Lahat ng Kabanata ng Kinky Pleasure (SSPG R18+): Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

LaraMy heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the raw need throbbing between my legs. Three years. Three years of watching John work himself into a hollow shell, of seeing the ghost of my mother in his tired eyes. Tonight, the ghost was gone, drowned in a bottle of whiskey. And I was done watching.He was slumped at the kitchen table, head in his hands, a big, broken man. The sight used to make me sad. Now it made something else coil tight in my belly. Heat.“John,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.He looked up, his gaze blurry. “Lara? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”I am going to be, I thought. With you. I didn’t say that. Instead, I walked to him, the tile cool under my bare feet. “I can’t replace her,” I whispered, the truth of it aching. “But I can give you something she can’t. Not anymore.”Confusion clouded his face. Then shock, pure and stark, as my fingers went to the hem of my sleep shirt. I pulled it over my head in one fluid motion, letting it fall to t

Sister Mariahe cold stone floor of my cell is a constant reminder. The rough wool of my habit scratches my skin, a perpetual penance for a sin I haven't even committed yet. Not officially. My parents’ dream, this life of silent devotion, is my beautiful, gilded cage. I see my sisters, Mary and Marie, in my mind’s eye. Their laughter, the swell of their pregnant bellies, the sticky hands of their children clinging to their legs—a life of messy, glorious, chosen chaos. I have only this silence, this ache between my legs that is a hollow, empty chapel all its own.Then he came. Father Morris Samson. Newly ordained, with eyes the color of storm clouds and a smile that felt like stolen sunlight. When he speaks during mass, his voice doesn’t chant; it connects. It’s a voice made for confession, for secrets. For me.My fever was a blessing. A violent, shivering gift that left me alone in the infirmary. The other sisters kept their distance, a prudent quarantine. But he came. Morris. He brou

SofiaThe rain was a fucking drum solo on the roof, and the power had been out for an hour. Total blackness, except for the occasional flare of lightning that lit up Annie’s terrified, nerdy face across the living room floor. My mom and her new husband were probably fucking in some tropical resort, and I was stuck in a dark house with my new, mute, stepsister.I’d already gone through three shots of vodka, straight from the bottle. Annie was sipping her first, wincing with every tiny swallow. The silence was worse than the storm.“This is pathetic,” I slurred, the vodka making my tongue thick and my thoughts fuzzy. “Bottle’s empty. Let’s play a game.”I fumbled for an old wine bottle from the recycling bin and set it spinning on the hardwood floor between us. The glass scraped and whirred. Lightning flashed. I saw her wide eyes.It landed on me. “Truth,” I said, before she could even ask. “Do you think my mom’s a gold-digging whore?”Annie flinched. Her mouth opened, then closed. She

EllaGod, he’s going to yell again. I can feel it in the air, thick and sour as disinfectant. I’m standing outside Dr. Marvin Goldwin’s office, my freshly printed chart already damp from my sweaty palms. I can hear him moving inside, the impatient shuffle of papers. I knock, my knuckles barely making a sound. “Come in, Nurse Ella.” His voice isn’t warm. It never is.I push the door open. He’s at his desk, not looking up, his salt-and-pepper hair immaculate, his white coat crisp. He’s in his late forties, all sharp angles and simmering intensity. To me, a twenty-three-year-old who still gets lost in the supply closet, he’s a god. A terrifying, brilliant, perpetually annoyed god.“The Henderson report,” he says, holding out a hand without glancing up.I hand it over. My heart is a trapped bird. He scans it, his eyes—a cold, piercing blue—narrowing. One finger taps a line. “This. The dosage is written as 5.0 mg. The order was for five milligrams. The decimal point is redundant and, in th

MiaI hate him. The feeling is a hot, hard knot in my stomach every single time I see Elton’s stupid, sympathetic smile. He’s my age, we go to the same stupid school, and now he’s in my house. He tries so hard. He holds doors, asks about my day, acts like the perfect son for my mom. It makes me sick. My dad’s been gone six months. Six. And she’s already married again, already moved this stranger and his too-nice son into our lives.My new bedframe arrived today, a sleek platform thing that sits lower to the ground. I was shoving some old shoeboxes of junk underneath it, a pathetic attempt to reclaim some space in this room that no longer feels like mine. I wiggled under, pushing the last box into the far corner. When I tried to scoot back out, my shirt snagged on a rough bolt I hadn’t noticed.A sharp tug. Nothing. A panicked wiggle. My hips were stuck, the frame’s side rail pressing into my lower back. I was trapped from the waist down, my legs and ass sticking out into the room, my