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“Hold the fucking counter,” he growls. I grip the edge. He slams into me raw (one brutal thrust that punches the air from my lungs). “Fuck—Jake—” I choke. He sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping so hard the cabinets rattle, cock splitting me open. “Quiet,” he snarls, spanking my ass hard enough to echo. “Your brother’s ten feet away.” Another vicious spank. Then another. My skin burns red. “Yes—Daddy—harder—” I sob, biting my lip bloody. He spanks me again and again, handprints blooming, fucking me so deep my toes curl. “You love this, don’t you?” he rasps. “Love getting wrecked while Tyler sleeps.” “Yes—fuck yes—don’t stop—” ** Naked Scripts is a compilation of thrilling, heart throbbing erotica short stories that would keep you at the edge in anticipation for more. It's loaded with forbidden romance, domineering men, naughty and sex female leads that leaves you aching for release. From forbidden trysts to irresistible strangers. Every one holds desires, buried deep in the hearts to be treated like a slave or be called daddy! And in this collection, all your nasty fantasies would be unraveled. It would be an escape to the 9th heavens while you beg and plead for more like a good girl.

In this world, a cataclysm has caused the appearance of monsters and other disasters, emerging from dimensional rifts and gradually pushing the world to its destruction, to face them, some humans having awakened various magical powers are fighting against this apocalypse. Dora, one of them, has a special class "Avatar" which gives him access to all the other classes, alas, the difficulties in leveling it up and the temperament of the latter earned him to be expelled from his team, which he had planned in order to live a calm and peaceful life, but a friendly fight with the little brother of the strongest woman in the kingdom will reveal his true potential. This is the story of the one perfect avatar, the individual who has the power to transcend this world.

My name is Evelyn Brown. I represent the company in the IPO bidding process. Halfway through my presentation, I notice everyone in the room staring at me with puzzled expressions. In that instant, I realize my PowerPoint slides have been swapped for a "Paid Surrogate" advertisement. The wording is utterly humiliating. "I've lived the first 20 years of my life in a poor mountain village. I'm healthy and can promise a son. My price is negotiable." I rush backstage, only to see the impoverished student my father, Eric Brown, has sponsored for years laughing uncontrollably. Leaning against my fiance, Dwayne Woodruff, Katherine Cadwell says, "Oh, Ms. Brown, don't be upset! I was just teasing you to lighten the mood. You just got back home. Don't stress yourself out so much." I grab her arm, insisting she come out and explain herself. But out of nowhere, Dwayne shoves me to the floor. "You've just returned," he says. "We only pulled a little prank on you because we didn't want you to be too tense. If you can't handle even this amount of pressure, how can you be expected to take over the company?" I can't help but scoff. Right in front of them, I send the live recording straight to my father, the CEO. Without a second thought, I dial his number. "Dad, look at what your 'star scholarship student' just pulled. Can we have her and Dwayne kicked out of the company?"

My grandmother only knows how to draw one thing—infants. They're ugly, but people line up to buy the paintings. I watch as she takes those women into unlit rooms. Then, their bloodcurdling screams will ring out. Oddly enough, they always thank my grandmother when they're leaving. One day, I finally find out what exactly my grandmother paints. I discover the truth when I see an infant crawl out of one of the women's bellies—it looks just like the one my grandmother has painted.

A category 5 hurricane has just torn through town, and Mom is out in the housing complex clearing floodwater when a 30-pound dead frond from a royal palm crashes down and shatters her spine. Four hours of emergency surgery later, the doctors tell me she'll never walk again. I storm into the mediation room with her bloodstained paperwork. The property manager, James Kendrick, is sitting there sipping a glass of scotch. When I demand the management company covers her medical bills, he refuses, then slams five photographs down in front of me. "Kid, you want to be real careful about throwing accusations around." He lets out a sigh, all patronizing and fatherly. "We had caution tape up before the storm. We set out traffic cones. Your mother walked right past all of it to dig through the trash. "That's trespassing and damaging the landscaping. Who's she going to blame but herself?" He slides a liability waiver across the table and tells me to sign. "Sign this, and I'll be generous enough to lend you 5,000 dollars out of my own pocket. Try to fight this, and our legal team will bury you." I look at his smug face, then pick up the photos from the floor. The caution tape is there, sure enough. But the flower bed next to it is full of azaleas in bloom, a variety that only flowers in April. It's the middle of July. I tear the waiver to shreds right in front of him. "Using photos from two months ago as your proof, Mr. Kendrick? I think you're forgetting something. "My family runs the shop right across from the complex entrance." Then I pull out my phone and open the cloud backup for our storefront's 24-hour HD security cameras.

رواية: " شهر عسل " كانت نادية تقف فوق جسد رجلٍ غارقٍ في الدماء، والسكين ما تزال بين أصابعها. كانت متأكدةً من كل شيء؛ من لحظة الغضب، من طعنة النصل، ومن دفء الدماء التي غطت يديها. ثم فتحت عينيها. نظرت إلى يديها: لا دماء، لا سكين، لا جثة. في رحلةِ «شهر عسل»... ستعرف أن أخطر مكان قد تضيع فيه ليس بيتاً مظلماً، ولا طريقاً مجهولاً... بل عقلٌ اختار الظلام . بقلم: أسامة إبراهيم