Writer

I don't know where their misunderstanding came from.

They said writers are easily targeted.

I've always gotten top marks on my essays since I was little, the kind that get read aloud,

and no girl has ever liked me.

I don't like writing.

If it weren't for personal experience,

I hate fabricating an article to leave room for people's imaginations.

Everyone has always said, "Your writing is so good

, why don't you create something?" I'm not Giddens Ko;

I'm just someone without a story.

That day, she came home with me.

Actually, I had no feelings for her,

but I knew she was unusually infatuated with me.

She asked me out,

and since I was free, I agreed.

She wasn't pretty or thin,

but she always had an innocent look on her face and smiled with her round eyes.

If I had to describe her as an animal,

she was more like a dog than a cat.

The kind of loyal and silly dog.

I invited her to my house,

and I could see the hesitation in her eyes,

so I just smiled at her,

and she nodded. As soon as

I entered the house, I laid out my things and told her to sit wherever she wanted .

When I came out after changing into my loungewear,

she just stood motionless in the corner.

I smiled,

lay down on the bed, and beckoned to her, "Come sleep with me for a bit."

She took a few steps back in surprise,

but didn't run away.

I'd told her

she liked me.

I took her hand,

and she blushed all over, inching closer to me.

Then she took off her heavy coat and lay down at the other end of the bed .

"Smells so good." I rolled over and moved closer to her, smelling the rich scent of her hair; she must have washed it thoroughly before leaving.

Her body stiffened in my arms,

her round eyes staring at the ceiling without saying a word.

I had actually considered stopping there,

but when I noticed her whole body trembling as I breathed on her neck,

my desire was irreversible.

I deliberately moved closer to her, breathing heavily,

and then she went from trembling to biting her lower lip to stifle any soft sounds.

I placed my hands on her chest,

unbuttoning her clothes one button at a time.

She just kept her eyes tightly closed,

her whole body tense.

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Then I slipped my hand inside her black lace lingerie and

easily touched her nipples.

As I kneaded them,

she could no longer hold back her moans, soft and beautiful.

She didn't know that I had been masturbating to her sounds before.

I picked up a condom from the bedside table,

and she finally spoke: "You haven't been single for a long time, how come you still have this kind of thing?"

Single but with a casual sex partner, but I replied that it was a leftover one from before.

She didn't suspect anything.

I pressed down on her naked body and

found that she was already very aroused .

When I put on the condom and decided to enter,

I realized that she was incredibly tight.

So tight that I couldn't even get in .

She was a virgin.

As I penetrated her, tears fell from her round eyes,

but I didn't stop.

Her pitiful moans only fueled my desire.

When it was over, a round puddle of her fluids remained on the sheets.

Her round eyes were also wet.

After it ended, she sent me a text saying she liked me a lot,

but I didn't need to take responsibility because she knew I only saw her as a friend with benefits.

We lost contact after that.

Then, some time later,

she said she actually hated me.

I did feel guilty,

but only slightly.

She was so naive, how could she blame me?

Oh, right, so writers are really not easy to hook up with.

I spent a long time casting my net before finally finding one,

and I spent a year arguing with her.

Was it worth it? Anyway, I lost nothing.

Even when we met for dinner, she resolutely refused.

She's a good girl, but not the one I want.

But I sincerely hope that all the good girls in this world won't be foolish enough to fall for anyone's hook.

Maybe he's good at talking, but he may not have told you the truth.

He sweet-talks you, and he does the same to others.

If you believe that a few words can bring true love,

I think you should quit the internet.

When I started writing,

I could secretly hide in a corner,

sometimes secretly commemorating many things I've lost and had.

I realized one thing:

people with stories aren't necessarily happy.

I don't like creating,

I don't like being a writer.

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