All Chapters of Raw Pleasures: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

ALMA’S POVOne man stepped forward, holding a bottle of wine. He tilted it slowly, pouring a dark red stream into the hollow of my belly button, letting it trickle lower, down over the lips of my pussy, across the curve of my ass. The liquid stung at first—sharp, foreign—before melting into warmth that made me arch against the velvet.Another man came with a bowl of cream. Thick, white, sweet-smelling. He spooned it over my breasts, letting it drip down my curves, over my nipples, coating me until the lace clung wet and sticky against my skin. He smeared it with his fingers, painting me like a canvas meant for consumption.Then another—his hands rougher, holding something darker, heavier, thicker. I couldn’t tell what it was, only that it poured slow, rich, almost obscene in its weight. It coated my stomach, my thighs, sliding down my sides, over my arms, even across my face. I gasped, the sensation overwhelming—sticky, slick, cold in patches, warm where it met my body heat.They were

THIRD PERSON POVThe sun was dipping low, casting long streaks of amber across the harbor as the black SUVs rolled to a stop at the private marina. One by one, the doors opened, and ten women stepped onto polished marble, their heels clicking like a metronome measuring anticipation. Even from a distance, their poise and refinement spoke of wealth, education, and social standing—but beneath the controlled elegance, a tremor of curiosity ran through them all.Each carried a single envelope, sealed in gold, with the city name they would carry inside Velaria. For some, the thrill was obvious in the tight clutch of their hands, the slight quickening of breaths. For others, like Martha, it was a slow, simmering heat—born from years of a marriage that offered comfort but never passion. Crescenta, her new identity, whispered promises of what her young body had longed for.The women exchanged glances, brief nods that acknowledged each other without words. Masks bold enough to hide expressions,

THIRD PERSON POVCrescenta tilted her head back, baring her neck to her man as he obeyed her whispered command, his lips grazing skin like a promise before biting into it as though she were ripe fruit herself. Lumina arched against the table edge, her masked face tilted toward the candlelight as her man kissed trails of fire down her throat and over her breasts, exactly where she had demanded. Dahlira trembled as her man bent her hand behind her back, pressing her forward against the cleared surface, feeding on her shoulder, her spine, each touch an order she never had to give.Isolde gasped when hands spread her knees apart under the table, her mask turning sharply as she realized every gaze had indeed fallen on her. The attention made her body surge with heat, the apple’s spell unlocking a part of her that had been locked in shadows. Veyra bit her lip hard, smearing juice, then tilted her head back in challenge as her man bit the soft curve of her breast through her gown, hard enoug

THIRD PERSON POVFurther down, a woman with a jeweled mask had her breasts pulled apart by rough hands, her nipples sucked and bitten until she sobbed with pleasure. Her man spat wine over her chest, then licked it up greedily, leaving her body sticky, wet, and marked with bruises that would ache tomorrow. She came with his teeth still sunk into her nipple, her thighs jerking violently under the table.Another had her head tipped back, her man’s cock buried in her mouth while his fingers thrust into her pussy below. She gagged around him, tears streaking her mask, drool sliding down her chin. Yet her hand clawed at his ass, dragging him deeper, and when she came—squirting across the floor beneath her chair—it was with his cock still stuffing her throat.The air was thick with sex—moans, gags, wet slaps, and the sticky-sweet scent of liquor mingled with pussy. Masks glittered in the mirror light, but there was nothing noble left about these women. They were undone, their orgasms loud,

(THIRD PERSON POV)Alina stood in the marbled reception of Grant Enterprises, palms damp against her dress. Beside her, the frame leaned upright, sealed in brown paper and string. Inside was her boldest work yet — ropes burning red against pale painted skin, a blindfolded woman arched back in surrender, her body alive with hunger and defiance.She whispered to herself, This is the one, Alina. This is the door.“Mr. Grant will see you now,” the receptionist said crisply.Alina smoothed her dress, pressed her lips together, and left the frame by the wall. Her heels clicked down the long corridor, echoing too loudly.When she entered, Grant’s office swallowed her whole. It was wide, glass walls flooding the room with the city’s skyline. Behind a desk of black steel sat Grant himself, lean, silver-haired, and already watching her as though she had wasted his time by breathing.“You’re the artist?” His voice was a blade.“Yes, sir,” she said quickly. “My name is Alina. I brought a piece th