Semua Bab Wet Desires [An Erotic Collection]: Bab 71 - Bab 80

I wake up warm, tangled in silk sheets that smell like him—cedar, smoke, and something darker. For a second I forget where I am. Then his arm tightens around my waist, pulling my naked back against his equally naked chest, and it all floods back.The dinner. The offer. The way he spread me on the table and licked me until I screamed. The word I let slip just before I came: Daddy.He hasn’t let go of me all night. Even in sleep he held me like he was afraid I’d vanish.Morning light filters through the massive windows. Central Park far below, a toy world. His cock is hard against my ass—thick, hot, pulsing slightly with his heartbeat. He’s awake.“Good morning, baby girl,” he murmurs into my hair, voice rough with sleep.I shiver. “Morning… Daddy.”The title feels different in daylight. Dirtier. More real.He groans softly, hips rocking once against me. “Fuck. Say it again.”“Daddy.”His hand slides up my stomach, cups one breast possessively. Thumb circles my nipple until it pebbles t

I’ve loved Kai for ten years.Ten years of bedroom walls covered in his posters, of skipping lunch to buy his albums, of crying into my pillow the night my dad called his music “noise for sluts” and ripped my signed tour book in half. Ten years of feeling like the only person who really understood the ache in his voice when he sang about being alone in a crowd.I was fourteen when his first single dropped. I was cutting my thighs in the bathroom because school felt like drowning and home felt like war. His song came on the radio—raw, beautiful, like he was singing straight to the parts of me I hated. I stopped the blade mid-skin. Put on headphones. Played it on repeat until sunrise.He saved me without ever knowing I existed.Now I’m twenty-four, living in a studio apartment in Koreatown that smells like old takeout and desperation. I work mornings at a coffee shop, nights driving rideshare, weekends slinging drinks at a dive bar. Every dollar I don’t spend on rent goes to him—concer

The tour ended two weeks ago. The final show in Madison Square Garden felt like a dream—me in the wings, wearing his chain and a custom dress he had made (black silk, low back, the diamond K pendant visible for the world to see during his encore bow when he pulled me on stage and kissed me in front of sixty thousand screaming fans).Now we’re “home.”Not my old Koreatown studio. Not even his L.A. mansion he barely used before.A new place. A sprawling glass-and-steel house perched in the Hollywood Hills he bought the week the tour wrapped. “Ours,” he called it when he carried me over the threshold the first night. No staff live-in. Just us. Private. Quiet. Ours.I quit my jobs the day after Vegas. He paid off my remaining rent, cleared my tiny debts, moved my few belongings in one suitcase. I didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. The way he looks at me—like I’m the only real thing in his surreal life—makes resistance impossible.I’m standing in the kitchen now, late afternoon sun pouring through

You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you? That ache from Chapter 1 never really left. It’s been sitting deep in your cunt all this time, pulsing, dripping, keeping you wet and restless. Good. I wanted you desperate. I wanted you hurting for it.Now spread your legs again. Wider than before. I want you obscene—knees bent, feet flat, thighs trembling from how open you are. Everything on display. Your pussy still swollen and slick from last time, lips puffy, clit peeking out like it’s begging to be tortured.Look at yourself if you can. See how wet you still are? How your hole keeps fluttering, hungry for something thick to stretch it.Touch yourself. No warm-up. Two fingers straight down your slit, gathering all that filthy juice, then drag it up and over your clit—hard. No mercy. Rub it fast from the very first second. Side to side. Brutal little flicks that make your hips jerk.That’s it. Feel how sensitive you are already? How every stroke feels almost too much, too sharp, too raw? Per

I turned eighteen six weeks ago, and that’s when the lying stopped.I’m not in British Lit 301 for the credits. I’m here for her.Professor Valentina Cross. Thirty-four. The woman who owns every drop of blood in my veins.I arrive twenty-five minutes early, claim the same seat—third row, left aisle—so I can watch her walk in. Notebook open, pen ready, like I give a damn about Byron. I’m already half-hard just from the anticipation.The hall fills. Then the door opens and the air turns thick, electric.She stalks in on four-inch heels that click like a metronome straight to my cock. Charcoal pencil skirt, slit riding high enough to flash black lace stocking tops when she moves. Ivory silk blouse stretched tight across her tits, nipples faintly visible when the light hits right. Hair twisted up, a few strands begging to be yanked free.She writes the date on the board. The skirt parts. I bite back a groan.Class starts. Her voice—low, smoky, clipped British—slides over words like “desir