Todos los capítulos de Tales Of His Obsession : Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

Lola sobbed, overwhelmed by the dual invasion, the pain in her ass mixing with the sharp pleasure on her clit. Her body, trained for response, began to crest despite the agony. "Now," William growled, and Lola shattered, a convulsive orgasm wracking her body as she was penetrated anally by the cold toy. William didn't let her rest. He withdrew the dildo and immediately replaced it with his cock, now re-entering her ass, still tight and clenching from her climax. "Again," he demanded, beginning to piston into her sore channel. "You don't stop until I say you stop." Lola's world dissolved into a cycle of pain-pleasure, her refinement into an endurance object just beginning. Down the stone corridor, in a stark, white-tiled room that was indeed a private dungeon, Frederick was working on Willow. The room was clean, clinical, and equipped with restraint points, a floor drain, and a shelf holding various tools. Willow was standing on trembling legs, forced to hold two large, heavy book

The glow of the ring light was merciless, highlighting every pore on Sloane’s tired face. It was 2:17 AM on a Tuesday, and the chat box on her screen was a slow, pathetic crawl. User87: show feet LoneWolf22: u got a bf? User87: feet pls Sloane’s apartment was a studio that smelled faintly of stale takeout and desperation. The “set” was her bed, pushed against a cheap tapestry she’d bought online, a vague, silky pattern meant to look luxurious but which photographed as a blurry mess. Her equipment was basic: the ring light, a decent webcam she’d financed, and a laptop that ran hot enough to fry an egg. The “outfit” was a faded pink babydoll that had seen better days, the lace at the hem fraying. She forced a giggle, tilting her head. “You like my toes, User87? They’re pretty lonely tonight.” She wiggled them toward the camera, the chipped red polish a testament to her financial state. A token, worth fifty cents, dinged. A single, stupid token. Her rent was overdue by eleven days

The apartment was a new, modern cage on the 14th floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a breathtaking, glittering view of the city Sloane had been drowning in just days before. The air smelled of new paint and money. Her footsteps echoed on the polished concrete floors as she explored, a ghost in her own new life. The main room was dominated by her “studio.” Gone was the rickety bed and sad tapestry. In its place was a professional set: a king-sized platform bed with a padded, vegan leather headboard, bathed in the glow of three powerful ring lights on adjustable arms. A 4K camera on a tripod stood sentinel. A sound mixer, a green screen for custom backgrounds, and a sleek desktop computer completed the transformation. It was a command center for manufactured desire. The bedroom, however, was where the contract became tangible. It was sparsely furnished, just the large bed and two nightstands. But mounted on the wall opposite the bed was a large, dark screen. And anchored to the

The black town car was a familiar ghost in the night. Sloane slid into its plush interior, her body still humming with a phantom ache from the stream. She’d showered, reapplied a more subdued version of her makeup, and dressed in another of his gifts: a simple, knee-length cashmere dress the color of a bruise. It was soft, expensive, and covered her completely, yet she felt more naked than she had on stream. The collar was a constant, hidden presence beneath the high neckline. They didn’t drive to a restaurant this time. The car navigated into the hushed, tree-lined streets of an old-money enclave, finally passing through wrought-iron gates and up a winding drive to a modern mansion of glass and steel, perched like a predator overlooking the city. The driver opened her door. “He’s waiting in the study, Miss Luxe.” The title, delivered with such bland deference, sent a shiver through her. She was expected. A silent housekeeper led her through vast, minimally furnished spaces, her

The morning after the Punishment, Sloane’s body was a map of pain. Each welt was a dull, aching reminder. Each tender, internal muscle whispered of Markus’s brutal invasion. She moved through the sterile luxury of her apartment like a ghost, the silence oppressive. The high from the historic earnings, over thirty-five thousand dollars in a single night, was a cold, metallic buzz in her veins, inseparable from the throb of her bruises. Her phone chimed. It wasn’t a text from him, but an encrypted video file with a message: Your progress report. View it alone. She sat at her streaming desk, the scene of last night’s opening act, and opened the file. It was a montage, professionally edited with a driving, cinematic score. It began with grainy clips of her old, low-viewer streams, her trying too hard, smiling desperately into the void. Then, the turning point: the night DaddyD53 tipped $100 and commanded her to cum. The video cut sharply to highlights from “The Spoiled Princess”: her