LOGINContent Warning (18+)⚠️ Explicit adult erotica featuring Daddy kink, reverse dynamics, BDSM, and taboo fantasies. All Yours is a collection of irresistible stories where desire, control, and obsession collide. Part One — The Daddy Diaries — dives into chapters of power exchange, strict Daddies, dominant Mommas, and thrilling role reversals. Part Two explores forbidden passions, possessive lovers, and fantasies you’ve been craving. Some rules are made to be followed. Others… broken.
View MoreChapter 2We weren’t finished.He flipped me onto my back and settled between my thighs carefully, guided himself to my entrance, and thrust in deep and slow. Our eyes stayed locked the entire time—his gaze burning into mine, steady and unguarded, like he was letting me see every hidden thing he’d carried for a decade. Every stroke was unhurried—long drags out, slow pushes back in—letting me feel every thick inch, every vein, every pulse of him stretching me open again. It felt like he was making up for every year we’d lost, every night we’d spent apart thinking about this exact moment without ever believing it would happen.“I never stopped thinking about you,” he whispered against my mouth, voice rough with emotion. “Every city I lived in. Every bed I slept in. It was always your face. Always you.”I wrapped my legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper until there was no spa
Chapter 1I almost didn’t come back.The invitation sat on my kitchen counter in Brooklyn for three weeks—thick cream cardstock, gold-embossed lettering, the same high-school crest we used to doodle in the margins of our notebooks when we were supposed to be paying attention. Ten-year reunion. I traced the date with my fingertip until the ink smudged into a faint golden blur. Every time I thought about clicking “Going,” my stomach twisted with the memory of him; Owen Hale, the quiet boy who sat two rows behind me in senior English, who never spoke unless called on, who once handed me a pencil without looking up when mine rolled under his desk and clattered against the leg of his chair. The boy who disappeared the summer after graduation and never came back.Not even for holidays. Not even for his mother’s funeral two years later.I told myself I was over it. I’d built a life three states away—good job in publishing, a
Chapter 2I stood on shaky legs. Hands trembling as I unbuttoned my jeans, pushed them down my thighs, stepped out of the denim pooled at my ankles. The air in the office felt colder now against my bare legs, raising fresh gooseflesh. The thin white camisole came next—slipped over my head in one slow motion, hair tumbling wild and tangled around my shoulders as the silk caught briefly on my hardened nipples before falling away. Then the black lace panties—already soaked through, clinging to my swollen folds—hooked with my thumbs and slid down my thighs, the damp fabric dragging against skin until they dropped to join the rest. I was naked in his office. Completely bare under the single desk lamp that cast a warm, intimate circle across my flushed skin. My nipples were tight and aching. My thighs were slick with arousal that had been building since the moment I confessed. Victor looked at me like I was a text he’d waited years to read—slow, tho
Chapter 1I have been sitting in Professor Victor Lang’s office for forty-seven minutes. I know because I have been counting the seconds between every slow turn of his pen against the margin of my last essay while occasionally leaning forward to point out a line I have written. The desk lamp throws a warm circle of light across the papers between us, but the rest of the space stays dim: shelves of leather-bound volumes climbing to the ceiling, a single window with the blinds half-closed. He is forty-one. I am twenty-three. He is my thesis advisor. I am the student who has spent the last six months pretending my fantasies about him are just academic curiosity—interest in power dynamics, forbidden desire, the erotics of authority in literature. That is what I tell myself when I lie awake at night replaying the way his voice drops low when he reads a particularly charged passage aloud, or how his fingers look when he turns a page.Tonight the campus outside is unnaturally quiet. Most of






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