Semua Bab The Lust Journal: Bab 11 - Bab 20

The guest-wing shower was a cavern of black marble veined with silver, rain-heads the size of dinner plates mounted in a ceiling that disappeared into shadow. I stood under the hottest setting, water drumming my shoulders like punishment, scrubbing salt, sex, and the ghost of rope from my skin until it glowed raw. Steam fogged the glass, but the red dot in the ceiling corner watched anyway—an unblinking eye, matte black, smaller than a dime, yet it owned the room. I toweled off with a robe thick enough to hide a body, the monogrammed C on the lapel a brand I hadn’t asked for. My reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger: eyes too wide, lips swollen, faint rope marks still blooming across my ribs like watercolor bruises.Back in the bedroom, the duffel sat unzipped on the luggage rack, contents rearranged with surgical precision—socks folded, laptop centered on the desk, charging cable coiled like a snake. The Leica’s memory card was already in the slot. A new folder glowed on th

The Rover ate up the road like a hungry animal, headlights cutting through the dark, flashing over twisted pines and dunes as we sped to Montauk. R turned off the lights a mile early, letting the car coast quiet, engine dropping to a low hum that mixed with the distant waves. Salt air rushed in—sharp and fishy, pushing out the smell of pine and exhaust. We were off Carter land, but still far from safe.“Last cell tower is behind us,” R said low, eyes on the rearview. The estate lights glowed faint on the horizon. “No tracking here yet. But satellites, heat-seeking drones, license-plate readers—they have maybe forty minutes before they close in.”We left the Rover in a gravel lot behind a closed clam shack, sign creaking in the wind. The front was smashed from the gate, paint scratched to metal—it would blend with the old cars left by tourists. R pushed it into loose sand, tossed the keys under the mat. Two rows over, he swapped our plates with a rusty Subaru—New Jersey tags, expired s

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 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. Tha

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