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Chapter 3: The Live Stream
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2025-11-14 00:35:40The crypt was a furnace of wax and cunt-heat.
I woke tied to the crimson chaise, wrists and ankles raw from silk rope now soaked with sweat and my own slick. The candle holder had burned low, flames licking black candles down to stubs, and dripping wax like cum onto the stone. Five cameras—four Bolex and one digital—blinked red, live, and feeding 73,912 viewers on the dark web. Title pulsing: “JOURNALIST’S CUNT: CONFESSION & CONQUEST – LIVE”. Luca stood over me, shirt gone, cross swinging between carved abs. Mara knelt at his feet, silver collar shining, and mouth wrapped around his cock—thick, veined, angry—sucking slow and sloppy, spit dripping down her chin onto the floor. She pulled off with a wet pop. “Time to wake the slut,” she purred, crawling up my body, fingers digging into my thighs, and spreading me wider. Luca grabbed the handheld 8K. “Tell them who you are, Elara.” I spat. “Fuck you.” He laughed, low and filthy. “Wrong answer.” He dropped to his knees between my legs and shoved three fingers into my pussy—no warning, no lube, just wet heat and stretch. I screamed, back arching, and rope cutting skin. He pumped hard, curling, and hitting that spot that made my eyes roll. “Tell them,” he growled, thumb grinding my clit, “or I fist this cunt till you pass out.” The chat exploded: $5K – FIST HER $10K – MAKE HER SQUIRT ON THE RELIC Mara straddled my face, pussy dripping, and silver rings cold against my lips. “Lick,” she hissed, grinding down. I did—tongue fucking her, tasting salt and sin, and her moans shaking through my skull. Luca added a fourth finger, stretching me wide, and knuckles dragging. I came hard, pussy clenching, and squirting over his wrist, soaking the velvet, the stone, and the fucking relic beneath the chaise. The viewers went wild. $25K – DOUBLE PENETRATE Luca stood, cock slick with Mara’s spit, and slammed into me—balls-deep, no mercy. I screamed into Mara’s cunt, her thighs clamping my head. He fucked me like a machine—hips snapping, cock dragging every ridge inside me, and hitting my cervix with every thrust. “Confess,” he snarled, fingers in my hair, and yanking my head back so the camera caught my face—tears, spit, ruin. “I—I wanted to destroy you,” I sobbed, pussy fluttering around him. “I recorded everything—your crimes, the girls—” Mara slapped my clit—hard. I came again, screaming, and pussy gushing, soaking his balls. Luca pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach, rope twisting, and ass in the air. He spat on my asshole, pushed in—slow, thick, and burning. I howled, fingers clawing velvet, and pussy dripping onto the floor. Mara slid beneath me, 69, tongue on my clit, and fingers in my cunt while Luca reamed my ass. The cameras zoomed—close-ups of my stretched holes, his cock disappearing into me, and Mara’s tongue flicking. Chat: $50K – BREED HER Luca growled, thrust deep, and came—hot, thick ropes flooding my ass, leaking out around his cock, and dripping down my thighs. Mara licked it clean, tongue in my ass, fingers in my pussy, and pushing his cum deeper. I came a third time, shaking, sobbing, and broken. Then the twist. I’d palmed the brass key during the struggle. While they rested in afterglow, I sawed the rope on a jagged stone edge. One wrist free. Then the other. I lunged—grabbed the handheld 8K and smashed it against Luca’s temple. He staggered. Mara screamed. I kicked her in the chest and sent her sprawling. I yanked the digital camera’s SD card—live feed still running—and flipped the script. Held it to Luca’s bleeding face. “Confess, Father,” I snarled, voice raw. “Tell them about the girls. The payoffs. The bodies.” He laughed, blood on his teeth. “You think you’re free?” I shoved the card into the Bolex’s side port—hacked feed. The screens behind him flickered. Not his archive. Mine. Months of recordings—hidden mics in holy rooms, hotels, and confessionals. Girls’ voices. Luca’s voice: “They wanted it. They begged.” The dark web froze. Then exploded. #VELVETCONFESSION trended. Feds pinged the stream. NYPD breached the church in 11 minutes. I cut Mara’s collar with the key’s edge—symbolic. Left them bound, naked, and exposed. The crypt door sealed behind me. I walked out in Luca’s cassock, recorder in hand, and pussy still dripping, victor. The world saw the truth. I saw the end.
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The Lust Journal Chapter 3: The Live Stream
The crypt was a furnace of wax and cunt-heat.I woke tied to the crimson chaise, wrists and ankles raw from silk rope now soaked with sweat and my own slick. The candle holder had burned low, flames licking black candles down to stubs, and dripping wax like cum onto the stone. Five cameras—four Bolex and one digital—blinked red, live, and feeding 73,912 viewers on the dark web. Title pulsing: “JOURNALIST’S CUNT: CONFESSION & CONQUEST – LIVE”.Luca stood over me, shirt gone, cross swinging between carved abs.Mara knelt at his feet, silver collar shining, and mouth wrapped around his cock—thick, veined, angry—sucking slow and sloppy, spit dripping down her chin onto the floor.She pulled off with a wet pop.“Time to wake the slut,” she purred, crawling up my body, fingers digging into my thighs, and spreading me wider.Luca grabbed the handheld 8K.“Tell them who you are, Elara.”I spat.“Fuck you.”He laughed, low and filthy.“Wrong answer.”He dropped to his knees between my legs and
The Lust Journal Chapter 2: Crypt 7
Midnight Midnight tasted of damp stone, candle smoke, and the copper tang of old blood.I went down the service tunnel behind the holy room, recorder in one hand and brass key in the other, the black slip dress I’d picked clinging to every curve like a whispered sin. The stairs spiraled down in a tight twist, iron rail ice-cold under my palm, and each step echoed like a heartbeat in a grave. The air grew heavier with every level—older and thicker, laced with myrrh, melted wax, and something metallic that curled in my nose: blood, or memory, or both. The walls wept moisture, centuries of water beading on the rough stone, and dripping in slow, steady beats that matched the pulse between my thighs.Crypt 7 waited at the bottom.The brass key—engraved in fancy script and heavy as guilt—slid home with a click that felt final and irreversible.The door groaned open on hinges that hadn’t moved since the rich old days, the sound scraping along my spine like nails on a board.Inside: a high ro
The Lust Journal Book 4: The Velvet Confession. Chapter 1: The Booth.
The church was empty at 23:11, and only my heartbeat echoed loud.St. Augustine’s, Lower East Side, once a home for Irish newcomers, now stood as an old relic of stone and colored glass, with moonlight bleeding across the main area. The air hung thick with incense and old candle wax, and it clung to your skin like guilt. I knelt in the left confession box, where the seat was cracked and the screen thin enough to see shadows move, and my black wool skirt, high on the waist, was already pulled up to my thighs. I’m Elara Quinn, 33, an investigative journalist with three big awards, but I had one secret I’d never print: I came here to record, not to confess.The screen slid open with a quiet scrape of wood on wood.A shadow filled the other side.He was male, with broad shoulders straining the black priest clothes.His cologne was faint—oud and smoke, expensive, and forbidden.His voice came low, familiar, and dangerous.“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”I froze.That voice.It was F
The Lust Journal Chapter 8: Final Reckoning
The island woke to a dark dawn—sky like dried blood, sun a flat coin behind smoke. SILKEN COMMAND sat half-sunk in the calm water, white side broken open, drinks bubbling in the shallows with fuel and coral bits. The reef had cut it deep overnight: sharp rock tearing metal, water filling lower areas where fancy food and drugs floated in mess. I watched from the boat’s front, engine low, Leica camera across my chest, salt on the lens. The dark-web show—now 92,000 watchers and growing—showed Damian and Seraphina tied to the metal frame on the stage. Their gold masks cracked, silk clothes ripped and dirty with ash and blood. The red ribbon hung loose between them, untied noose moving in the hot wind like a white flag.Bids stopped at $15.2M – SOLD.Buyer: ANON-7FIG (hidden through many secret paths, last signal in Liechtenstein).Terms: 48 hours, alive, no marks, no questions.I ended the show with one touch. Quiet came—waves, birds, the yacht creaking deeper into sand.The island’s dock
The Lust Journal Chapter 7: Revenge in Nassau
The small plane dropped like a tired bird, engines rough over bright blue water that looked fake. Nassau airport smelled of fuel, fried food, and sun cream. I went through customs as Élise Gagnon—hoodie changed to a light shirt, Leica camera in a bag, fake passport against my leg. No bags. No mark.R’s last message: coordinates and time.25.0761° N, 77.3205° W – 02:14 local. Bring camera. Quiet entry.The island was a hidden strip of sand and rock south of Exuma, not on maps, surrounded by sharp reef. Locals called it Devil’s Teardrop. I paid $1,200 cash for a 22-foot boat from a fisherman who asked nothing. The boat moved through dark water under half moon, engine quiet with a wet cloth. Salt hit the cuts on my face from the tree escape weeks back.I stopped the motor 200 yards away. The island glowed—low houses over the reef, underwater lights making the water bright. A big yacht—SILKEN COMMAND—sat in the calm area, white and clean, name in gold. Music came over the water: low beats
The Lust Journal Chapter 6: Fallout
Montréal’s first snow fell like gray ash. I was in a third-floor apartment above a corner store on Rue Saint-Denis, hood up, cap low, breath showing in the cold room. The radiator banged like a broken machine; the one window looked over an alley with melting ice dripping into trash bins that smelled of old fries and smoke. R paid six months’ rent under Jean-Marc Lefèvre—a name from an old death notice. The landlord, Madame Duval, took the cash, gave me a key on a bent nail, and disappeared behind a curtain that smelled of spice and cleaner.The CARTER ARCHIVE – FULL was out.47 terabytes.200 shares.A huge bomb online.I watched it spread.• 00:03 EST – First share hit 100 people.• 00:17 – #SilkenCommands topped world trends, beating elections and star deaths.• 00:41 – A Swiss address linked to a fake company tried to crash it. It bounced to Russian computers and broke their own system.• 01:12 – Interpol sent an alert for unknown people tied to Carter company, Vantage Capital, and
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