All Chapters of TABOO:BATION — 50 SHADES OF FORBIDDEN SHORTS: Chapter 361 - Chapter 370

Chapter 3: A job to cover it upAunt Lydia had been watching me for days. I could feel it every time I came home with new shopping bags or when the delivery guy dropped off the sleek little black car I’d bought with cash. One evening, while I was trying on a pair of expensive heels in the living room, she finally cornered me.“Emma,” she said, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at the designer logo on my shopping bag. “How exactly are you affording all of this? Clothes, shoes, that car outside… Sophia said you were just staying here temporarily. What’s going on?”My heart skipped. I forced a casual smile, setting the heels down. “Oh, it’s nothing crazy, Aunt Lydia. Sophia’s friends have been really helpful. They got me a new job. It pays pretty well.”She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of job pays enough for a car in a couple of weeks? You barely just got here.”I shrugged, trying to sound casual. “It’s… event hosting and private client stuff. Networking, basically. Maybe next time I can ta

: Sex in the conference room The promotion came the very next morning after the sex I had with him. The promotion was supposed to be rewarded for my hard work but I knew very well that it was because of yesterday. I had just settled at my new desk outside Mr. Harrington’s office when his assistant informed me I was now his executive secretary. All day I felt his eyes on me. During the morning briefing he watched me take notes with that intensity from yesterday. By the time the afternoon conference meeting started, the air between us was already thick with anticipation. The long polished table was filled with department heads going over Q3 projections. I sat to Damien’s right, legs crossed, taking careful notes. Under the table, his hand occasionally brushed my thigh, sliding higher with each pass until his fingers teased the lace edge of my panties. I kept my expression professional even as heat pooled between my legs. When the meeting finally ended, the executives filed out o

1: Masturbating with panties.I’d been running my mobile laundry service for the neighborhood for nearly two years now. It was steady money, decent hours, and usually pretty straightforward. Most clients left their bags on the porch with instructions. But Mrs. Elena Voss was different. She was a divorced woman in her early forties, with a body that had clearly been maintained through yoga, and confidence. She had full, heavy breasts that strained against her tops, and a narrow waist that flared into wide, womanly hips, and an ass so round and firm it made my mouth water every single time she bent over to hand me her laundry. Her long dark hair usually fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and her smile always carried just a hint of something playful in it. That Thursday afternoon, the sun was beating down on my van as I knocked on her door. Elena answered wearing a thin white tank top with no bra underneath and tiny black shorts that barely covered the lower curves of her as

I am Julian. For twenty-six years, this village has tried to turn me into a ghost.Look at my hands. My fingers are permanently stained with a deep, ugly blue ink that never washes off. That is the mark of the scribe caste. They dress me in a heavy robe made of undyed wool that scratches against my skin every time I breathe. They put me at a cold stone desk and tell me to write down numbers and names in massive ledger books until my eyes ache. They tell me my mind must stay quiet. They tell me my body belongs to the state, not to me.But that's their fucking business. Our village lives under one cruel law: “Desire is a sickness of the weak; duty is the health of the whole.”Every single morning, the iron bells ring out across the Citadel. The sound forces me out of bed and into the open courtyard with everyone else. We have to stand in perfectly straight lines in the freezing morning air, repeating the Vows of Sobriety like robots. Nobody smiles. Nobody laughs. If you talk to your ne

The dawn bells rang like iron hammers hitting my skull. The heavy, metallic vibration woke me from a dream full of Beatrice’s wet heat and high, broken moans. I sat up in my freezing stone cell, my skin still sensitive and almost bruised from where her fingers had clawed into my shoulders in the dark. I dragged my body out of bed. I pulled the scratchy, gray woolen robe over my head. It felt rougher than usual against my skin today. My body remembered the feeling of being bare. It remembered her. By the time the sun crawled over the stone walls of the Citadel, I was standing in the grand courtyard. Hundreds of us stood in perfectly straight lines, like rows of gravestones. As a scribe, my place was near the center, surrounded by men with the same ink-stained fingers and hollow eyes. The morning wind blew hard, biting into my face, but I barely felt the cold. My mind was trapped in the deep basement. I kept seeing the way her thighs looked in the candlelight—glistening, soft, and dri