Vermont Snowstorm 소설 & 이야기

“Say it,” he growled, voice low and dangerous, his thick cock buried deep inside me, stretching me so full I could barely breathe. I was bent over the couch in nothing but my collar, thighs shaking, pussy dripping down his balls as he pounded into me without mercy. “I’m your little sister…” I gasped, voice breaking as another brutal thrust made me see stars. “And I belong to you.” Damien’s hand tightened around my throat from behind, pulling me back against his chest while he fucked me even harder. “Louder,” he demanded, biting my ear. “Tell me whose forbidden cunt this is while I breed you.” “It’s yours!” I cried, tears of overwhelming pleasure running down my face. “My step-brother’s pussy… please fill me up… breed your little sister!” He groaned like an animal and slammed into me one final time, flooding my womb with thick, hot cum as I screamed and came harder than I ever had in my life clenching around the cock I was never supposed to take. That was only the first night. ⚠️⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️⚠️ This collection is not for the faint of heart. Inside these twenty stories you’ll find step-siblings breaking every sacred rule, best friends’ fathers claiming what doesn’t belong to them, professors turning innocent students into personal fuck pets, cousins hate-fucking through a snowstorm, nannies collaring powerful men, ruthless CEOs owning their employees on office desks, blackmail turning into dark obsession, and weddings being deliciously ruined from the inside. If “yes, big brother” or “please, Daddy” makes you blush… close this book right now. If the thought of being completely ruined by someone you’re never supposed to crave makes you wet… welcome to Twenty Shades of Sin, baby. One-click if you dare.

I am the wife of Anthony Caster, don of the mafia family in New York. When I was nine months pregnant, he brought a woman named Evelyn Graves into the manor, claiming she’d saved his life. That was the day my nightmare began. She put something in my food. Next thing I knew, I was doubled over in pain. And she had the nerve to blame it on me—said I was being reckless with what I ate. She lost her footing and fell down the stairs, but she told everyone I was the one who shoved her. Every day, she’d cry in front of Anthony about how saving him had left her wounded and unable to bear children, how seeing a pregnant woman broke her heart. But the moment she turned to me, the tears were gone, replaced by a cold smile. “As long as I’m here,” she whispered, “your babies will never be born.” Anthony was convinced I was jealous of her. He locked me away in the abandoned attic of the manor and said, “Reflect on your actions and stop bullying Evelyn.” On the first day they shut me in, the contractions began. I screamed, I begged, I banged on the door. The butler heard me and went to inform Anthony. He said, “Amelia, your due date is three days away. Stop putting on an act. Three days in a snowstorm and you came out fine. This? You can handle this.” On the second day, my water broke. I screamed at the top of my lungs, my fingernails digging into the cracks of the wall, blood spilling all over the floor. The butler went to Anthony again. Evelyn said, “Anthony, she’s making all that noise because she wants you to feel sorry for her and let her out. If you give in now, she’ll only grow more reckless later.” He believed her. On the third day, I stopped screaming. Anthony thought I had finally learned my lesson, unaware that I had already died from the difficult labor. When he finally opened that door, all he would find was my rotting, putrid body.