Forbidden Sinful Desires: A Steamy Spicy Erotica Collection 의 모든 챕터: 챕터 61 - 챕터 69

Mia’s POV I shut the kitchen door, dragging my feet across the floor. Henry was probably upstairs — either glued to his video games or still dead asleep. “Henry !” I called, my voice softer than usual. “Come down, breakfast’s ready!” I sank into the couch and grabbed the remote from the center table. The TV flickered to life, playing one of my favorite Hollywood series. “Henry , please hurry up!” I called again, raising my voice just enough to be heard upstairs. A few minutes passed. My eyes started to feel heavy; I hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. I let out a quiet sigh, leaning back into the couch cushions. What the hell was taking him so long? Maybe he’s still in bed. I headed upstairs, dragging my hand along the rail . As I reached Henry’s room, I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob and pushed it open. At that moment, I wished I could un-see what I saw. Henry lay exposed on his bed, one hand wrapped around his dick, spilling all over the blanket. Thick ropes of cum

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away,” Emma said, tossing her bag over her shoulder. “And please, for the love of God, call the vet and book Zoey’s booster shot—she’s overdue by like two weeks now.”“Sure, sure, just dump everything on me like always,” I shot, pretending to be more annoyed than I actually was. “Oh, wait—almost forgot,” she said, spinning around. “Noah’s gonna be here any second. Keep him company for me? Put on Netflix or something, just don’t let him sit here bored out of his mind.”I dragged out a long, “Okaaay…”The door clicked shut behind her.I stood there blinking at the closed door. That was… new. Emma has literally yanked Noah away from me at parties because she didn’t like the way he laughed at my jokes. She once made him switch seats at dinner because I was “sitting too close.” And now she’s basically handing him to me on a silver platter?“Is this some kind of test?” I muttered to absolutely no one.Whatever. I’m not about to make out with her boyfrien

My name’s Kaylin, and the moment that red light flares on, I drop to my knees on the cold hardwood like the obedient little slave I was born to be. The only things that exist are this camera, the steel collar locked tight around my throat, and the burning, dripping need between my clamped-open thighs. Black leather cuffs bite into my wrists, chained short to a spreader bar that forces my knees obscenely wide. My ankles are locked in matching cuffs, tethered to rings bolted into the floor so I can’t close my legs even if I beg. A thick black ball-gag stretches my jaw, drool already spilling in long silver strands onto my heaving tits. My nipples are crushed in vicious clover clamps, the connecting chain swaying with every shuddering breath, tugging painfully when I move. I stare straight into the lens, eyes glassy with submission, and wait for your silent command. You don’t speak, but I feel it anyway. I arch my back, presenting like a bitch in heat. My pussy is swollen, glistening,

I’m Kaylin, nineteen, still wearing the same cherry-flavored lip gloss I put on this morning for senior year pictures that never actually happened. My heart is hammering so hard I swear the tiny microphone clipped to my baby-pink bralette is picking it up. The living-room set is brighter than I expected—three softboxes blasting warm light, a cream sectional that smells like new leather, and two cameras on tripods pointed at me like they already know what I’m about to do.Joseph, the interviewer, sits across from me in a director’s chair, legs crossed, clipboard balanced on one knee. He’s wearing a black tee that says “Backroom Casting Couch” in small white letters, and he’s smiling like your favorite uncle who secretly isn’t.“So, Kaylin,” he starts, voice smooth, a little playful, “tell everybody at home how old you are and what brings a sweet little thing like you to our couch today.”I tuck a strand of my honey-blonde hair behind my ear, “I’m nineteen,” I say, trying not to squeak.

I’m Kaylin, nineteen, still wearing the same cherry-flavored lip gloss I put on this morning for senior year pictures that never actually happened. My heart is hammering so hard I swear the tiny microphone clipped to my baby-pink bralette is picking it up. The living-room set is brighter than I expected—three softboxes blasting warm light, a cream sectional that smells like new leather, and two cameras on tripods pointed at me like they already know what I’m about to do.Joseph, the interviewer, sits across from me in a director’s chair, legs crossed, clipboard balanced on one knee. He’s wearing a black tee that says “Backroom Casting Couch” in small white letters, and he’s smiling like your favorite uncle who secretly isn’t.“So, Kaylin,” he starts, voice smooth, a little playful, “tell everybody at home how old you are and what brings a sweet little thing like you to our couch today.”I tuck a strand of my honey-blonde hair behind my ear, “I’m nineteen,” I say, trying not to squeak.