Mae Whitman Nude Novels & Stories

In his vocabulary, no wrongdoer ever got away clean, and Aurora was about to find that out the hard way. He dropped a batch of downloaded image files into the window. The first photo displayed Aurora in incredibly revealing attire, locked in an intimate, passionate embrace with an unknown man. Maureen let out an appreciative whistle, scrolling through the explicit pictures with a satisfied smirk. > **[Maureen]:** Not bad, Ethan! You really outdid yourself with this one. Where on earth did you manage to unearth these gems?

If ripping the orbs from their sockets would eliminate what I saw before me, I'd stick my nails in and gouge them out without a second thought. It was like porn gone wrong. No child should ever see their mother naked and riding a thug on her couch. She straddled his lap, and his hairy thighs spread wide exposed more of him than I cared to see. I stood frozen like a deer in the headlights, watching Ma bounce up and down on a stranger's dick. Her head fell back between her shoulder blades as she ground into him. "Oh yeah, does that feel good?" she cooed without realizing she had an audience.

she teased without looking up. I forced a laugh. “Probably junk mail.” I took it to my bedroom and shut the door. My fingers shook as I tore the paper open. Photographs spilled onto the bed — glossy, high-resolution, timestamped. Me. In the Room of Ecstasy. Kneeling on the velvet cushion in black lace lingerie, thighs spread, eyes down, spotlit like a specimen. Another shot: Martha’s manicured fingers unhooking my bra, my breasts spilling free, nipples already hard from fear and cold air. My face—wide-eyed, lips parted in shock—was perfectly visible. Every angle. Every humiliating detail.

Then came the first whisper. “Slut.” I froze, pulling my hair over the marks on my neck. “Did you see the pictures? She’s completely naked.” “Who would even touch her? Traitor’s daughter.” My blood ran cold. Pictures? I hurried toward the dormitory, and asked someone what is going on. she shoved her phone in my face. There they were—images of me from last night in the forest. Naked. Exposed. My breasts, my thighs. My face was clear in some of them. Humiliation crashed over me like ice water.

My hand rests on the doorknob and I turn it as slowly as I can, making sure the door doesn’t squeak as I push it open. I push the door open an inch, just enough to see. Maeve’s on her bed, eyes closed and facing the door. Slivers of moonlight cast through the curtains illuminating her like she is the prize at the end of a rainbow. Sheets are twisted around her ankles, her sleep tank top is raised to show off her flat stomach. She’s on her knees in a pair of panties, her body moving in slow, rolling waves. The bed creaks under her as her hips undulate over the giant stuffed teddy bear she keeps on her bed.

And he said: "Good morning." And I almost melted. Really. I almost forgot who I am, what I have become, why I cannot, why I must not. I almost let myself go, let myself be loved, let myself live. And then Matha knocked on the door. And I pushed him. Naked. Out the window. His testicles dancing in the winter wind. That image will never leave me, I know it. It will remain etched in my memory until my last breath, the absurd symbol of that moment when everything tipped over.

Me: Your favorite gray Harvard tee I stole from an ex, and nothing underneath. @sinnernextdoor: Jesus Christ. Take the tee off, slowly, and film it. I’d never sent nudes to someone I didn’t know, but the wine, the ache, the anonymity. I was already sliding the cotton over my head before I could talk myself out of it. I propped the phone against a throw pillow, hit record, and let the camera watch as I dragged the shirt up inch by inch, revealing my bare tits, hard nipples, the curve of my waist, until the fabric cleared my head and I sat there completely naked.

The yard stretches out like an arena floor: a square of cement surrounded by high walls, bristling with barbed wire. The sky is gray, but the light is blinding. Women are sitting in groups, some laughing, some smoking, some watching. And in the center, the empty space. The one reserved for newcomers. I step forward. Murmurs rise like a chorus. — That's her… — The madwoman from the north. — The one who took another's face… — The fallen princess. That last word floats, heavy, almost sacred. I receive it like an invisible crown. A figure approaches.

The next thing Calley heard was Nelly exclaiming: “Hey—oh my god! Why is there a nude painting of you up there?!” She laughed at Nelly’s reaction. Somehow, she’d expected this. “Do you like it?” Nelly instinctively stepped back and rubbed her arms as goosebumps ran down her skin. “Dear Lord, my hair’s standing! Caty, who the heck did you strip for to paint that?!” Nelly then turned to her with wide, almost tearful eyes. “Why would you pose naked for a painter? Does Ser Phill know about this? Why would you do this, Caty? He’d be devastated if he found out—”

Was I cursed to be surrounded by people who made my blood boil. “Get the fuck out Cartwright.” “I will. Just need you to walk me to the door.” He fired back. Mae turned pink. Was she embarassed about giving me a hardon? When I seemed to be sporting one twenty-four seven around her. The woman was full of surprises. Or playing naive. “I’ll walk you instead.” Mae offered. My grip on her waist tightened. Mae in a tank top and shorts was absolutely heaven. I didn’t want her walking around in that with Cartwright in the room.