MasukCellblock D, 11:47 p.m.The fluorescent buzz never stops. It’s the soundtrack of this place—constant, like a headache you can’t shake. I’m sitting on the edge of my bunk, elbows on knees, staring at the concrete between my boots when the shadow falls across the bars.Officer Reyes.He doesn’t announce himself anymore. Hasn’t for three months. Just stands there in the dim corridor light until I feel him. Tonight he’s got the keys already in his hand, not the big ring, just the single one for my door. The quiet click when he turns it is louder than any alarm.I don’t look up right away. I make him wait. Small rebellions are all I’ve got left.“Get up,” he says. Low. No bullshit.I stand slow. Stretch my neck. He’s already stepping inside, pulling the door shut behind him. The lock snicks again. We’re both inside the box now.He doesn’t waste time. Hand around my throat—not hard, just firm—pushes me back against the cold wall. My back hits concrete. Breath leaves me in a short huff.“You
The vacation house was quiet except for the distant crash of waves and the soft hum of the ceiling fan. Nicolas had insisted on the couch at first—polite, awkward, eighteen and still figuring out how to be around his stepmom without feeling like a kid—but Amber had rolled her eyes and patted the king bed.“We’re adults, Nic. It’s huge. I’m not making you sleep on that lumpy thing while I sprawl out here alone.”He’d agreed, mostly because arguing with Amber felt impossible when she smiled like that—warm, a little teasing, the kind of smile that made his stomach flip in ways he pretended not to notice.They’d changed in the bathroom separately, brushed teeth side by side, laughed about the sunburn on his nose. Then the lights went out, and the darkness made everything louder: the sheets rustling, her breathing, the faint coconut scent of her lotion.Nicolas lay on his back, rigid, staring at the ceiling. Amber was on her side facing him, one leg tucked up, the thin tank top riding high
The chocolate syrup was still warm when the first thick ribbon of it drizzled directly onto her mound.She gasped—sharp, surprised—then melted into a low, hungry moan as the heat met already feverish skin. He watched the dark liquid slide slowly down the smooth curve of her lips, following the natural parting, coating the delicate inner folds before ing at her entrance like dark honey.“Stay open for me,” he murmured, voice rough. “Let me see how pretty you get when you’re covered in it.”Fingers trembling slightly, she reached down and spread herself wider, exposing every glistening inch to his gaze and to the slow, deliberate drip of more syrup. Each new drop landed with soft, wet sounds—plip, plip—making her clit twitch visibly under the sticky warmth.He set the bottle aside and lowered his mouth.The first taste was obscene: rich, bitter-sweet chocolate mingling with the unmistakable salt-sugar of her arousal. He groaned against her, the vibration traveling straight up her spine.
Rita Dawson stepped into the dim confessional of St. Augustine’s Church just after dusk, her heart hammering against her ribs. The old wooden booth smelled of polished oak and faint incense. She wasn’t Catholic—hadn’t set foot in a church since her grandmother’s funeral—but tonight she needed sanctuary.Two days earlier, her beat-up Toyota had broken down on the winding coastal road outside Havenport. Rain poured in sheets. No cell signal. No one around for miles. Then he appeared: a tall man in a black cassock and white clerical collar, umbrella in hand, offering help without hesitation.Father Elias Thorne had towed her car to his small parish garage, dried her off with a blanket from the rectory, and even made her hot tea while the storm raged outside. He listened as she cried about her dead-end job, her ex who cleaned out her savings, and how she felt like the universe kept kicking her when she was down. He hadn’t preached. He simply said, “Sometimes grace arrives in the most unex
The rent was three weeks overdue, and Mr. Harlan wouldn’t let me forget it. Every morning at eight sharp, his heavy fist hammered my door like a drumbeat of shame. “Natasha! Open up! You know what this is about!” His voice boomed through the thin wood, thick with irritation. I’d been dodging him, slipping out early, coming back late, praying he’d give me one more day. But today he wasn’t leaving.I stood behind the door in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and panties, heart racing. My tips from the bar had dried up, my savings were gone, and pride wouldn’t pay the bills. I took a shaky breath and cracked the door open.Mr. Harlan filled the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, late thirties, with dark stubble and those piercing green eyes that always lingered a second too long. He wore a tight black shirt that stretched across his chest and jeans that hugged his thighs. He looked pissed, but there was something else in his gaze when he saw me—hunger.“Natasha,” he said, voice low and rough.
Zina was nineteen, curious, and burning with a hunger she’d only recently learned to name. For months, she and Dennis had been building something electric online—late-night messages turning into confessions, innocent selfies giving way to teasing shots, until one night they both admitted they couldn’t wait any longer to see each other properly. They lived too far apart for anything real yet, but video was the next best thing. Tonight was the night they’d promised to let go completely.She propped her phone against a pillow, checked the angle twice, then hit the call button. Her heart hammered as the ringtone buzzed. When Dennis’s face filled the screen, his crooked smile made her stomach flip.“Hey, beautiful,” he said, voice low and already rough with want.“Hey yourself,” Zina replied, biting her lower lip the way she knew drove him crazy. She was wearing nothing but a thin camisole and panties, the fabric clinging to her skin because she was already warm just from thinking about th







