When a billionaire wants to kill you.....

Lucifer

For years, a persistent fog has clouded my mind, leaving my thoughts scattered and disjointed. The clarity I once took for granted has slipped away, replaced by a muddled haze that makes every attempt at focus feel like wading through quicksand. I brushed my chocolate-brown hair away from my face and adjusted my glasses. Plain—that’s what the average man might call me, Eyrene DeAquarius. No matter. My writing has become my life. I’ve been trying to write my story, to pour my experiences and emotions onto the page, but the words refuse to align. Each draft feels like a betrayal of the truth I’m desperate to capture. No matter how many times I revise, the sentences fall flat, the narrative feels hollow, and the essence of what I want to convey slips through my fingers like smoke. It’s as if my own mind is conspiring against me, sabotaging every effort to create something meaningful.

The struggle has been relentless. I’ve spent countless nights hunched over my desk, scribbling notes, crossing them out, and starting again. I’ve read books on writing, attended workshops, and scoured the internet for advice, but nothing seems to break the cycle. The story I want to tell is deeply personal—a tapestry of memories, dreams, and pain that I feel compelled to share. Yet, every time I sit down to write, the words feel inadequate. They lack the weight, the texture, the life I know they should have. It’s not just writer’s block; it’s a deeper disconnection, as if the bridge between my heart and my mind has collapsed.

I sit on my bed, the familiar weight of frustration pressing down on me. My laptop rests on my knees, its glowing screen a mocking reminder of my failure. The cursor blinks relentlessly, each pulse a silent accusation: Why can’t you do this? I’ve spent countless hours staring at this blank document, typing and deleting, starting and stopping. I can write endless blogs about the latest game but my own story stumps me. The story is there, buried somewhere deep inside, but it’s locked away, inaccessible. My head feels heavy, as if the thoughts are tangled in knots I can’t unravel. I’ve tried everything—outlines, freewriting, stepping away for days, even weeks, only to return to the same infuriating block. The harder I push, the more elusive the words become.

A sigh escapes my lips, long and weary, carrying the weight of months, maybe years, of this struggle. I’m exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally. The dream of telling my story, of sharing something real and raw, feels like it’s slipping away. I’ve poured so much of myself into this, and yet, I’m nowhere closer to success than when I started—the thought of giving up creeps in, insidious and tempting. Maybe I’m not meant to do this. Perhaps the story I thought I had to tell isn’t worth telling. The doubt is suffocating, and for a moment, I consider closing the laptop for good, letting the dream die quietly.

But then, in a flash of reckless desperation, I laugh—a sharp, bitter sound that cuts through the silence of my room. It’s absurd, this situation, this endless battle with my mind. The laugh turns into something wilder, and before I can stop myself, I tilt my head back and shout to the empty sky, “Lucifer, help me write this book, and I’ll give you my soul!” The words echo in the quiet, half-joking, half-serious. It’s a ridiculous plea, born of frustration and a fleeting wish for some supernatural intervention. My soul, if it’s even worth anything, feels like a small price to pay for the clarity I crave. I don’t believe in dealing with the devil, not really, but at that moment, I’m willing to try anything—every desperate, absurd attempt—to break through the fog and finally write my story.

I laugh bitterly at my latest feeble attempt to pour my heart and soul into these sentences, the words falling short of the raw emotion I’m desperate to express. The effort nearly brings me to tears, a mix of frustration and despair welling up inside. Each word I write feels like a mockery of the story I long to tell, a story that’s been trapped inside me for too long. The weight of failure presses down, heavy and unyielding. “Lucifer doesn’t even want me,” I mutter, the thought both absurd and heavy, a fleeting joke laced with the sting of rejection. Defeated, I slammed my laptop shut, the screen’s glow snuffed out like my hope of ever writing this story. I grab the remote, flicking on the TV to a crime show, its familiar drone a numbing escape. The detectives’ voices and predictable plotlines are a distraction, something to anchor me as I lie back on my bed, hoping the background noise will lull me to sleep, a temporary reprieve from my failures.

My mind spirals, circling the same relentless questions. Where did it all go wrong? Why can’t I write this story, the one that feels so vital, so necessary? The words are there, somewhere, but they refuse to surface, tangled in a fog that clouds my thoughts. Sleep eludes me, too, as elusive as the sentences I chase. My brain feels fractured, incomplete, teetering on the edge of sanity. Why me? Why am I stuck in this cycle of doubt and failure? The hum of the TV blends with the distant sounds outside—cars passing, a faint wind rustling through trees. Together, they weave a fragile cocoon, pulling me toward the edge of sleep. Dreaming is my only sanctuary, a fleeting escape where my mind can wander freely, unburdened by the constraints of waking life. But my dreams are elusive, slipping away upon waking unless one is vivid enough to cling to my memory, a rare gift that lingers like a half-remembered song.

As I drift, a strange sensation creeps over me—a presence, heavy and uninvited, slinking into the room. My pulse quickens, panic rising like a tide. “Lucifer,” I whisper, half-expecting an answer, my grip on reality fraying. But the fear ebbs, replaced by an odd relief, as if surrendering to the unknown is easier than fighting it. Then, something brushes the top of my head, a faint tickle that turns invasive, like a rod jabbing into my skull. I flinch, pressing my hands to my forehead, certain it might split open under the pressure. The sensation pauses, then resumes, relentlessly. My thoughts scatter—I know you’re there. It paused for a moment, then went back to messing with the top of my head. A wild, reckless thought surfaces: if I die tonight, so be it. At least I’ll go out on my terms, unburdened by the weight of my unfinished story.

In a defiant act, I flung the covers back, exposing my curvy naked body to the darkness. Lucifer, an alien, some otherworldly force—it doesn’t matter. I’m convinced this is my end, a certainty that settles deep in my bones. I feel it then, a weight at the foot of my bed, creeping closer. My heart pounds, but the fear dissolves, replaced by a strange calm. I surrender completely, letting go of the struggle, the doubt, the need to control. Whatever this presence is, it can take me. The crime show drones on, its voices fading as I slip into a liminal space between waking and dreaming, where the boundaries of reality blur.

A cold chill races up my legs, sending shivers through my body as an unexpected wave of ecstasy ripples through me. A soft plea escapes my lips, raw and unfiltered, as I surrender to the sensation. My skin tingles, alive with anticipation, and I lie there, breathless, craving the next touch. It’s overwhelming, this feeling that consumes me, as if something beyond my understanding has brushed against my very being. My body trembles, not from fear but from a strange, intoxicating thrill that makes me feel more alive than I have in months. Another icy jolt hits, this time at my core, between my legs, and my heart pounds so fiercely I can hear it echoing in my ears. My breath catches, and I’m lost in the moment, suspended between reality and something else entirely.

Questions flood my mind, relentless and chaotic, refusing to let me rest. Is it him? Is this my soulmate, some destined connection finally revealing itself after all these years of searching? Has Lucifer, that half-joking plea from earlier, actually answered, coming to claim the soul I offered in my desperation? Or is it something stranger—aliens, toying with me in the dark, manipulating my senses for reasons I can’t comprehend? My brain refuses to quiet, a storm of thoughts colliding, each one louder than the last. It licks and sucks my p***y. I can’t shut it off, can’t find a moment of peace amidst the whirlwind of possibilities. Every nerve in my body feels electrified, as if this unseen entity has ignited something deep within me, something I didn’t know was there.

My mind lights up, synapses firing in a frenzy, trying to process the surreal intensity of the moment. The touch—whatever it is—feels deliberate, intimate, like a caress that knows me better than I know myself. It’s as if this presence understands the parts of me I’ve kept hidden, the parts I’ve tried and failed to pour into my writing. I’m caught between fear and exhilaration, unable to tell if I’m losing my grip on reality or finally touching something beyond it. My body responds instinctively, arching toward the sensation, begging for more even as my thoughts spiral. The coldness lingers, a ghostly presence that both thrills and unsettles me. I can’t stop wondering: is this real, or is my mind conjuring phantoms to fill the void with my unwritten story?

Then, as suddenly as it came, the presence vanishes. The air feels heavier, empty, and I’m left trembling in the aftermath. I pulled the covers tightly around me, huddling beneath them as if they could shield me from the confusion swirling in my head. My heart still races, but now it’s paired with a gnawing uncertainty. Was it real? Did something—someone—truly touch me, or was it all a vivid hallucination born of exhaustion and desperation? I replay the sensations in my mind: the cold chills, the electric pulses, the way my body seemed to hum with life. It felt so tangible, so undeniable, yet now, in the quiet, it seems like a dream slipping through my fingers. I lie there, wrapped in blankets, trying to make sense of it all. My thoughts are a tangled mess, oscillating between belief and doubt. Part of me wants to cling to the idea that something otherworldly reached out, that I wasn’t alone in that moment. But another part, the rational part, whispers that I imagined it, that my fractured mind is playing tricks. The crime show still murmurs faintly from the TV, grounding me in the mundane, but it can’t erase the lingering sensation of that touch. Real or not, it’s left a mark, and I’m not sure whether to chase it or let it fade.