ログインThe Journals and the BreakingAlex woke to the insistent throb between his legs.The steel cock ring had not loosened in the night. If anything, it felt tighter—blood trapped, shaft swollen, the slightest shift of sheets sending fresh pulses of denied need through him. The leather collar had warmed to his skin overnight, now feeling almost like an extension of his throat. He reached up instinctively to touch it, fingers tracing the buckle, the small padlock. Solid. Unyielding.He sat up. The room was still dark, heavy drapes blocking the January dawn. On the nightstand the unmarked leather book stared back at him. He hadn’t noticed it last night in the haze of humiliation and arousal, but now it seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.He opened it.Harlan Whitaker’s handwriting—sharp, slanted and impatient.March 12, 2005Mira arrived today. Seventeen. Virgin. Eyes like black glass. I collared her in the foyer before the driver had even left the drive. She trembled when the lock clic
The Collar DescendsThe black sedan crunched to a stop on the circular gravel drive. Alex stepped out into the cold January drizzle of 2026, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the weight of the inheritance already pressing on his chest like a stone. Nineteen years old, college dropout by choice, and now—according to the lawyer who’d just driven away—master of Whitaker Manor. The house rose before him like a crouched beast: three stories of gray stone, ivy choking the windows, turrets that looked ready to swallow the sky. He’d visited once as a child. The place had smelled of old books and older secrets. Now it smelled of nothing at all.The massive oak door opened before he could knock.Mira stood framed in the doorway. Thirty-eight, tall, raven hair pulled into a severe bun that did nothing to soften the sharp beauty of her face. Black dress, high-necked but clinging, ending just above the knee. Black heels that clicked like gunshots on the marble foyer. Her eyes—deep brown, almost
Marks of Forbidden FireBack in the city, the days blurred into a haze of stolen moments and escalating risks. Jamie's apartment became a sanctuary of secrets, but it was Elena's place—three blocks away—that turned into their den of depravity. She lived in a loft with high ceilings and exposed brick, the kind of space that echoed with their moans like a confessional booth. Two weeks after the wedding, Jamie showed up at her door with a bottle of wine and a resolve to end it. "We can't keep doing this," he said as she pulled him inside.But Elena just smiled, that wicked curve of her lips that undid him every time. "Can't we?" She wore a silk robe, loosely tied, revealing the swell of her breasts and the smooth expanse of her thigh. Before he could protest, she untied it, letting it pool at her feet. Naked, unashamed, she was a vision—curves sculpted by years he hadn't witnessed, nipples hardening in the cool air.Jamie's resistance crumbled. He backed her against the wall, his mouth c
Shadows of the Past UnleashedThe sun dipped low over the rolling hills of the vineyard, casting long shadows that danced like forgotten secrets across the manicured lawns. Jamie Whitaker stood at the edge of the reception tent, a glass of champagne forgotten in his hand, his eyes scanning the crowd with a restlessness he couldn't quite name. It had been twelve years since he'd last seen Elena Voss—twelve years of burying the memory of that awkward, electrifying kiss in his childhood closet, the one that had left him breathless and confused at fourteen. Now, at twenty-six, he was a successful architect in the city, building skyscrapers to touch the clouds while his personal life remained firmly grounded in solitude. The invitation to his father's wedding had felt like a summons from fate, but he hadn't expected her to be the bride's daughter.Elena appeared like a apparition from his dreams, weaving through the guests in a emerald green dress that hugged her curves with an effortless
The Savage AwakeningI didn’t care what she did or said. The bedroom still hung heavy with the thick scent of sweat, sex, and my cum—Elena lay sprawled across the rumpled sheets, her porcelain skin glistening, my thick load dripping slowly from her chin in sticky trails down to her heaving breasts, pooling between them like molten wax claiming territory. Her eyes, once glazed with habitual disinterest during our rare encounters, now smoldered with a raw, feral hunger I had never witnessed in our fifteen years of marriage. She dragged her tongue deliberately across her swollen lower lip, savoring the salty bitterness of me, then traced the glistening path down her neck where I had marked her as mine. It should have felt like victory, a shattering breakthrough after months—years—of cold rejections, her body limp beneath me like an obligation rather than a shared craving. Instead, the rage that had finally erupted tonight still thrummed in my veins, twisting the triumph into something da
Wednesday, January 4, 202611:47 p.m.Ivy sat on the edge of her narrow bed, knees drawn up, staring at the text that had arrived at 11:42 p.m.:My office. Now. Wear the items in the gift box and the choker. The door will be unlocked. Knock once. If you’re late, the Dean receives the file at 8 a.m. sharp.Her heart slammed against her ribs.She had spent the last forty-eight hours in a fog of paranoia and unwanted arousal. Every time she passed a mirror, the platinum choker glinted—subtle enough to pass as jewelry to anyone else, but to her it screamed owned. More like a sex doll, avidly awaiting the touch of her Master. She had caught herself touching it absentmindedly in class, fingers tracing the lock, remembering the click when he’d fastened it. She hated how wet it made her. She hated how she hadn’t taken it off, even to shower.She had considered running—packing a bag, taking the late bus to her mother’s, disappearing. But every time she reached for her suitcase, she remembered







