Forbidden Lust: My Father-in-law のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

Sadie woke to the sound of the door unlocking. Morning light cut across the bed in hard white stripes. She had fallen asleep on top of the covers in the same black dress, thighs still sticky, throat still raw from the night before. For one disoriented second she thought she had dreamed the entire thing. Then Dominic stepped into the room carrying a glass of water and a small bottle of pills. He set both on the nightstand without a word, then sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight. He looked freshly showered, dark hair still damp, wearing a charcoal shirt open at the collar. The silver at his temples caught the light. “Sit up.” Sadie pushed herself upright, wincing at the ache in her jaw. Dominic held the glass out. She took it and drank because her mouth tasted like him and she needed it gone. “The pills are ibuprofen,” he said. “For the soreness. You’ll need them more after this morning.” Her stomach dropped. He stood, walked to the windows, and pull

Sadie woke alone. The bed was cold on Dominic’s side. Sunlight poured through the open curtains, too bright, too ordinary for what her body felt like. Every muscle ached. Her ass throbbed with a deep, persistent burn that made even the softest shift of the sheets feel like a reminder. Between her legs she was sticky—his cum from the night before had dried in places and still leaked in others. She could feel it when she tried to close her thighs. She lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way he had stretched her open, the way he had held her afterward like the ownership was already complete. Her throat felt tight. Somewhere under the soreness and the shame, a low, traitorous pulse had started between her legs again. The door opened without a knock. Dominic walked in carrying a glass of water and a small tube of ointment. He was already dressed for the day—dark trousers, white shirt open at the collar, watch gleaming. He looked rested. Controlled. Like

The phone sat on the nightstand like a loaded gun. Sadie had not touched it since Dominic placed it in her hand the day before. She had carried it upstairs, set it down, and stared at it until the light outside faded. Calling her mother should have been the easiest thing in the world. Instead it felt like stepping onto thin ice. She waited until late morning, when the house was quiet and Dominic had left her alone after breakfast with only one instruction: “When you decide to use it, you use it in the study. On speaker. With me present.” At eleven-forty she walked downstairs with the phone in her hand. Dominic was already behind the desk, reviewing something on a tablet. He looked up when she entered, took in the phone, and simply pointed to the chair across from him. Sadie sat. Her pulse was loud in her ears. “One call,” he said. “Weekly. You will not tell her where you are. You will not ask for help. You will not cry. If your voice breaks, the call ends and the privilege is go

The book was waiting on the library desk exactly as he had said. It was old, the leather cover worn soft at the edges, the pages thin and slightly yellowed. A single black ribbon marked a section near the middle. Sadie sat in the leather armchair by the window, the same chair she had used in the early days when she still believed she could keep some part of herself separate, and opened it to the marked place. The text was dense. Philosophical. It spoke of ownership not as theft, but as a form of responsibility—of the way a thing fully claimed begins to reshape itself around the hand that holds it. There were passages about the difference between possession and belonging, about the quiet violence of being seen so completely that resistance becomes a kind of performance. Sadie read slowly. Certain lines caught and held. *The collected object does not remain unchanged by the act of collection. It begins to reflect the desire of the one who keeps it.* *What is taken by force may sti

The black town car rolled to a stop beneath the glowing portico of the Voss estate just after nine. Music spilled out through the open French doors—low, expensive, the kind of carefully curated playlist that said *we have money and taste*. Champagne glasses glittered under string lights. Laughter floated across the manicured lawn. Elara Voss stepped out of the car in a dress that was deliberately too much for a family birthday party. Black. Silk. Cut low between her breasts and high on one thigh. The kind of dress that made people look twice and then pretend they hadn’t. She had chosen it for one reason only. Damien Cross would be here. She hadn’t seen him in eleven months. Not since last summer, when she’d still been pretending the way her pulse kicked every time he walked into a room was just leftover teenage idolization. That lie had died the night of her twentieth birthday, when he’d hugged her goodbye and she’d felt the hard line of his body against hers for half a seco