Priscilla Lopez Nude Novels & Stories

“But the first time I gave someone power—true power—I sobbed so hard my mascara bled into my collarbone.” “It wasn’t weakness. It was baptism.” She remembered writing it. Late at night. In black lace and honesty. It was the only post she’d ever made under that name. She deleted the account a day later. Someone had screenshotted it. And now? It was public. Saint Madeleine’s students were elite. But they were online. She stormed out of the locker room. Fencing practice forgotten. Priscilla was waiting for her moment—of course she was. Sitting on the courtyard bench with her perfect posture, surrounded by her perfect followers. Eating strawberries like sin was sweet.

Then I reached the last post. It was the very first picture of two hands intertwined. The same scar is visible on the wrist. The caption read: It's official. The date sat quietly beneath it, 9 years ago. There were no posts after that. My body went cold despite the steam rising around me. Natasha Nolan was Priscilla’s sister. Alaric owed Priscilla so he claims. What happened to Natasha? I lowered the phone slowly, my heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the distant sounds of the city below.

“And I’m not going to miss the chance to fuck you—the proud, untouchable Selena who thinks no man can touch her. I love that I can and I will. And I’m going to fuck you senseless.” My chest tightened. “I can’t wait to tell the others about this. They’ll be so jealous. And you? You’ll enjoy it. You’ll finally see what you’ve been missing.” I tried to push Priscilla off me, but she was relentless, her weight pressing down on me with an intensity I hadn’t expected. Her eyes were wild, her face flushed with a mix of craziness and desire. I had never seen her like this. I have never imagined she could be so intense.

Priscilla says it's always better to be late, that's how you get the most attention. Noel is dressed in uncomfortable skinny jeans that suffocate her legs and waist, a tight shirt that isn't quite a tube top but still leaves a couple inches of her stomach exposed, held up by tiny spaghetti straps. Although her chest isn't as flat as Harken has claimed it to be, she's thankful they aren't any bigger or the straps might snap.

"Wanna know the small secret to success?" Miss Priscilla sinks in her couch, a cup of coffee clutched in her hand. She looks stunning in a floral shirt-dress with her long dark hair falling on her shoulders. She's effortlessly cool and stylish even at the young age of fifty-five. Her classes feel like a conversation with your bestie rather than an actual lecture. It's an online class but I feel like I'm on that white couch, sipping coffee with her.

She no longer looks away. The evidence piles up: emails, false ultrasounds, contradictory analyses. The pieces align. The case is opened. Cassandre is no longer a silent threat. She is a target of truth, of justice. And in Lyra’s eyes, for the first time in weeks, I no longer see terror. I see a woman standing. Standing, strong, pregnant and alive. And beside her, I stand there. Not to repair. To begin.

She had not come this far — her family's calculations, her own sacrifices, years of positioning herself exactly right — to lose it to a girl who didn't even know what she was walking into. A beta. With a sharp mouth and sad eyes and a backless dress and a way of looking at Keal like she already knew him. Like she already had him. Priscilla turned away from the direction Liora had walked. Fixed her expression. Smoothed the silver dress with one hand. Sharp mouth. She almost smiled. The real kind, not the arranged one — small and private and pointed, the smile of a woman reminding herself what she was capable of when pushed. We'll see about that.

She moved to his front where he could get a glimpse of her unbuttoned shirt. His eyes flicked up, landing on her exposed chest—soft, full, but meaningless. Not hers. Not Eloise’s. “ Or make you feel better,” she said sweetly, her voice thinned with seduction. Mason groaned, looking away. He's got more problems than having time to get seduced, but Priscilia pushed the chair back a little and climbed onto his lap with no warning. Sitting on his laps and poking his face with her breasts. She gently rubbed his head, causing him to momentarily close his eyes as he enjoyed the feeling of her soft palm massaging his head, cooling the rage.

"Ladies first." Tricia came over to him with a twisted smile on her face. She reached behind her back and unzipped her gray skirt, letting it fall to the floor. Her panties are purple satin with lace trim. With her blue eyes fixed on Randy, Tricia unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it off her shoulders. Her purple bra barely contains her voluptuous breasts. She reached into the pile of hair piled on her head and removed a bobby pin. She shook her head, and her wavy hair falls to her shoulders.

"Not yet." He slid his thumb over her clit. She gasped and her eyes snapped open, staring up at him with hunger. He finger fucked her again, working the bundle of nerves while she chanted his name, her nails digging into his shoulders. She was magnificent like this. Free, uninhibited. It was the version of Priscilla the world didn't get to see. Just him. Her head tipped back, and she groaned, her pussy constricting around him as she came.