LOGINAVERY POV
The house was finally quiet. Mom had gone to bed early again, complaining about another headache, and had taken her sleeping pills like clockwork. The master bedroom door was shut, the faint sound of her soft snoring drifting down the hall. Marcus had waited almost an hour after that, making sure she was deep under before he came to my room. He didn’t say a word when he opened my door. He simply took my hand and led me silently down the hallway to the one place we had never dared go. His and Mom’s bedroom. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst as he closed the door behind us with a soft click. The room smelled like her perfume and his cologne mixed together — a sickening reminder of how wrong this was. The king-sized bed loomed in the center, sheets still slightly rumpled from where Mom had been lying earlier. Marcus turned to me, eyes blazing with that same dark hunger that had been growing stronger every night. “Last chance to back out, Avery.” I shook my head, already pulling my tank top over my head. “I want this. Right here.” He didn’t need any more encouragement. In seconds he had me naked and bent over the edge of their bed, face pressed into Mom’s pillow. The scent of her shampoo filled my nose as Marcus kicked my legs apart and drove into me in one savage thrust. I bit down hard on the pillow to muffle my cry. He was thick and deep, stretching me perfectly, fucking me with hard, desperate strokes that made the heavy wooden headboard knock softly against the wall. “Fuck… you feel even better in their bed,” he growled, one hand fisting in my hair while the other gripped my hip hard enough to leave marks. “Taking your stepdad’s cock right where your mother sleeps.” The words made me clench around him. I pushed back to meet every brutal thrust, the wet slap of skin on skin far too loud in the silent house. He reached around and rubbed my clit in tight circles, driving me higher and higher until I was gasping into the pillow, right on the edge. That was when we heard the front door open downstairs. Marcus froze mid-thrust, cock buried to the hilt inside me. My eyes flew open in panic. “Shit,” he whispered. “That’s my brother. He said he might stop by to drop off some tools, but I thought he’d call first.” Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Heavy. Casual. Marcus didn’t pull out. Instead he clamped a hand over my mouth and started fucking me again — slower, deeper, more controlled, but no less intense. The risk was insane. His own brother was in the house, and here we were, rutting like animals in the marital bed. I moaned helplessly against his palm as he hit that perfect spot inside me over and over. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and paused outside the bedroom door. Marcus kept thrusting, relentless, his cock dragging against every sensitive nerve. My pussy fluttered around him, orgasm building despite the terror flooding my veins. The door handle turned. The door swung open. Marcus’s brother — tall, broad-shouldered, with the same dark eyes as Marcus — stood in the doorway, keys still in his hand. His gaze landed on us instantly: me bent over the bed, completely naked, Marcus balls-deep inside me, fucking me on his own marital bed. For one frozen second, nobody moved. Then Marcus’s brother’s eyes widened, a slow, shocked grin spreading across his face. “Well… fuck me.” I came. Hard. The humiliation and shock slammed into me at the same time as the orgasm, ripping through my body so violently that I couldn’t stay quiet. A broken, muffled cry tore from my throat against Marcus’s hand as my pussy spasmed and clenched around his cock, milking him desperately. Marcus groaned low and thrust deep one final time, flooding me with hot, thick cum while his brother watched every second of it. When the waves finally subsided, I was shaking, tears of overwhelming pleasure and shame leaking from my eyes. Marcus slowly pulled out, his cum already starting to drip down my thighs onto the sheets where Mom slept every night. His brother leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the view. “Didn’t know you had it in you, little brother.” I couldn’t look away from him. My voice came out hoarse, trembling, but the words spilled out before I could stop them — the only thing my overwhelmed mind could think to say in that moment of total surrender. “Forgive me, Father, for I’ve sinned.” The room went dead silent for a heartbeat. Then Marcus’s brother let out a low, dark laugh. Marcus pulled me upright, turning me to face both of them, his cum still leaking down my legs. His hand stroked possessively over my breast as he looked at his brother with a wicked glint in his eye. “Looks like confession just got a lot more interesting.”KEIRA POVI didn’t sleep properly Tuesday night.Every time I closed my eyes I was back in his office with his hand in my hair and his mouth almost on mine. The admission sat in my chest like something I’d swallowed wrong. *Both. I went home furious. And I touched myself thinking about your voice.* I’d said it out loud. To him. And he’d looked at me like he wanted to ruin us both for it.Wednesday arrived anyway.I spent the morning pretending to be a functional person. Coffee. Notes I didn’t read. A seminar I barely heard. By four o’clock my nerves were scraped raw. I wore the same black jeans as before and a dark green sweater that made me feel less exposed than I was. My hair was down. My mouth was dry.His office door was ajar.I knocked once.“Come in.”I stepped inside and closed the door behind me without being asked. Enzo was standing at the window this time, not behind the desk, arms crossed, looking at the rain like it had personally offended him. When he turned, the express
KEIRA POVI changed outfits three times before Monday.That fact alone made me want to slap myself. This was not a date. This was not a seduction. This was a mandatory academic meeting with a man I actively despised who also happened to live rent-free in my fantasies like a disease I couldn’t medicate away.I settled on black jeans, a fitted grey sweater, and boots. Nothing that looked like effort. Everything that still made me feel armored. My hair went up, then down, then up again. I left it down.The humanities building always smelled like dust and old ambition. By the time I reached the fourth floor my palms were damp. I wiped them on my jeans, knocked once, and heard his voice through the door.“Come in.”Enzo Varga’s office looked the same as before—books, rain-streaked window, that spiteful plant—but the air felt different. Or maybe I did. He was behind the desk in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled, pen between his fingers, my revised pages already printed and annotated in
KEIRA POVI hated Professor Enzo Varga the way some people hated the sound of their own alarm.It wasn’t a simple dislike. It was personal. Chemical. The kind of irritation that lived under my skin and flared every time he walked into Lecture Hall B with that same unhurried confidence, sleeves already rolled to the forearms, dark hair slightly disordered like he’d just run his hands through it while thinking about something more important than any of us. Forty years old and somehow more magnetic than half the guys my age who still thought a gym selfie counted as a personality.He was brilliant. That was part of the problem. He taught advanced narrative theory like he was bored by how easy it was for him, and he had a habit of looking at students like he was already three steps ahead of whatever mediocre point they were about to make. Including me.Especially me.“Miss Calder,” he said on the third week of term, not even looking up from the essay he’d red-penned into extinction. “This
ANNELIESE POVI woke to the sound of her stirring.For a moment I did not remember where I was. Then the collar pressed against my throat when I swallowed, and the firm cushion under my hip brought everything back. I was on the floor at the foot of Madame Crowe’s bed. Naked. Owned. Still aching between my legs from the night before.“Up,” she said. Her voice was calm, slightly rough from sleep. “Kneel.”I moved into position on the carpet, hands behind my back, eyes lowered. She sat on the edge of the bed in her black robe and studied me while she tied the belt. Morning light filtered through the curtains and caught the silver bracelet on her wrist.“How did you sleep?”“Well enough, Madame.”“Truth.”“I kept waking up. I was aware of the collar. And of you.”She nodded once, as if that answer pleased her.“Bathroom. You have four minutes. Then return and present.”I rose, used the en-suite as quickly as dignity allowed, and came back to kneel in the same spot. She had placed several
ANNELIESE POVI slept in the collar.Madame had not told me to remove it, and I was too afraid of choosing wrong to take it off myself. All night the soft leather sat against my throat like a quiet hand. Every time I swallowed I felt it. Every time I turned over in the narrow bed the weight of it reminded me that I no longer belonged only to myself.At five-twenty I was already awake.I washed, dressed in the full uniform, and checked the mirror twice. The collar was hidden beneath the high neck of the dress, but I knew it was there. My ass still felt warm from the night before. When I walked, the fabric of my underwear brushed skin that remained sensitive. The memory of her hand between my legs while she calmly turned pages made my face heat all over again.At five-fifty-eight I stood outside the study.The door opened at six exactly.Madame Crowe looked me over in silence. Today she wore a black pencil skirt and a blouse the color of bone. Her hair was twisted up. A thin silver brac
ANNELIESE POVI woke before the alarm.Five-fifteen. The house was still dark and silent, the kind of silence that felt deliberate, as if the walls themselves had been trained not to creak. I washed quickly, pulled on the black stockings, the fitted dress, the white apron. My hands shook while I tied the bow at the small of my back. In the mirror I looked neat. Obedient. Like someone who belonged to a place rather than lived in it.At five-fifty-eight I stood outside the study door.At exactly six it opened.Madame Crowe was already dressed — black trousers, cream silk blouse, hair twisted up with the same severe elegance as the day before. She held a cup of coffee and looked me over without speaking for several long seconds. The inspection was thorough enough that heat crawled up my neck.“Turn,” she said.I turned.“Again. Slower.”I turned slower. I could feel her gaze moving down the line of my spine, over the apron ties, along the seams of the stockings. When I faced her again sh







