Dear Diary, The candle burns steady tonight. It glows and lights the ground under my feet for the first time in years. Just us, Diary—no doubts, no ghosts. A quiet breath, and the words rise, warm as earned light. From freelance to senior position—Can you believe it, Diary? And it's ALL MINE, Diary. I clawed every step from honest sweat and merit that no one can touch. NO ONE. I owe NOTHING to NO ONE. This. is. mine No handouts, no whispers of "lucky"; just me, grinding throu

Dear Diary, The wick sputters soft in the midnight hush, shadows coiling like threads waiting to pull tight. Just us, Diary—no mirrors, no flinch. A deep breath, and the confession spills, sharp as a needle's kiss. It’s the first time I let out this fantasy openly and personally. But I’m trying to get used to feel vulnerable and open. You see, I'm a man in my bones, biological whispers be damned, but this fantasy claws deep inside me. I want to be sewn up. Shut down there, st

Dear Diary, The candle's flame dances low tonight, shadows playing on the walls like bricks waiting to close in. Just us, Diary—no breath but mine, ragged and waiting. A sip of cool air, and the fantasy uncoils, slow as mortar setting. I want to confess a sexual fantasy of mine. It’s based on the terrifying punishment known as “immurement”. I understand it took hundreds of lives in the past. However, this time, it’s all about pleasure for me. I got kidnapped. I don’t know the

Dear Diary, Just you and me, Diary—no prying eyes, no echoes from the edges. It’s a very quiet morning. Now I want to talk about the tightrope we walk as erotic artists and how vulnerable we are. I strongly believe we erotic artists are even more vulnerable than most people think. Why? Because we pour our desires onto the page—curves that sigh, shadows and fantasies—and suddenly, we're naked in ways words can't cover. That makes us prey of those who see the creator as an obje