All Chapters of All Yours (An Erotica Collection): Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Damon had been obsessed for eight long months. It started the day the moving truck arrived next door. He was in his kitchen, coffee in hand, when she stepped out—Chloe Harper, twenty-nine, golden blonde hair cascading down her back, cutoff denim shorts riding high on tanned thighs, a white tank top stretched tight over full, heavy breasts that swayed with every step as she helped unload boxes. Her husband, Ethan, was already barking orders into his phone, barely glancing at her. Damon couldn’t look away. He lived alone in the old house he’d inherited—high windows, perfect angles into their modern open-plan house. Bedroom overlooking bedroom. Kitchen overlooking kitchen. Backyard pool in full view. He learned her routine quickly. For mornings, she did yoga on the patio in skintight leggings, ass high in downward dog, sweat making the fabric cling to every curve. Afternoons were for working from home in her glass-walled office, tiny tank tops, no bra, nipples hard when the AC ki

Chapter 2I didn’t sleep a wink.How the hell could I?Every time I drifted off, I was back on Daddy’s desk—bent over, belt marks burning across my ass, Alexander Voss’s massive cock stretching my mouth, my pussy, owning me in ways no trust-fund boy ever had. I’d cum harder than I ever thought possible, squirting like a porn star, sobbing his name while he filled me with his cum.I hated how much I craved more.By morning I was a mess.Sore between my legs from his brutal thrusts. Belt welts blooming dark purple across my ass cheeks. Nipples raw and sensitive from scraping the glass. My pussy still tender, swollen, leaking the last of him every time I moved.I showered twice—hot water stinging the marks, fingers slipping between my thighs to touch where he’d been. I came again in the steam, biting my lip to stay quiet, imagining his hand around my throat.I couldn’t wash him off.I didn’t want to.I dressed like the perfect reformed heiress for my 8 a.m. “meeting.”Tailored white silk

I woke before dawn, the thin white shift they’d given me clinging to my sweat-damp skin, the scent of incense, jasmine, and raw sex still thick in the air of the small cottage. Father Matthew had carried me here himself after the altar—my legs too weak to walk, his cum still leaking down my thighs as he tucked me into the narrow bed like a cherished possession. He’d kissed my forehead, stroked my hair, and whispered again, “Rest, my chosen. Tomorrow the sisterhood will see what I already know—that you were made for this.” I hadn’t rested. I’d burned. Every time I drifted, I felt him again—his massive cock splitting me open, the hot flood of his seed claiming my womb, the way he’d looked at me like I was both salvation and sin. My pussy throbbed, tender and swollen from his size, the way he’d stretched me without mercy. I couldn’t help it—my hand slipped between my legs in the dark, fingers sliding through the thick mess he’d left inside me, circling my clit until I came quietly,

I never meant for it to happen.I was just the babysitter.Nineteen, home from my first year of college, broke and bored in the suburbs. The Harrisons paid better than any other family—$25 an hour cash, plus bonuses when Mr. Harrison drove me home after late nights. He always slipped an extra fifty into my palm, fingers lingering just a second too long.Lily was three, sweet and easy—dinner, bath, one story, lights out by 8 p.m.Mrs. Harrison—Claire—was away for the long weekend at a luxury spa retreat with her girlfriends. “Girls’ trip,” she’d said with a wink, kissing Lily goodnight.Mr. Harrison—Nate—was supposed to be at a client dinner downtown, not home until midnight or later.So when Lily finally drifted off at 8:30, the house was all mine.Six bedrooms. Heated pool. Wine cellar. A master suite that looked like a five-star hotel.I’d been curious about that master suite for months.I’d folded Claire’s laundry enough times to know what was in her lingerie drawer—top right, behi

I always knew Victor was a creep.It wasn’t some sudden revelation. It was years of little things that added up, like drops in a bucket until it finally overflowed.Mom married him when I was fourteen. Victor Hayes—forty-two then, ex-military, built like a tank with broad shoulders, buzzed salt-and-pepper hair, and cold gray eyes that always seemed to strip me bare. Mom called him “stable.” A good provider. The kind of man who’d give us the life my real dad never could after he bailed when I was ten.Victor did provide.Big house in the suburbs.Private school tuition.A college fund.Everything money could buy.But the price was him.It started small.The way he’d “forget” to knock before entering my room.How his hugs lasted too long, hands drifting lower on my back than they should.The comments that made my skin crawl—“You are turning into quite the young woman, Ava,” when I turned fifteen, his eyes on my chest.“You fill out those shorts nicely,” at sixteen, while I did dishes in