All Chapters of Forbidden Collection : Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

The staff room buzzes with the usual midday chatter, a mix of exhaustion and relief as the lunch bell echoes through the halls. Ms. Elena Ramirez sits at the long table, grading papers with a red pen, her dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail, glasses perched on her nose. She’s the new English teacher, mid-thirties, curvy in her fitted blouse and pencil skirt that hugs her hips just right. Around her, the others unwind—Mr. Davis, the burly history teacher, laughs too loud at a joke from Ms. Thompson, the art instructor who’s always got paint smudges on her sleeves.“God, these kids are draining me today,” Ms. Thompson sighs, packing her bag. “Anyone else heading to the cafeteria? I need caffeine before I snap.”Mr. Davis nods, standing up. “I’m in. Elena, you coming?”Elena looks up, smiling politely. “Nah, I’ve got these essays to finish. Mr. Hale’s staying too, right? We can hold down the fort.”Mr. Nathan Hale, the math teacher—tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair an

The bass thumps through my bones, but I don’t hear it anymore. I feel it. My body moves on autopilot—slow grind, hips rolling, spine arched, hands sliding up the cold chrome pole. I’m in nothing but a black thong and six-inch stilettos, glitter already sticking to the sweat on my tits. The lights catch every drop of oil I rubbed in before my set.There are maybe fifteen guys in the front row tonight. Regulars, new faces, suits who think they’re slumming it. They all look the same when the money comes out—hungry, impatient, dicks half-hard under their slacks.I drop low, thighs spread wide, ass popping to the beat. One guy—bald, thick neck, Rolex glinting—throws a stack of twenties. They flutter like green confetti. I arch back, let them rain over my stomach, my breasts. Another regular, the quiet one who always tips in hundreds, flicks a bill at my thong. It tucks itself under the string like it knows where it belongs.“Shake that ass, baby!” someone yells.I do. I bounce, clap my che

I never expected a library date to turn into this kind of chaos, but with Sophia, nothing ever stays simple. We’d been dancing around each other for weeks—flirty texts after class, stolen kisses in the dorm hallway, that one night last month where we almost went all the way before her roommate barged in. Drama followed us like a bad habit. She was the bold one, the artist with wild curls and a laugh that could light up a room, while I, Elena, was the quiet bookworm, always overthinking everything. Our first real date? A “book date” in the university library, because apparently sharing poetry under fluorescent lights was romantic. Or so she said.We settled into a secluded corner table on the third floor, stacks of dusty tomes shielding us from the main reading area. The air smelled like old paper and faint coffee from the vending machine downstairs. Sophia slid into the chair across from me, her knee brushing mine under the table as she unpacked her notebook. “Okay, read me something

I’m bored. If it wasn’t for your dumb idea of sneaking out to that overnight party, we wouldn’t be in this mess.I glare at Lucas from the foot of my bed, arms crossed over my oversized sweater, legs tucked under the thick duvet. Snow taps against the window like it’s mocking us. Grounded for two weeks. No phones, no car, no nothing. Just this room, the crackling fireplace Dad insisted on lighting before he and Mom left for their “trust-building” dinner, and my stupid stepbrother sprawled on the other end of the bed like he owns the place.Lucas rolls his eyes, stretching so his shirt rides up and shows a strip of toned stomach. “You’re the one who said yes, Annabel. Don’t pin this on me.”“I said yes because you begged. Like a puppy.” I huff, pulling the blanket higher. “And now we’re stuck here while everyone else is probably still hungover and posting stories.”He props himself on his elbows, smirking that annoying smirk that always makes my stomach flip even when I hate him. “You’

As we stepped off the stage, the roar of the audience faded into a distant hum, replaced by the click of our shoes on the studio’s backstage corridor. Alex’s hand was warm in mine, steady and reassuring. The producers had whisked us into a waiting limo, cameras optional, but we’d both opted out—thank God. “No need for an audience tonight,” I’d said with a wink, and he’d laughed, that deep, genuine chuckle that made my stomach flip.The ride to his place in Seattle was short, the city lights blurring past like streaks of hope. Alex lived in a cozy loft downtown, all exposed brick and modern minimalism, with a killer view of the Puget Sound. “Engineer perks,” he joked as he unlocked the door, flipping on soft lights that cast a warm glow. He’d promised a private dinner, and true to his word, the kitchen island was set with candles, a bottle of red wine, and plates of homemade pasta—carbonara, he said, with a shy grin. “I figured Italian was your weakness.”We talked for hours, the conve