SINFUL TEMPTATION

Chapter 1

Lovie’s POV

“Harder, don’t slack off now, you’re losing the rhythm on the left,” I gasped out, my fingers digging blindly into the sweat-slicked shoulders of the man thrusting heavily between my thighs.

The heat under the studio lights was suffocating, thick with the scent of latex, cheap lubricant, and raw skin rubbing against skin. 

The Productions kept the air conditioning low to keep the sweat looking fresh on camera, but right now, I didn't care about the production value. 

I was six months into this life as Lila Rose, and the addiction running through my veins was screaming for release. 

The second performer was buried deep in my mouth, his hands gripping my hair to anchor himself while the guy behind me slammed into my pussy with a brutal, relentless pace that was sending jolts of electricity straight to my core.

My hips bucked automatically, meeting every heavy shove. 

A loud, wet squelch echoed through the small set every time he pulled back, only to be muffled by my own muffled moans against the cock in my mouth. 

My vision blurred as the friction hit the exact spot inside me, sending a violent wave of contractions ripping through my lower stomach. 

I choked out a cry, my legs shaking so violently they could barely stay hooked over the guy's hips as my body dissolved into a massive, soaking orgasm, juices leaking down my thighs and staining the dark leather couch beneath us.

“Cut! Wrap it up for ten minutes, I need a break,” the director’s voice boomed through the studio speakers, heavy, mechanical, and distorted by the electronic modulator he always used.

The abrupt sound snapped the tension in the room instantly. 

The guy inside my mouth pulled out with a wet pop, wiping his sweaty chin as the other man stopped his movements, though he stayed resting against my soaking wet entrance. 

I groaned aloud, a mix of pure frustration and lingering, unfulfilled heat twisting my gut. 

For six months, I had never seen the director’s face. He stayed locked in the control booth or behind a thick partition, his face covered in a matte black tactical mask whenever he did step onto the floor, communicating only through that eerie, robotic voice.

Through my hooded eyes, I watched his tall silhouette move past the edge of the set. 

He didn't look at us. He was dressed in his usual crisp, tailored dark charcoal suit—an expensive, unmistakable fabric that looked entirely out of place in a grimy masked p**n studio.

“I’m going to the restroom, nobody should touch the cameras,” the modulated voice echoed one last time before the heavy door to the back hallway clicked shut.

“Fuck him,” I muttered, my voice thick and raspy. 

The two performers looked at each other behind their standard plastic masquerade masks, completely exhausted, but my body was still vibrating, demanding more. 

I rocked my hips back against the guy behind me, trying to force his softening length deeper inside me, but he groaned and pulled away, shaking his head as he reached for a towel.

Frustrated, dripping, and completely desperate to quiet the itch under my skin, I scrambled off the couch. 

My chest was heaving as I grabbed my personal tote bag, put on one transparent gown from the holding chair and practically ran down the narrow, dimly lit corridor toward the private talent bathroom at the back of the building.

“Stupid, rigid prick,” I hissed under my breath, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind me and turning the lock with a sharp click. 

“Cutting right when it’s getting good. Fuck.”

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely undo the zipper of my bag. 

I reached past the makeup wipes and spare stockings, my fingers wrapping around the familiar, heavy weight of my nine-inch silicone dildo. 

It was a massive, veiny beast of a toy, realistic in its thickness and equipped with a heavy-duty internal motor that vibrated violently enough to rattle my teeth. 

I didn't even bother turning on the vibration yet, I just wanted the stretch, the fullness, the brutal ache of something solid taking over, I pulled my dress all up. 

I hopped backward onto the cold marble countertop, my bare ass sticking slightly to the smooth stone. 

I threw my legs wide, pinning my knees near my shoulders, completely exposed to the large mirror in front of me. 

My pussy was already wide open, swollen, red, and glistening with a mixture of studio lube and my own natural cream.

Without an ounce of patience, I lined the thick, flared head of the silicone cock against my clit, smearing the moisture around before shoving it inside myself in one hard, violent motion.

A loud, messy *squelch* echoed off the tiled walls as the thick shaft forced its way through my tight walls.

“Ah… fuck, yes,” I whimpered, my head hitting the mirror behind me with a soft thud.

I didn't pace myself. I didn't build up to it. 

I grabbed the base of the toy with both hands and began pounding it into my soaking wet flesh, driving it deep until the artificial balls slapped hard against my anus. 

*Slam. Squelch. Slam.* The sound was incredibly loud in the small room, a wet, sloppy rhythm that filled my ears as 

I watched myself in the mirror, my chest flushed bright red, my eyes completely glazed over with pure, unadulterated lust.

I reached up with one hand, leaving the other to control the frantic, wild thrusting of the toy, and pinched my nipples hard, twisting the sensitive peaks until a sharp line of pain mixed with the overwhelming pleasure in my groin. 

My hips bucked off the counter to meet every single downward shove of the veiny silicone. 

I twisted the toy as I rammed it inside, letting the artificial ridges scrape against the sensitive ceiling of my vagina.

Just pretend it’s real. Pretend it’s a massive, heavy cock that actually wants to break you.

For ten solid minutes, the bathroom was nothing but the sound of wet friction, heavy, ragged breathing, and my own filthy whispers. 

“Take it, you fucking whore… just take it all,” I muttered to myself, my voice trembling as the intense pacing pushed me right back to the edge of the cliff. 

My legs started shaking uncontrollably, the muscles in my thighs cramping as I pumped the toy faster and faster, chasing the elusive, deeper climax that the actors hadn't been able to give me. 

My internal walls clamped down hard on the silicone, milk-white juices dripping down the underside of my thighs and splashing onto the marble counter.

I was just seconds away from shattering when a strange, muffled vibration cut through the noise of my own breathing.

I froze, the dildo buried entirely to the hilt inside me, stretching me wide.

The sound wasn't coming from the hallway. It was coming from the other side of the thin, interconnected drywall right behind the sink—the private office and dressing room usually reserved strictly for management and the director.

It was a low, guttural moan. A man's voice.

I smiled softly, a wicked, amused spark cutting through my foggy, horny brain. 

Looks like I’m not the only one who got left frustrated by the cut.

I figured it was just one of the production assistants or another performer taking advantage of the break. 

But as the low, gravelly groan echoed through the drywall again, the smile died on my face. 

The sound of the breath, the deep, resonant vibration of the throat… it sounded terrifyingly familiar.

Slowly, carefully, I slid my legs down from the counter, keeping one hand on the base of the dildo to pull it out of my body with a slow, wet sliding sound that made me shiver. 

I stepped onto the cold tile floor, my knees still slightly weak, and crept toward the heavy connecting door that linked the talent bathroom to the director's private quarters. It was a door that was supposed to stay locked from both sides.

I pressed my ear flat against the cold wood, holding my breath.

“Ah… fuck… Lovie… *Lovie*…” 

The breath hitched in my throat, freezing the blood in my veins. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

*No. No, no, no.*

That wasn't my stage name. 

He hadn't said Lila. He had said my real, private middle name. A name that wasn't on a single contract, a name I had never breathed to a soul in this building. 

Only two people in the entire world used that name for me: my mother, and my new stepdad.

My hand moved entirely on instinct, my fingers wrapping around the brass doorknob. To my horror, it turned smoothly. 

The latch clicked open, and I pushed the door inward, the hinges moving silently to reveal the dimly lit, plush interior of the private office.

The greatest shock of my life hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air right out of my lungs.

Standing by the edge of the leather closet partition was the director. 

He was wearing the exact charcoal suit trousers and tailored shirt I had just seen him in on set minutes ago, his jacket discarded on the chair, something about him seems familiar than just being my director. 

But his matte black tactical mask was sitting on the shelf beside him.

My eyes dropped first, entirely out of habit, catching the sight of a massive, heavy, fully erect dick gripped tightly in his right hand. 

He was stroking it frantically, a thick drop of pre-cum glistening at the tip as he pulled his skin taut.

Then, my gaze crept up his broad chest, past his throat, straight to his uncovered face.

“Daddy…” The word choked out of my throat, barely a whisper, as I stared into the eyes of my “supposed father” figure, his hand still frozen on his massive length, his face turning pale as he realized who was standing in the doorway.