Monica Patterson Nude Novels & Stories

That’s when I saw something that made my heart skip a beat. Lucas was outside the building, standing in a shaded corner, talking to a woman I recognized immediately—Monica Tate, Adrian’s fiercest rival. They were engaged in a hushed, intense conversation, their body language tense and secretive. Monica was dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that exuded power and confidence. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her eyes were fixed on Lucas, her expression serious. Lucas’s back was to me, but his posture was rigid, as if he was bracing himself for something.

’ Darryl murmured as his body was sore from being thrown, but his eyes soon started going wild when he looked up. The Cult Mistress, Monica was sitting on a chair inside her room filled with an enchanting scent. Her exquisite and elegant body was dressed in a purple silk dress with a delicately calm expression on her face. Gulp. Darryl could not help but swallow his saliva. The Cult Mistress seemed more enchanting than before. Monica scowled upon watching his lingering gaze, “Darryl, what’re you looking at!” With that, she tossed two nuts from the plate at Darryl which landed on his acupoints and freed him.

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—”

“Ahhh! Ahhh…Ahhh!” Monica’s cries filled my ears as her voice got louder than before. My eyes were glued to the unexpected scene of Monica bent over her desk with the skirt of her dress lifted up to expose her lower body. Behind her, Mister Helkins had his hands on her naked hips as he thrusted his hips against her while Monica continued to cry out loudly. What is going on here…?

It’ll work. — No, not enough, find me a woman in the same cell, I want an enraged one. A desperate one. Someone who has nothing left. Promise her that I will pay her debts. That she can have fun. Unleash herself. That she can make her swallow every word, every breath. — Got it, you want a hungry hyena. I can do that. — And I want the photo. Send it to me as soon as it's done. — Received.

What she’s proposing to me is crazy. “Which, while we’re on the topic,” I mutter, “why do you even think I can break his heart? He’s Nash Pierce and I’m, well, not on his level.” The waiter hands Monica her card back before scurrying off. I don’t blame him—the look on her face makes me want to run away as well. Monica is known for being one hell of a ballbuster in Hollywood, and after meeting with her today, I can confirm what the tabloids say about her are true.

Always flashing those huge tits in her tight uniform, flirting with cops, and acting like she was untouchable. She wasn’t untouchable today. She was deepthroating almost eight inches, spit running down her chin and dripping onto her massive tits. I could hear how soaked her cunt was as the guy fingered her. Eventually the guy noticed us. His eyes went wide with panic. He shoved Monica off his cock and tried to zip up, but it was too late. “Everybody freeze!” I barked. We yanked them both out of the car. His dick was still hard and hanging out. Monica was half-naked, tits out, skirt bunched up, her pussy glistening. We cuffed them immediately.

That's exactly what we did. On the day I picked her up Monica was a woman about thirty-five, very short blond hair, a nice figure if you like women who are a bit slender and have almost no breasts. She stood about five-eight or nine. When we interviewed she was wearing jeans, western boots, and a western shirt. None of the outfit was new, but all of it was clean. She was clean. Her nails were short and unpainted. When she shook my hand there was strength in her hand. This woman knew about work. When I picked her up she was wearing a different shirt, jeans and the same boots.

"Last one—from @EyesOnTheInside: You look a lot like Indiana Hills Norbert. Are you both related? The air in the studio shifted. Tighter. Thinner. Monica held her breath for a moment. Then she smiled, just slightly. "I would take that as a compliment. Indiana Hills Norbert was an icon, who wouldn't want to be related to her?" The reporter stared at her for a beat, sensing the her pain. "And that wraps up our Q&A. Monica, thank you for your honesty." Monica nodded, still composed, but inside, her pulse was racing. Indiana Hills Norbert. That was rare. * * *

I looked at mom and she saw the question on my face, "The asshole she picked had friends - five of them- and they gangbanged the hell out of her." Mom ran a bath and I picked Monica up and put her in the tub. She hadn't stopped crying since I'd helped get her out of the car and I mentioned it to mom, "It doesn't matter how well we clean her up if we can't get her to stop with the tears." She tossed me a wash rag and told me to give Monica a bath while she went down and made a pot of coffee. "We will have to sober her up, at least enough so that she can drive home" then she took off and left me with Monica. Any other time being left alone with a naked Monica would be a cause for joy. She was