MasukShare
Chapter 7: Revenge in Nassau
Terakhir Diperbarui:
2025-11-11 05:26:02The 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, laughs, glass sounds. I paddled the last part on a board, camera in a waterproof bag. Reef cut my knees as I crawled onto shore behind a rock. Beach had two guards in black shirts—former soldiers, ear pieces, rifles easy. I waited for clouds, then moved quiet through bushes to the main house. Inside, the party was on. Thirty people—gold and black masks, silk clothes, shiny skin. Center stage: metal frame with black cloth, red ribbon like a snake. Damian stood near in white clothes, silver hair bright, tablet in hand. Seraphina sat on a long chair, gold chain on neck, legs crossed, watching like a boss. The auction was on—a huge screen: LOT 7 – GHOST STAR: RECLAIMED Start bid: $2M They were selling me. Again. I went to the computer room—open, too confident. R’s tool was there: small device under a shelf, light green. I put in the camera’s card—full of new video: victim stories, meeting talks, Damian’s voice bragging. I changed the auction show. The screen changed. People gasped. Room stopped. My face on the wall—not old pool picture, but new from Montréal room, voice steady, eyes empty. “You made money on hurt people. Tonight, it ends.” Then the videos: • A 19-year-old lost girl from Prague, marks on arms. • A politician’s son, drugged in Dubai. • Damian’s voice: “They agree. We just change what they remember.” Bids stopped. People ran for doors. Guards lifted guns—then put them down when they saw their own faces on screen, with time and place. Seraphina stood, chain shining. “Find her. Now.” Damian’s tablet buzzed—my message, from their system: Look at the stage. He went over, pulled the cloth. The frame was empty. But the red ribbon was tied like a noose. I was moving—through kitchen, past cold room with fancy food and drugs, out back door to the dock. The boat waited. I cut the yacht’s anchor with a knife. SILKEN COMMAND moved slow toward the reef. Back on island, mess. People getting in small boats. Guards yelling into broken radios—R blocked the signal. I got to the stage, climbed the frame, hung the camera strap on a bar. Live to dark web—same buyers, new show. Damian saw me. Seraphina saw me. Everyone saw me. I talked into the mic on the frame—voice clear, loud in the house. “You wanted three parts. Here’s the end.” I started the upload. All files—clear, full quality—went to 50,000 watchers. Bids changed: $5M for the Carters free. $7M. $10M – SOLD. Seraphina jumped. I dropped, rolled, stood with knife at her neck. “Smile for the camera.” Damian put hands up slow. “Lena—Maya—whoever. We can pay. Say the number.” I pushed the knife. Blood drop, bright on gold. “I already did.” The reef made noise as the yacht hit coral, side breaking, drinks spilling in water. Guards left. People escaped in fast boats. I tied them to the frame with plastic ties—Damian first, hands back on metal, Seraphina next, gold chain now like a rope. Camera kept going, red light on. I leaned close, talked to the lens: “Ghost Star: Reclaimed. Bidding ends at sunrise. Money to the victims.” I walked out. The island burned behind—someone set fire to the computer room. The boat took me north, moon going down, reef leaking fuel and drinks. By morning, dark web bid $15M for their lives. I was gone—new passport, new name, new camera. The Carters? They knew what it’s like to be the prize.
Bab terbaru
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
Anda juga akan menyukai
CRAVE: Temptations Collection
Sharbie3.9K DibacaWithout My Colored Glass Wings
QuiXid2.6K DibacaCAPTAIN CASABLANCA
Larryooet2.7K DibacaPEAK OF AN ALPHA FEMALE
graytrendz3.0K DibacaI WOULD GIVE UP EVERYTHING TO WAKE UP WITH YOU AT DAWN
Luna Lovegood1.7K DibacaNot All The Great are Famous
Blackpepperpinch7.4K DibacaMaestro's little spitfire
Kay Polk1.1K DibacaNaughty and untamed.
Mira83 Dibaca
