Semua Bab Wild Dreams [An Erotic Collection]: Bab 21 - Bab 30

The morning after he fucked me on his bed, I woke up sore in the best way—thighs sticky, lips swollen from his kisses, a dull delicious ache between my legs that reminded me every time I shifted that Marcus had been inside me. Deep. Raw. Unprotected.He was already up, showered, dressed in charcoal slacks and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows like always. When I padded into the kitchen in nothing but one of his silk robes—way too big, slipping off one shoulder—he didn’t even look surprised. Just poured me coffee, black, the way I like it, and slid the mug across the island.“Morning, princess,” he said, voice still rough from sleep and sex. His eyes dropped to where the robe gaped open, showing the curve of my breast. “Sleep well?”I took a sip, licked my lip slowly. “Not really. Kept thinking about you.”He stepped closer. Close enough I could feel the heat radiating off him. One finger traced the edge of the robe, tugging it open another inch.“Good,” he murmured. “B

The elevator ride to the 42nd floor felt endless.I stood beside Marcus in the mirrored car, wearing the long black wool coat he’d told me to bring—nothing underneath except the scarlet lingerie from our dressing-room trip. The bra pushed my breasts up like an offering, the thong already damp from the anticipation, garters clipping sheer stockings that whispered against my thighs with every shift. My heels clicked softly on the marble when we stepped out.His office suite was dark except for the city lights pouring through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Lagos sprawled below us—neon veins, distant honks, the glow of Victoria Island glittering like spilled jewels. The desk was massive, dark walnut, papers neatly stacked, a single lamp casting warm gold across the surface.He locked the door behind us. The click echoed.“Coat off,” he said, voice low and final.I unbuttoned slowly, let the wool slide down my arms and pool at my feet. Stood there in red lace and stockings, nipples hard

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains of my bedroom, casting a warm glow over the tangled sheets. I woke up sore in the best way possible, my body still humming from the night before. Every muscle ached, a delicious reminder of how Stepdad and my stepbrothers had claimed me, over and over. I stretched, feeling the sticky remnants of their cum dried on my skin, and a fresh wave of heat pooled between my legs. God, I wanted more. Needed it.Downstairs, the house was alive with the usual sounds—coffee brewing, the clatter of dishes. But there was an undercurrent now, a charged tension that hadn't existed before. As I descended the stairs in my tiny sleep shorts and a cropped tank that barely contained my breasts, I caught glimpses of them: Jake flipping pancakes in the kitchen, his broad back flexing; Tyler lounging at the table, smirking at me over his phone; Ethan grabbing juice from the fridge, his eyes lingering on my thighs. And then Stepdad, at the head of the ta

I knelt in the dim confessional booth, the wooden kneeler pressing into my knees through the coarse fabric of my habit. The air was thick with the scent of old incense and polished pews, a familiar comfort that did little to ease the storm raging inside me. My hands clasped together, fingers twisting the rosary beads until they dug into my palms. I was Sister Maureen, barely twenty-two, having taken my vows just a year ago with a heart full of devotion. But lately, my thoughts had strayed, sinful and insistent, circling around the new parish priest like a forbidden temptation.Father Elias had arrived only two months ago, his presence rippling through the convent like a quiet thunder. Tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp green eyes that seemed to pierce right through the veil of piety, he led masses with a voice that commanded obedience. I caught myself staring during sermons, imagining those strong hands on me, guiding me not in prayer but in something darker, more carnal. At night,

The dawn light pierced the stained-glass windows of the chapel like accusing fingers, illuminating the altar where I, Sister Maureen, had knelt in prayer so many times before. But today, as I dusted the sacred space under the guise of morning chores, my mind replayed the previous day's savagery in Father Elias's study. My ass still bore faint bruises from his palms, a hidden testament to the slaps that had ignited my submission. The convent's silence amplified my ragged breaths, my pussy clenching at the mere thought of his command: 'We'll desecrate the altar next.' Fear and filthy anticipation warred within me, my undergarments already damp as I polished the candelabras, fingers trembling on the brass.The church doors groaned open mid-morning, and there he was—Father Elias, striding in with purposeful steps, his black cassock swaying like a shadow of judgment. The few parishioners scattered in the pews paid him no mind, but I felt his eyes lock on me immediately, dark and devouring.