All Chapters of Wet Desires [An Erotic Collection]: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

I’m Alex. Thirty-one. Numbers guy. The kind of man who color-codes his calendar and feels mildly anxious if the spice rack isn’t alphabetized. Sex had always been… polite. Considerate. Missionary with good eye contact, maybe a little hair-pulling if she asked first. Consent checklists in my head before I even touched skin.That Friday night I brought Sarah home.She was exactly my type on paper: soft-spoken, smart, wore glasses when she read menus, laughed at my dry accounting jokes. Navy sundress. Bare legs. Smelled like vanilla and bergamot. We didn’t even make it through one full drink at the bar before we were kissing in the hallway outside my apartment.Inside, everything started gentle.I kissed her slow. Unzipped her dress like I was unwrapping something fragile. She shivered when the fabric pooled at her feet. I carried her to the bed—actually carried her, because I thought it was romantic. Laid her down. Kissed her throat, her collarbones, the soft swell of her breasts. When

Sunday morning came like a hangover made of shame.I woke up alone in my own bed for the first time in two days. The sheets were stiff with dried cum—mine, theirs, layers of it. My thighs stuck together when I tried to move. My hole throbbed with a dull, constant ache that wasn’t quite pain anymore. It was… awareness. Like my body had learned a new language overnight and couldn’t stop speaking it.I tried to be normal.Showered until the water ran cold. Scrubbed every inch like I could erase Marcus and Ethan’s fingerprints. Brushed my teeth until my gums bled. Opened my laptop, answered three work emails with shaking fingers. Pretended the weekend hadn’t happened.But my cock never went fully soft.It hung heavy between my legs, half-hard, leaking a slow, steady drip that soaked through the fresh boxers I’d put on. Every time I shifted in my chair it twitched. Every time I breathed too deeply, my hole clenched around nothing, hungry, empty.You’re fighting the wrong war, boy, the demo

I never believed in the occult. Not really. Sure, I’d dabbled in tarot cards during college sleepovers, giggling with my roommates as we pretended to commune with spirits over cheap wine and pizza. But that was years ago. Now, at 28, I was a practical woman— a graphic designer in a bustling city, living in a cozy apartment that overlooked the twinkling skyline. My days were filled with deadlines, coffee runs, and the occasional swipe on dating apps, hoping to find someone who could ignite that spark I’d been missing. Little did I know, the spark was about to become a raging inferno, courtesy of something far beyond the mortal realm.It started on a rainy Friday night. I’d come home exhausted from a long week, my blouse clinging to my skin from the downpour outside. I kicked off my heels, letting them thud against the hardwood floor, and poured myself a glass of merlot. The apartment felt emptier than usual; my last girlfriend had left months ago, citing my “workaholic tendencies” as t

I barely had time to catch my breath before Lilithara’s tail tightened around my throat—not choking, just a firm, possessive collar of warm leather that reminded me who owned every gasp I took. She rolled off me only long enough to drag an antique-looking wooden chair from the corner of my bedroom to the center of the room. It was one of those heavy, carved things I’d bought at a flea market because it looked “vintage chic.” Now it looked like a throne for torment. “Sit,” she ordered. My legs were still jelly. I stumbled forward anyway, thighs slick with both our releases. When I lowered myself onto the seat the cool wood kissed my overheated skin and made me hiss. Lilithara circled behind me like a predator sizing up dinner. “Arms over the backrest. Wrists together.” I obeyed. Her tail immediately lashed around both wrists, binding them to the chair’s carved spine so tightly I could feel my own pulse hammering against the leather. Then she knelt in front of me, sprea

I was already on my knees before the words fully left his mouth, the carpet rough against my shins, but I barely felt it. All I could feel was the heat coming off Mark’s body, the way the mattress still dipped from where he’d been sitting moments ago, the thick, musky scent of him filling my nose like a drug. His cock hung right in front of my face—thick, veined, the foreskin pulled back just enough to show the fat, glistening head. A slow bead of pre-cum welled at the slit and stretched downward in a thin, clear thread before breaking and landing warm on my lower lip.I licked it off instinctively. Salty. Bitter. Him.Mark’s hand tightened in my hair—not yanking yet, just holding, controlling the angle of my head like I was already his to position.“Look at me,” he said, voice low and rough. “Eyes up, baby boy. I want to see that pretty face when you take your first real cock.”I lifted my gaze. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, the same commanding stare he used when he told me