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The silence made my thighs clench. "What kind of dreams?" he asked, still calm. "I shouldn't say." "You came here to let it out," he answered simply. I held in my breathing. "They're... sexual. I wake up soaked. Aching. And ashamed." "Go on." I let my head rest against the wooden panel behind me. My eyes closed. "He touches me in ways no one ever has. And I let him. I want it. God, I want it so bad." The words spilled out, broken and messy. "Sometimes it's in public. Sometimes I'm tied down. Sometimes he just whispers in my ear and I'm already falling apart. I wake up wet, panting, and I can't stop thinking about it for days."

“Fill my tight little virgin pussy with that thick cock of yours. Make me yours.” My fingers slide between my thighs. My breath catches. My heart pounds. My panties are almost dripping. I stand up, letting them fall down my legs, stepping out of them with slow, deliberate grace. My wetness clings to my inner thighs. I drag my skirt up to my waist and sit back on his desk, legs parted, giving in to the fantasy. One finger grazes my clit and my hips buck. It feels electric. I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t care.

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But worst of all of that was that I had asked him for it. The morning after is always exciting in the secret erotic novels I normally read in my E-reader. The books make it sound like an instant magical transformation. They never write about the sticky heavy reality. The way your skin feels hypersensitive to rough cabin sheets. The lingering scent of sex and ocean salt coating the entire room.

I drag my nails down his back, bite his shoulder, let my hands claw through his hair. We’re not quiet. We don’t want to be. And when I feel him getting close, I pull his face to mine. “Look at me,” I whisper. “Come with me.” He buries himself deeper, and I reach between us, rub my clit fast and rough, desperate to come again— And when we do, we fall apart together. It’s not clean. Not soft. It’s messy and breathless and everything. He shudders above me, spills inside me, bites down on my shoulder as I cry out beneath him.

No mistaking what it was. Her body ground against him, every move of her hips rubbing over his hardness. Heat surged through her veins. And then it hit her—his scent. That same scent from earlier. Her eyes snapped open. It’s him! The guy at the counter! Her body burned hotter with that realization. Wetness pooled between her thighs. Flashes of his veiny hand skimming her curves made her bite back a moan. She pushed harder against him, rolling her hips until he groaned into her ear.

It has floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. I scoot closer, plucking one of the books from the shelves and scanning through it. Apparently, it’s an erotic book, given the naughty image of two ladies on their knees as they simultaneously blow a man’s cock, their hands bound tightly at their backs. It’s titled ‘A Dom’s Way Of Spitroasting The Subs.” I turn the pages, and each chapter is transcribed into x-rated images. My pussy quivers when I see the image of the two sluts turned upside down on an inversion table while the Dom treats them with his cock.

“Sleep well.” I went upstairs fast. My heart beat hard. In my room, I took off all my clothes and got under the covers. I slid my hand between my legs. My fingers found my clit right away. It was swollen and wet. I rubbed slow circles. “Xavier…” I whispered to myself. I pushed two fingers inside my pussy. It was so slick. I moved them in and out faster. My other hand pinched my nipple hard. I moaned into the pillow. “Oh god… yes…”

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