All Chapters of UNHOLY CRAVINGS: Dirty Shorts : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The first request came three weeks later. I was in the basement locker room tying my shoes when the shift supervisor called my name. “1208 asked for you specifically. Business traveler, monthly stay. Said you did a good job last time and he prefers consistency. You okay taking it?” My stomach flipped. “Yeah. I’ll take it.” Room 1208 was two doors down from the original. Same floor, same layout, same late-afternoon light through the sheer curtains. The “Do Not Disturb” sign was already hanging. I knocked once. The latch was on. When I pushed the door open Elias stood by the window in a white dress shirt and nothing else, the shirt open, his cock already half-hard against his thigh like he had been thinking about the moment since he checked in. “You accepted,” he said. “I did.” He nodded at the door. I locked it. The cart stayed in the hall. By now we both knew the towels and toiletries were not the reason I was there. Elias crossed the room, backed me against the closed door, an

The blinds closed with a soft, final rattle. Stripes of gray light cut across the desk and the open textbook I no longer pretended to care about. Professor Voss sat back in his chair and regarded me the way he regarded a problematic paragraph—calm, precise, already several steps ahead. “The formal options remain available,” he said. “You can still stand up, unlock the door, and walk out with your fifty-eight intact. No one will know what was discussed in this room.” “I’m still here.” “I see that.” He steepled his fingers. “Then here are the terms. You need a passing grade. I control the remaining points in this course. The work you have not done cannot be retroactively made excellent overnight. What can change is my evaluation of your participation, your revised submissions, and the weight I assign to the final. That change is not free.” My mouth had gone dry. I kept my hands flat on my thighs so he wouldn’t see them tremble. “What’s the price?” Professor Voss’s eyes moved over

The portal updated every week. Sixty-four became sixty-nine. Then seventy-three. By the middle of the following month my average sat at a clean eighty-one and the red warning flag that had started everything was gone. Each jump corresponded to a locked door, a closed set of blinds, and the time I spent bent over Professor Voss’s desk or on my knees between his chair and the wood. Thursdays became fixed. Four o’clock. I stopped needing the formal email reminder. I simply arrived, locked the door behind me, and waited for instructions. Some weeks he had me strip from the waist down the moment I entered and bend over the desk with the week’s reading still open under my hands. He would fuck me in long, measured strokes while discussing the text in the same calm voice he used in lecture, as if the two activities belonged together. Other weeks he sat in his chair and had me crawl the last few feet, open his trousers with my mouth, and suck his cock until he decided I had earned being bent

The rain arrived without warning, a solid sheet of cold water that turned the city street into a river in under a minute. She had been walking with her head down, the thin summer dress already plastered to her skin by the first heavy drops. The fabric clung to every curve—tits, belly, the soft swell of her ass—transparent in seconds. He came the other way, leather jacket darkening under the downpour, hair plastered to his forehead. Lightning cracked overhead. Thunder followed so close the ground seemed to shake. They both veered for the same narrow gap between buildings at the same moment. The alley was barely wide enough for two people side by side, brick walls rising black and slick on either side, the far end lost in shadow and rain. She pressed her back against one wall to let him pass. He did the same against the opposite side. Their eyes met across the short distance. Water streamed down her face, caught in her lashes, ran in rivulets between her tits where the dress had becom

The morning rush hit the platform like a tide. Bodies funnelled through the open doors of the downtown train in a tight, unrelenting stream. She stepped on just as the warning chime sounded, the last few inches of space already claimed by shoulders and briefcases. The doors sealed. The car lurched forward. He was already there, one of the standing passengers near the center pole. The crowd shoved her straight into him—chest to chest, the thin fabric of her blouse against the cotton of his shirt. Her tits pressed flat to the hard plane of his torso. The scent of him reached her first: clean soap, a trace of cologne, the faint heat of skin already warming under the packed bodies. Neither moved to create distance. There was none to create. The train swayed around a curve and the entire mass of passengers shifted as one. Her hip ground against his. His thigh pressed between hers for a brief, deliberate second before the car straightened. Their eyes met over the heads of the shorter ride