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Emma’s lips were trembling as Richard rubbed the fat head of his cock across them. The precum was sticky and salty on her tongue. She’d never been this close to a man’s dick before. It looked too big and heavy, pulsing in his fist right in front of her face. “Open wider, baby,” he said, “Don’t make me wait.” She parted her lips. He pushed in slowly, just the head at first. It stretched her mouth open. Emma made a wet, muffled sound around him, her eyes watering already. “Fuck… that’s it. Look at those innocent eyes while you suck your first real dick.” He held her hair tighter and fed her another inch. Emma gagged softly when it hit the back of her tongue. She tried to pull back but he didn’t let her. “Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose like a good little whore.” She tried. Tears slipped down her cheeks as he started shallow thrusts, fucking her mouth with patience that felt cruel. Every few strokes he went deeper. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the quiet office
Emma had been at the firm for six months and still felt like she was playing dress-up every time she stepped into the elevator. At 22, fresh out of college, the kind of girl who said “sorry” when someone else bumped into her. She wore cardigans even in the summer because she hated drawing attention to her body. Loose blouses, knee-length skirts, sensible flats. Her coworkers called her “sweetheart” and “kid.” Mr. Harlan called her nothing at all most days. Until the last two weeks. Richard Harlan was 41, built like he still boxed three times a week, and had a reputation that made the older secretaries whisper behind their coffee cups. Divorced, twice. Sharp suits, sharper tongue. He didn’t yell,no , he just looked at you until you wanted to disappear. And lately he’d been looking at Emma a lot. It started with small things. He’d keep her late to finish reports, then tell her to sit while he reviewed them. He’d lean over her desk, one hand on the back of her chair, close enough
Liora needed air that didn’t taste like sex and passion. She slipped upstairs, heels clicking softly on the polished hardwood. The second floor was quieter but no less charged. Doors stood ajar, revealing glimpses of tangled bodies and low lamplight. Moans drifted down the hallway like smoke. Her thighs were still sticky from Rowan’s fingers, her body humming with leftover adrenaline and frustration. She wanted to be touched again. She also wanted to think straight for five goddamn minutes. A half-open door at the end of the corridor caught her eye. She pushed it wider. The guest room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp. Heavy curtains blocked the windows. A large four-poster bed dominated the space, sheets already rumpled. And there, leaning against the dresser, was the phantom. Silver-gray mask. Lean, elegant frame. Charcoal suit with faint silver threading that caught the light. He straightened when she entered, but didn’t crowd her. “You look like you’re running from some
Liora lasted twenty minutes before the ache between her legs became unbearable. She tried to lose herself in the crowd, weaving through masked strangers who were growing bolder by the minute. A woman in a peacock costume had her back pressed against a wall while two men kissed her neck in tandem. Somewhere nearby, low moans drifted from behind half-closed doors. The air itself felt thick, charged, like the whole mansion was slowly sliding into pure debauchery. She needed water. Or maybe to leave. Instead she found herself drawn toward a narrow hallway lined with heavy emerald drapes. A small silver plaque on the wall read *Velvet Room*. Curiosity and leftover heat from Rowan’s fingers won out. Inside, the lighting was low and intimate. Deep green velvet covered the walls and draped from the ceiling in heavy folds, swallowing sound and creating intimate pockets of shadow. Low couches and wide ottomans were arranged in loose circles. A dozen or so masked guests moved in the sp
The invitation had been thick black cardstock with gold lettering that smelled faintly of smokes. *Masks stay on until midnight. No exceptions.* Liora had laughed when her best friend shoved it into her hand two weeks ago, but here she was anyway, stepping out of the town car in a blood-red gown that clung to her hips. The fabric cling against her thighs as she climbed the stone steps of the old riverside mansion. Her mask, a sleek black fox with delicate gold filigree around the eyes, felt heavier. Inside, the party already throbbed with low music and the murmur of too many bodies. Crystal chandeliers dripped warm light over velvet drapes and dark wood. Champagne flutes moved through the crowd like schools of silver fish. Everyone wore masks: lions, ravens, porcelain dolls, devils. Faces hidden, intentions very much not. Liora took a glass from a passing tray and drained half of it in one go. The divorce had been final for three months. Three months of quiet evenings and pol
Adrian Black had officially taken complete and total ownership of Emma. The text message that arrived on Friday afternoon left no room for discussion or refusal: “Stay this weekend. All weekend. Pack an overnight bag with clothes, toiletries, makeup, and the sluttiest outfits you own. Be back in my office by 6 PM sharp. Don’t make me wait.” Emma didn’t even consider saying no. Her hands shook with nervous excitement as she packed a small suitcase at home;sexy lingerie, short dresses that barely covered her ass, high heels, makeup, and everything else she thought he might demand. By 5:52 PM she was back at the office, heart pounding so hard she could feel it. The building was eerily quiet when she arrived. Most of the lights were already off. Adrian personally locked the main entrance doors behind her and turned off the remaining overhead lights, leaving only the soft, intimate glow from his luxurious corner office. “From the moment you walked through that door until Monday mornin
The next few days Grace barely left her room, hiding behind locked doors and excuses about headaches or needing to study. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lucas’s thick cock sliding between her lips, felt his fingers buried inside her, heard those filthy words echoing in her head. *My shy
The sacristy door clicked shut behind them two nights later. Evening Mass had ended an hour ago, the last stragglers gone, and the big church stood empty and dark except for a few candles burning near the altar. Father Elias had told himself he wouldn’t message her. He had deleted her number twice
I couldn’t sleep. Not after watching my baby sister masterbate and me handjobing myself to it Every time I closed my eyes, the image came back; Cynthia on her bed, legs spread wide, two fingers buried deep in her tight, shaved pussy, moaning quietly as she came. My own sister. My blood sister.
I pushed open the front door, backpack slung over one shoulder, and the familiar smell of home hit me immediately, instantly on spot I sniffed mom’s cooking from the outside, and inside; Dad’s coffee, and that faint scent of Cynthia’s vanilla body spray that always seemed to linger everywhere for







