he does, what do I do?"

"Come on. Don't tell me you are one of those duchesses who assume that men are foul and worthless creatures. They are not. Men are sweet but playful; in case you haven't catch on to that, girlie."

"Fine. I am going to mention a self-assured, 'Yes, ' to him then. If anything goes wrong between the two of us, it will be your guilt and burden to resolve our problem. Do you clearly hear me, Karrie?"

"I do, Elle." I can picture her smirking at me in one aching slap of a guilty conscious.

Keeping a diary is more meaningful and noteworthy that it might actually seem. I recall those old high school times. A gathering of giant schoolboys concurred to this: "Girls are such childish and senseless. They inscribe diaries, beautify them with gemstones and sparklers; they glue stickers of their best-liked celebrities on them. That is incurably witless, you know?"

It is ridiculous to keep in your possession a diary? I don't eye things in that manner. Perhaps these boys—now fully developed men—didn't have something serious and substantial to transcribe down in their diaries. I have got something noteworthy to keep a file of myself.

"Rhys. Is that you ringing me up?"

"Yes, Elle! It is me and no one else." He is right. Even his voice verifies it. His tune of speech is particularly persuasive and honeyed-like. How does he do it? Talking to me in that sugary, heart-melting manner? I can feel my knees bashing together. Even my legs are dissolving! Now I can decently and effortlessly breathe.

"I am just from talking with Karrie."

In a politely way, he roars into laughter abruptly. Has he become conscious of what I want to add up to him? It is like he can openly pore over what I am thinking in the quiescence of my head. Can he really?

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