All Chapters of Wet Desires: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

I came back at 10 p.m. Friday, exactly as ordered.The church was locked, but the side door by the sacristy clicked open when I pushed. Father Luca was waiting in the shadows, still in full black, Roman collar stark white against his throat. His eyes raked over me like fire.I wore the old Catholic-school uniform: tiny red-and-green plaid skirt that barely covered my ass, white blouse knotted under my breasts, knee-high white socks, no bra, no panties. My rosary dangled between my tits, the crucifix resting just above where my nipples already poked hard against the thin cotton.He didn’t speak. He just crooked one finger.I walked down the center aisle on shaking legs. Every pew was empty, but the saints in the stained-glass windows watched like silent witnesses. The red sanctuary lamp glowed like fresh blood above the tabernacle.When I reached the altar steps, he finally opened his mouth.“Kneel, peccatrice. Your penance begins.”I dropped to my knees on the cold marble. The skirt r

The invitation came in a plain black envelope, no return address, slipped into my mailbox the day after graduation.One line in sharp silver ink:Come to 47 Oakridge Lane. 9 p.m. Alone.Or the video of you fingering yourself in the locker room goes to every phone in the senior class.—D.H.Dylan Harlan.My bully since freshman year. The rich asshole who’d made my life hell for four years: tripping me in hallways, dumping milk on my lunch tray, spreading rumors that I was a slut when I’d never even been kissed. And now he had proof I’d gotten off in the showers after gym, thinking no one was watching.I should have ignored it.Instead I showed up at 9:02 p.m. wearing the shortest black dress I owned, no bra, no panties, because I was done being scared.The gate swung open before I reached it.The house was a mansion: glass, steel, lights glowing behind floor-to-ceiling windows. I expected Dylan’s smug face when the door opened.Instead it was his father.Mr. Dominic Harlan.Forty-two.

I’d lost track of days.Maybe two weeks. Maybe three.Time didn’t exist anymore; only Mr. Harlan’s cock, his cum, and the constant, aching fullness in my belly from how much he pumped into me every single day.The house was my cage and my church.I woke up every morning with his piss in my mouth or his cock in my cunt.I spent afternoons strapped to the breeding bench while machines and toys and his fists stretched me open.Nights were endless marathons: slow, deep breeding fucks until I cried and begged and thanked him for ruining me.I was barefoot, naked except for the leather collar he’d buckled around my throat the first week, engraved with one word: PET.My tits had already started to swell and ache. My nipples were constantly hard and dripping little beads of milk when he pinched them too hard.He measured my belly every morning with a tailor’s tape, grinning wider every day.Today the tape read half an inch more than yesterday.He kissed the tiny swell, then fucked me on the ki

I woke up choking on cock again.Ethan had me on my stomach, knees pulled under me, ass in the air, face shoved into the pillow while he fucked my throat from above like a machine. His balls slapped my chin with every thrust. Drool and tears soaked the sheets.He’d kept me plugged all night (thick silicone in my pussy, metal jeweled one in my ass), and now both were gone, replaced by his cock alternating between my holes every few minutes.He pulled out of my throat, slapped my face with his slick dick.“Morning, Mommy,” he rasped. “Time to start the day right.”He dragged me out of bed by my hair and marched me naked to Connor’s old room.The walls were still covered in hockey posters. The twin bed still had the same superhero sheets from when Connor was twelve.Ethan threw me onto it face-down.“Spread.”I did, shaking.He strapped my wrists and ankles to the four corners with leather cuffs he’d brought in a black duffel bag.Then he opened the bag.Toys. So many toys.A thick, vein

I was twenty-nine.Executive assistant to Alexander Voss, CEO of Voss Global.Six-figure salary, corner office view, designer wardrobe, and a reputation as the ice-queen who never mixed business with pleasure.Until tonight.It was 11:43 p.m. on a Friday. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. I was finishing the quarterly reports when the secure elevator dinged.Alexander Voss Jr. stepped out.Twenty-four. Fresh MBA. Arrogant. Gorgeous in that cruel, rich-boy way. Six-foot-two of lean muscle, black hair, green eyes that always looked like they were undressing me.He’d been “helping” run the company since graduation. Translation: strutting around in Tom Ford suits, barking orders, and staring at my ass every time I bent over the printer.Tonight he wore no jacket, white shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose, top buttons undone. A bottle of Macallan in one hand, phone in the other.He locked the glass doors behind him.“Working late, Miss Harper?” His voice was velvet over steel.I straig