Danny Darke
Bio
Hey there, I'm Danny.
I'm a UK based stereotype. See there, beside where it says 'starving artist'? The one wearing too much black and staring off into the middle distance? That's me.
I'm a writer and photographer.
Welcome to my world!
Stories (5/0)
A Night in the Life..
I’m sobbing her name, and she’s pulling my hair, her fingers tangled through my dreads. Her teeth –jesus fucking god– she’s got my clit in her mouth and she’s biting me; my clit, my labia, my clit again. Tiny little bites between these long, slow licks and it’s too much and it’s taking me apart and it’s not enough and it’s absolutely fucking sublime.
By Danny Darke3 years ago in Filthy
Nightmares and Dreams
Jed was crying out in his sleep. Softly sobbed protests were interspersed with scattered syllables that didn’t quite form words. He turned over, then rolled back to his original position as though he could shake off whatever it was that chased him through his dreams.
By Danny Darke3 years ago in Fiction
'Whore'
My voice had been so slurred on the phone he'd known immediately what I'd done. 'I'm coming home.' He'd said. I thought he'd sounded pissed off, but then I hadn't been in much of a state to tell. He'd been away for just over a week, and I'd been doing ok, but then last night a few of us went out on the town and I'd bumped into an old acquaintance at a club. One thing had led to another, and before I knew it we'd ditched the others and were whoring our way towards a sizeable pile of drugs.
By Danny Darke3 years ago in Filthy
Motorway Madness
Hot air pumping through the vents, the bass pumping through the speakers. koRn warms me more than the heater, Jonathan Davis' voice gives me goosebumps. Bristol ahead. The sky is overcast, tinged with sulphurous light, reflecting back from heavy pregnant clouds. Orange; the colour of cities, the colour of pollution. Filthy ice piled at the sides of the roads. The car tyres catch the grit and it rattles against the underside of the car. Fresh grit, gritted teeth; the pace picks up, they drive too fast, too close to the vehicles ahead, hoping to shave those extra few minutes from their journey. Close shave, close call, closed coffin.
By Danny Darke3 years ago in Fiction