You wanted the naughtiest thing I’ve ever done in front of people. This one still makes my pulse race and my pussy clench when I remember it.
I was in college, nineteen and drunk on freedom. My classes were just background noise to everything else: late-night parties, new cities on weekends, bodies I’d never touched before, the way my own skin felt electric under someone else’s mouth in a club bathroom. Grades? I was a straight-A student in high school. Whatever. I’d figure it out later.
Then one Sunday, my parents called. Mom’s voice was calm in that way that always meant danger. “We’ve seen your midterms, Lexxy. We know you’re experiencing the world. That’s fine. But listen carefully: if you fail even one class, you’re coming home. No discussion. Community college, living under our roof, car keys gone. We love you, but we’re not paying for you to party.”
The line went quiet. Dad didn’t even have to add anything; Mom’s tone said it all.
I laughed it off when I hung up, but the panic settled cold in my stomach. Because there was one class I was absolutely, spectacularly failing: Professor Amii Calculé’s Literature II. I’d skipped half the lectures, bullshitted the other half, and the research paper I was supposed to have turned in three weeks ago didn’t even exist yet.
That Monday, I showed up to her office hours for the first time all semester, practically vibrating with dread and desperation.
Which is precisely how I ended up on my knees in front of her desk, begging.
“Please, Professor, I’ll do anything for extra credit. I will rewrite every paper. I will come in every morning; anything. I can’t fail this class. My parents will drag me home.”
She closed her laptop slowly, leaned back in her chair, and studied me the way a cat studies a new toy.
“Anything?” she asked, voice like silk over steel.
I swallowed. “Please, I’ll do ANYTHING! Just don’t let me fail.”
Then she added, “Anything? Come back tomorrow.”
The card was waiting the next day, typed in cold black, perfect letters:
Arrive Saturday at 7 p.m.
Hygiene – No Exceptions
Completely hairless below the neck
No perfume
No lotion
Freshly showered
Attire
Provided on-site
Tiny print at the bottom warned:
Once you leave the office, failure to comply or backing out will result in a 40 for the semester. Or, you can leave the card and take the grade you earn.
I should have read the warning twice, but I didn’t
I reread it in my dorm that night and felt the first real twist of dread. Completely hairless? Why? Attire provided? My stomach flipped. I almost texted her that I’d changed my mind. I even typed the message, thumbs trembling over the screen, then deleted it. An F would ruin everything. I couldn’t.
Friday night, alone in the dorm bathroom, I locked the door and turned the shower on just for the noise.
The card had been brutally clear: completely hairless below the neck. No explanation. Just that line in the Professor’s perfect black Arial font, and the threat underneath it if I didn’t obey.
It was probably some weird hygiene thing. Maybe Ms. Amii was making me help cook, or set up decorations, or perhaps it was something else. Anything that wasn’t what my traitor brain kept whispering.
I started with my legs, my arms, all the easy parts. They were normal, they were safe.
Then I sat on the edge of the tub, knees apart, heart slamming against my ribs so hard I could hear it over the water.
The razor looked harmless. It wasn’t.
I dragged it slowly over the faint trail beneath my navel, watching blond curls fall into the tub like evidence. Each stroke felt louder than the last. My hands shook worse the lower I went.
When I reached my mound, I had to stop, press my thighs together, and breathe through the panic.
Why did it have to be everything? Why did the card say “attire provided on-site”? Why was I already wet just from the idea that someone (her) might see this?
I forced my legs open again, wider this time, fingers spreading myself so the blade could glide over places I’d never touched this carefully. The skin felt raw, electric, every nerve screaming. One tiny nick and I’d have to explain tomorrow why I was bleeding between my legs.
I didn’t nick myself, and I was too scared to rush.
When I finished, I stood under the lukewarm spray, palms sliding over skin that didn’t feel like mine anymore. Too soft. Too naked. Too new.
I kept waiting for the shame to hit.
Instead, I got a pulse of heat so strong I had to lean against the tile, eyes squeezed shut, trying not to picture her face when she saw what I’d done for her.
I had no idea. Why?
I only knew I’d just erased every possible shield I had, and tomorrow night I was going to walk straight into her hands; Bare, defenseless, and secretly, terrifyingly ready.
Saturday afternoon, I showered until the hot water ran cold, then started again from the beginning, as if soap and scalding heat could scrub the dread out of my bones. Each time I shut off the water, the silence felt louder. The razor sat on the shelf like it was watching me. I kept thinking: I could lie. Say I forgot. Say I’m on my period. Say anything. I couldn’t.
I stood dripping in front of the mirror, towel clutched to my chest, staring at the girl who’d shaved herself bare for a woman who hadn’t even told her why. My skin still tingled, hyper-aware, like it already knew it was about to be looked at. Touched. Judged.
I paced my dorm room naked, towel abandoned, arguing with the walls in a whisper that kept cracking.
“This is insane. Text Ms. Amii, you’re sick.”
“She’ll know. She’ll fail you. Your parents will drag you home. She doesn’t own you. You already shaved for her. You’re halfway naked already.”
I pulled on the plainest white cotton bra and panties I owned, as if modesty now could cancel out what I’d done last night. The fabric felt childish, ridiculous. I dragged the sundress over my head and stared at myself for twenty solid minutes, palms pressed hard against my stomach like I could hold the panic inside. My reflection looked exactly like a girl about to walk into something she wouldn’t walk out of unchanged.
I actually opened my bedroom door, stepped into the hallway, then slammed it shut again and leaned against it, tears burning. My thighs were slick. I hated my body so much in that moment for betraying me with arousal when all I felt was terror.
I made it to the car somehow. The drive was twenty-three minutes; I counted every one. Thighs clamped so tight my muscles trembled. I parked a whole block away because I couldn’t stomach pulling into her driveway yet. Sat there gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went bloodless.
“I can still leave,” I whispered to the empty car. “Just turn around. Fail the class. Go home. Be safe.”
My hand hovered over the ignition. It dropped.
I got out. The evening air felt too cool against my flushed skin. My legs shook so badly that the first three steps were stumbles. Every foot closer to her door felt like walking off a cliff I couldn’t see the bottom of.
I rang the bell with a finger that wouldn’t stop trembling.
Whatever happened next, there was no unshaving what I’d done. No un-promising “anything.” No, unknowing the way my body was already humming with dread and something darker.
I was here, bare beneath the dress.
And I was terrified of how much I needed to find out what came next.
The door opened, and a man in a black half-mask looked down at me. No greeting, just a low, “Ms. Amii will inspect you shortly,” that slid over my skin like ice water. He stepped aside. I crossed the threshold and the door shut behind me with a soft, final click that sounded exactly like a lock.
The foyer was dim, scented with something expensive and dangerous. My pulse was a frantic drum in my throat, my ears, between my legs. I couldn’t breathe around it.
The masked man didn’t speak again. He turned and walked away, expecting me to follow. My bare feet stuck to the cool marble for a second before I forced them forward, clutching the crumpled sundress to my chest like a life raft.
He led me down a hallway lit only by low sconces, past closed doors that breathed quiet music and muffled laughter. Each step echoed too loudly. My pulse was a trapped bird beating against my ribs.
At the end, he opened a heavy wooden door and gestured me inside the parlor room.
Deep burgundy walls, a single velvet chaise, and one crystal decanter on a side table, catching the firelight. No windows. Just a massive gilt mirror on the far wall that threw my reflection back at me: wild-eyed, flushed, clutching the sundress and the minimal items it covered underneath, being the last protection to my naked breasts and everything below my navel gleamed smooth and vulnerable.
He closed the door behind me with the same soft, final click I’d heard at the entrance.
Alone now. I stood frozen in the center of the rug, afraid to sit, afraid to move, afraid the mirror would show me how wet I already was. The air felt thick, scented with leather, candle smoke, and something darker I couldn’t name.
Minutes crawled.
I could hear my own heartbeat. I could hear the faint slick sound when my thighs brushed together, and I hated how obvious it was. I kept staring at the door, waiting for it to open, waiting for her verdict, waiting for whatever came after.
Every second stretched into torture.
I was on display even here, even alone (the mirror making sure I couldn’t escape the sight of what I’d made myself into for her).
When the handle finally turned, I jerked.
There she was.
Black silk robe cinched tight at her waist, falling open just enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, the shadowed line of her thigh. No smile. No warmth. Only the slow, deliberate raise of one eyebrow and a single finger pointed to the marble at her feet.
“Strip,” Ms Amii stated with a tone of control.
The word cracked like a whip.
I couldn’t move. My sundress suddenly felt welded to my body. My fingers twitched, useless. Ms. Amii waited, unmoving, until the silence became a living thing pressing me down.
I dragged the dress over my head in one shaking motion and clutched it to my chest as it could still protect me. My knuckles were white. My nipples were already hard beneath the thin cotton bra, traitors announcing themselves.
“Drop it,” she ordered.
I let the dress fall. It pooled around my feet like surrender.
White cotton. So innocent. So ridiculous now.
Her gaze raked over me, clinically and hungry all at once. My arms flew up to cover my breasts; she didn’t blink. The silence stretched until it hurt.
I reached back with trembling fingers, fumbled the bra clasp twice before it gave. The straps slid down my arms, and the cups caught for one last second on my stiff nipples before gravity took over. Cool air hit bare skin, and I felt my nipples tighten even more, aching and obvious.
My panties were the last coverage I had left.
I hooked my thumbs in the waistband. I paused, one heartbeat, then two. Tears pricked hot behind my eyes.
She tilted her head, the slightest movement, and it broke me.
I pushed them down. The cotton clung for a second to the wetness between my thighs before peeling away. I stepped out, shaking so hard my knees nearly buckled.
Naked and completely hairless. Utterly exposed under the bright recessed lights that left no shadow to hide in.
She began to circle.
Slow. Measured. The click of Ms. Amii’s heels was the only sound. I felt her gaze like hands: over my breasts, my waist, the flare of my hips, the obscene smoothness she had demanded. When she moved behind me, I felt suddenly, violently aware of my ass, my back, the vulnerable line of my spine.
She began to circle again, slower this time, as if she had all night and intended to use every second.
The first pass was a visual claim. Ms. Amii’s eyes lingered on my throat, the frantic pulse jumping there. Down to my breasts (small, high, nipples drawn so tight they ached). She paused at the faint pink flush spreading beneath my collarbones, the evidence that my body had decided to announce its shame without my permission.
The second pass was a closer inspection. She stopped behind me. I felt the heat of her body inches from my back, the whisper of silk from her kimono brushing my bare shoulder. A single fingertip returned to the base of my neck and began its descent again, but now it was joined by her breath (warm, controlled) ghosting over my skin.
She traced my spine vertebra by vertebra, counting them like rosary beads. When she reached the smallish dip just above my ass, she pressed, just hard enough to make my hips jerk forward involuntarily. A soft, knowing hum vibrated against my ear.
“Sensitive,” she murmured, almost to herself.
I couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped.
She moved to my front again and finally let her gaze drop between my legs.
I felt her gaze like a physical touch.
She studied the smooth, freshly shaved skin the way an art dealer studies a painting before deciding whether to buy. Her head tilted. One elegant finger lifted, hovered an inch from my mound, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
I was trembling so hard my thighs shook.
“Open,” she said quietly.
Two syllables. A lifetime of surrender.
I widened my stance without thinking. The motion parted me slightly; cool air kissed the slick, swollen flesh, and I bit my lip to keep from moaning.
She didn’t touch (not yet), she only looked. I watched the way my lips glistened under the low light. Witnessing the helpless pulse that fluttered there. Observing a single bead of wetness gather, cling, then slip slowly down the inside of my left thigh.
Her exhale was almost inaudible, but I felt it like approval.
She circled to my side and reached out, drew that same wet trail back upward with one fingertip (never breaking skin contact and painting my own arousal over my hip bone up the curve of my waist and up beneath my breast). When she reached my nipple, she circled it slowly, spreading the shine, watching the peak tighten even further.
Only then did she speak again.
“Turn around. Hands on the chaise. Legs apart. Show me everything I own tonight.”
My knees nearly gave out.
I turned around and bent over. Gripped the velvet upholstery until my knuckles went white. The position left me obscenely open (with my back arched, ass tilted up, and my sex completely exposed to the mirror behind me and to Ms. Amii).
I heard the silk of her robe slide against itself as she stepped closer.
Felt the heat of her palms settle on my ass cheeks, spreading me wider.
Then I felt the slow, deliberate drag of one of her thumbs from the top of my slit all the way back, grazing my entrance, circling the tight ring of my rosebud. It was like she was claiming every secret place with the one unhurried stroke.
I sobbed into the velvet of the chaise.
“Perfect,” she whispered against the small of my back, her lips brushing my skin. “Not a single hair left for you to hide behind. Every inch is polished and ready just as I required.”
I was hers. And I still didn’t know what that meant tonight; only that I was never walking out of this house the same.
She then draped a whisper-thin silk robe over my shoulders and stated, “Follow me.”
I followed her down the hallway barefoot, clutching the robe closed. My mind was racing. Where was my outfit? The card had said attire would be provided. Was I supposed to change somewhere else? Was I serving drinks? Carrying trays?
We stepped into the brightly lit kitchen, and my stomach dropped.
There was a long stainless-steel cart in the center of the room, draped in a crisp white tablecloth that fell all the way to the floor. A single black silk pillow rested at one end. A chef in a crisp white jacket stood beside it, arranging platters of sushi.
I stopped dead in the doorway. “Um, Ms. Amii?” My voice came out small and frail. “Where is, where’s my outfit? And what’s the cart for?”
She turned, amusement glittering in her eyes. She let the silence stretch just long enough for my pulse to hammer in my ears.
“Your outfit,” she said softly, “is your skin, Lexxy. And the cart is for you.”
I stared at her, my mouth agape. My brain short-circuited. ” I-I don’t understand. You said I was helping at the party—”
“You are helping,” she replied, voice low enough that I felt it in my spine more than heard it. “You, Lexxy, are the serving platter.”
She let the words hang, watched them sink into me like brands.
————————–
“Naked,” she continued, lips almost grazing my ear. “Completely bare, exactly as I required. Blindfolded, so every touch is a surprise. Fifteen couples (thirty very discreet friends) waiting in the next room to taste what has been prepared and served on your skin.”
Her hand settled lightly between my breasts, feeling the frantic hammer of my heart.
“Nyotaimori,” she purred, drawing the word out like a caress. “The ancient art of serving beauty on beauty. Cold rice, warm flesh. Every roll, every slice of fish placed directly on this flawless, hairless canvas you so obediently prepared for me.”
She let her palm drift lower, stopping just above my mound, close enough that I felt the heat of her skin without contact.
“You will wear nothing but a strip of silk across your eyes and my rules across your body. Hands may wander. Tongues will follow. And you, Lexxy, will lie perfectly still while they devour their dinner and whatever else I allow.”
Her fingers finally brushed me (one slow, deliberate stroke along my slit that came away gleaming), and she brought them to her lips, tasting me with deliberate relish.
“That,” she whispered, eyes locked on mine, “is the extra credit.
One night as living art.
One night as mine.”
She smiled, slow and lethal.
I took one instinctive step back, the silk robe brushing my thighs. “No, wait—I thought, I thought maybe waitressing or—”
She reached out and gently tugged the tie of my robe. The silk parted, exposing me again. “You can walk out that door right now,” she murmured, “and I’ll submit your final grade as a 40 tomorrow morning. Or you can climb onto that cart and earn the A you begged for. Your choice, pet.”
PET – Did she call me her pet?
My knees were jelly. I looked at the cart, at the chef pretending not to watch, at the doorway that led to thirty waiting strangers. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe. I opened my mouth to say I couldn’t, and nothing came out.
Ms. Amii smiled like she already knew what I’d choose. She let the robe slip off my shoulders and pool at my feet.
“Up,” she said again, nodding toward the cart.
I climbed on, the cold metal biting through the cloth against my bare back and ass. I lay down, head on the pillow, arms at my sides, legs slightly parted (every inch of me screaming that this was my last chance to run). The chef’s gloved hands began arranging the sushi: cold salmon over each aching nipple, rolls along my ribs, a perfect line of nigiri leading straight to the smooth, exposed lips of my pussy. One final piece of tuna balanced directly on my swollen clit, the icy shock ripping a broken whimper from my throat.
Her voice sliced through the air like a velvet blade, projecting into the crowded living room with wicked delight:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the centerpiece is ready to be devoured.”
In that instant, my universe collapsed inward, and nothing existed but the chill of the steel cart beneath the thin tablecloth, the sticky tease of rice and soy clinging to my bare skin, and the wild, uncontrollable thunder of my pulse echoing between my thighs.
The cart jolted forward, agonizingly slow, each hidden wheel hissing a secret over the polished hardwood. Every inch dragged me closer, amplifying the distant hum of voices until they swelled into a chorus of hushed hunger.
Then we crossed the threshold.
We breached the threshold into the dining room, and the wave crashed over me: thirty voices at least, perhaps more, a symphony of low chuckles, the crystalline clink of glasses, the seductive whisper of silk and satin shifting against bodies primed with expectation. The air thickened, heavy with cologne, perfume, and the raw undercurrent of desire, wrapping around my naked form like invisible hands.
The cart halted with a final, shuddering sigh.
Silence descended, thick and electric—one heartbeat; two; three.
Then, a unified inhale, sharp and collective, that rippled across my exposed flesh like a lover’s breath, raising every fine hair on my arms and sending a fresh pulse of heat straight to my core.
“Fuck, Amii,” a man’s voice growled, deep and gravelly with lust. “You actually pulled it off. Look at that flawless skin—begging to be tasted.”
A woman’s husky murmur followed, dripping with envy and arousal: “Completely smooth; not a single stray hair to interrupt the view. She’s glistening already.”
“Those nipples,” another man rasped, his words laced with dark amusement. “So tight and pink, like they’re aching for a tongue. Bet she’s soaked under all that sushi.”
“God, watch her tremble—God, it’s gorgeous.”
“Amii, darling, you’ve eclipsed every depraved soirée you’ve ever hosted,” a sophisticated voice purred, laced with raw hunger. “This little delicacy is absolute perfection—quivering, vulnerable, and utterly edible.”
A low chorus of approval rippled outward, glasses clinking like applause.
And finally, a single male voice, thick with possession and praise:
“Amii, darling, you’ve outdone every depraved thing you’ve ever given us.
This one is exquisite. I can’t wait to taste what’s underneath the garnish.”
The voices kept circling, each one a velvet knife.
That low, amused baritone, was it really Mr. Halston from the country club, the one who always asked if I was “still single yet”? That husky, champagne-soft laugh, did it belong to Mrs. Langford who’d pinched my cheek at the donor gala and said I looked “ripe”? Or, was my mind inventing it all, stitching familiar cadences onto strangers because the terror needed something concrete to scream about?
Every syllable felt like recognition. Every chuckle sounded like someone who’d watched me grow tits and manners at the same time.
I strained against the blindfold, frantic for proof (a name dropped, a childhood nickname, anything). Nothing came but more murmurs, more delighted praise for how perfectly smooth I was, how prettily I trembled, how wet I’d already made the linen beneath my ass.
Maybe they didn’t know me. Maybe they did. The uncertainty was worse than certainty.
Because if they were strangers, I was just another anonymous co-ed turned into living porn for rich perverts. But, if they did know me (if they were the same manicured hands that had passed me hors d’oeuvres trays, the same eyes that had watched me curtsy in debutante white), then every gasp of appreciation was a lifetime of good-girl armor being stripped away with each piece of sushi lifted from my skin.
Either way, I was naked on a cart while thirty adults twice my age decided how I tasted.
Either way, I was dripping so hard I could feel it sliding down to the small of my back.
Real or hallucinated, the humiliation tasted the same: hot, shameful, and so sharp I almost came from the possibility that someone out there was finally seeing the real me, and loving every depraved inch.
A man’s voice, low and polished, rose from the foot of the cart.
“Chef, nudge her knees apart just a touch more. Let the light catch that perfect, bare little cunt.”
My blood froze.
I knew that voice.
I swear I did.
It was the same lazy baritone that drifted across my parents’ patio every Fourth of July: ‘Uncle‘ Dave ordering another whiskey, teasing the caterers, laughing when I walked past in my sundress, and he told me I was “turning into trouble.” Only now it was calm, hungry, and aimed directly between my thighs.
A woman laughed next, husky, delighted, the exact throaty ripple I’d heard a thousand times when ‘Aunt‘ Cathey leaned over Mom’s shoulder to refill her rosé and whisper something wicked.
“God, look how she trembles. The rice is practically vibrating off those gorgeous tits.”
No names. No slip of “niece” or “sweetheart” or anything that would give them away. Just two familiar strangers pretending they’d never seen me before tonight.
Another man chuckled, rich and amused.
“Listen to those tiny sounds she’s making. Like she’s trying so hard to be good.”
‘Aunt‘ Cathey’s voice again, closer now, warm breath grazing my nipple.
“Poor darling’s terrified and absolutely drenched. You can smell it from here.”
They knew exactly who I was. I could feel it in the way they lingered on every word, the way they savored my shame like a private joke.
They were hiding behind perfect, polite anonymity, letting the blindfold do the work while they drank in the sight of their niece (their own flesh and blood), shaved bare and laid out like dessert.
I couldn’t prove it.
I couldn’t scream.
I could only lie there, thighs forced wider by the chef’s gloved hands, clit throbbing under a slice of tuna, while two voices I’d known since childhood discussed how wet I was for strangers.
The humiliation was so sharp it felt like pleasure.
I hated how violently I throbbed when ‘Aunt‘ Cathey added, soft enough for only the closest guests to hear:
“Someone should taste that before the garnish falls. It would be a shame to waste something so sweet.”
Real or hallucinated, the line had vanished. All that was left was the slick, aching proof that my body didn’t care who was watching.
And that was the moment I gave up trying.
The first chopstick was ice against my skin.
It hovered over my left nipple, teasing, circling the stiff peak until the rice balanced there quivered and finally slipped. A soft, collective inhale rippled around the table as the grain tumbled into the hollow between my breasts.
Then the fingers came, not tentative. Not polite.
A woman’s manicured nails raked lightly down my ribs, gathering the fallen rice and (deliberately) brushing my nipple so hard I jerked. Someone else used bare fingertips to lift a curl of tuna from the curve of my waist, dragging the cold fish across my skin in a slow, wet trail that ended with a flick against my hipbone.
Every touch lingered longer than it needed to.
A man’s broad thumb swept a stray smear of wasabi from the underside of my breast, then circled my areola once, twice, before popping the thumb into his mouth with a low, satisfied hum that vibrated straight to my clit.
Chopsticks became weapons.
One pair pinched the delicate skin of my inner thigh, holding it open while another set lifted a perfect California roll balanced right on the crease where thigh meets torso. The pressure was firm, possessive, spreading me just enough that cool air kissed slick, swollen folds. Someone exhaled, reverent and filthy.
“Fuck, look how pink she is.”
A woman laughed, breath ghosting over my mound. “Hold still, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want the last piece to fall– yet.”
I couldn’t hold still.
My hips twitched helplessly when a single chopstick traced the seam of my pussy (no food there, just the smooth, hairless skin I’d shaved for them), pressing lightly, parting me, testing how easily I opened. A bead of my own wetness clung to the polished wood when it lifted away.
Ms. Amii’s voice rang out like a starting gun.
“Dinner is finished. Dessert is now served. Touch, taste, tease, lick, finger, suck everything short of full penetration. That privilege is mine alone. Make her sing for us.”
A broken “no, please” tore out of me.
She leaned down, lips brushing my ear.
“Shh, Kitty. You’re going to come until you forget your own name. And you’re going to thank every single one of them for it.”
Then the room detonated.
Hands. Mouths. Tongues. A storm of them.
My thighs were wrenched apart so wide the joints burned. A hot, eager mouth sealed over my cunt, tongue spearing deep while another latched onto my clit and sucked until my vision went white behind the blindfold. A thick cock pushed past my lips at the exact second, sliding down my throat in one slow, claiming stroke that turned my scream into a muffled moan.
Fingers plunged into me (three, four, stretching me open, curling hard). A slick thumb breached my ass without warning, and the double invasion ripped another scream around the cock fucking my face.
They didn’t wait. They took.
A bearded mouth replaced the first on my clit, sucking so brutally I bucked off the cart. A woman straddled my waist, her dripping pussy grinding against my stomach while she twisted my nipples until I sobbed. Hands pinned my wrists above my head; someone fisted my hair, holding me still while cock after cock used my mouth (each one thicker, more desperate than the last).
I came in seconds, violently, squirting over the fingers pistoning inside me while the bearded mouth drank every pulse. They didn’t stop. A new tongue dove in before I finished shaking, lapping me clean only to start again.
Another orgasm slammed through me when someone replaced fingers with a mouth on my ass, tongue pushing inside alongside the thumb, while a woman’s delicate fingers rolled my clit like she was trying to make me break. I did. I broke over and over, hips bucking, voice shredded, body no longer mine.
Men started coming.
The first flooded my throat with a hoarse growl, holding my head down until I swallowed every drop. Before I could gasp for air, another took his place. Hot stripes painted my tits, my belly, my open mouth. Tongues followed instantly (soft, eager, filthy), licking me clean, fighting over the mess, feeding it back to me in wet, open-mouthed kisses that tasted like cum and shame and me.
Someone (three fingers deep, thumb grinding my clit) curled hard and ruthlessly. A second hand spanked my clit in sharp, rapid slaps that made me scream into the cock fucking my face. I came so violently the cart rocked, a gush of wet soaking everything beneath me, while the room roared approval.
“Good girl.”
“Fuck, listen to her sing.”
“Again. Ruin her again.”
They did.
Again.
And again.
Until I was nothing but a trembling, cum-soaked, squirting wreck (voice gone, body wrung dry, and still begging with every shudder for more).
The voices thinned and vanished like smoke.
A woman’s low, satisfied laugh lingered near the door, then the laugh was swallowed by the click of marble. A man murmured something appreciative, his voice trailing off into the night. One by one, engines purred awake outside (deep, expensive growls of Mercedes and Teslas), then faded down the long driveway until the only sound left was the faint drip of wax from the chandelier and the wet, frantic drum of my own heart.
The front door shut with a soft, final thud.
Silence crashed in.
Heavy. Absolute. Broken only by the ragged hitch of my breathing and the slick, rhythmic pulse between my thighs that refused to quiet. Every throb reminded me of what I just experienced.
I couldn’t move.
My limbs were liquid, pinned to the cart by exhaustion and lingering pleasure. Cum cooled in slow, sticky rivers across my breasts, my ribs, the trembling plane of my stomach. It clung to my throat, my chin, the corners of my mouth. My pussy and ass ached with the sweetest, deepest soreness, stretched and tender and still fluttering with aftershocks.
Time dissolved.
Minutes bled into an hour; I couldn’t tell. I floated in a haze of heat and memory and shame, half-convinced the entire night had been a fever dream my body had invented to punish me for the word anything.
Then came the measured, deliberate click, click, click of her heels.
Slow. Unhurried. The sound of a woman who knew exactly what she’d created and was coming back to admire her work.
I didn’t open my eyes.
I didn’t need to.
I already felt her standing over me, the faint rustle of silk, the subtle shift in the air as she leaned close enough for her scent (dark spice and satisfied woman) to wrap around me like a second blindfold.
She didn’t speak yet.
She simply let the silence stretch, let me feel the weight of her gaze on every cooling streak of cum, every bruise blooming on my skin, every helpless twitch between my legs that told her I was still, shamefully, achingly ready.
Only then did her fingertips brush my cheek (soft, possessive, the first gentle thing I’d felt all night).
Hello, Kitty,” she whispered, voice low and satisfied.
“Listen to you… still trembling. Still dripping.”
Her nail dragged lightly down my throat, over the cooling mess on my chest, circling one tender, swollen nipple.
I whimpered (small, helpless, already hers again).
The cart creaked faintly as she leaned her weight against it, the silk of her robe whispering over my skin.
“Good girl,” she breathed.
Her voice was smoke and satisfaction, thick with the knowledge that she owned every inch of the ruin spread out before her.
I felt her before I heard the next breath: the faint heat of her body settling above me, the rustle of silk as her robe parted. A single, sharp fingernail started at the hollow of my throat and began its slow descent, tracing a molten line through the cooling streaks of cum that painted my skin. It paused to circle one aching nipple, slow, deliberate, pressing just hard enough to make the swollen peak throb in protest and pleasure. My back arched without permission; the silk ties at my wrists creaked.
She hummed, pleased.
“Listen to you,” she whispered, lips ghosting over the corner of my mouth, close enough that I tasted her breath (champagne and something darker). “Still trembling. Still dripping down these pretty thighs like you didn’t just come a dozen times for thirty strangers.”
Her nail continued lower, skating through the sticky mess on my belly, dipping into my navel, then lower still, until it hovered a fraction above my clit. I could feel the heat of her finger, the promise of contact, and my hips lifted helplessly, chasing it.
“Please.” The word cracked out of me, raw and needy.
The cart shifted as she leaned her full weight against the edge. Silk spilled across my ribs like liquid; the intricate bead of her nipple dragged over my cum-slick breast, deliberate, claiming. I felt the wet heat of her bare skin now (she had shed the robe) and the sudden, shocking press of her soaked cunt settling against my lower stomach, smearing herself over the mess already there.
By the time Ms. Amii’s cool fingers finally lifted the blindfold, I was unrecognizable.
My lips were bruised and swollen from cock and greedy kisses, my skin flushed crimson and lacquered in layers of drying cum that clung in glossy ropes across my throat, my breasts, the trembling plane of my stomach. My thighs shook uncontrollably, streaked with the evidence of how many times I’d come, how hard I’d squirted. My pussy throbbed (open, aching, gaping), a raw, hungry mouth that still fluttered with phantom tongues.
She stood over me in the low kitchen light, kimono immaculate, lipstick untouched, looking for all the world like a goddess who had merely watched the sacrifice instead of orchestrating it. Her gaze raked over me with slow, regal possession.
“Breathe, Lexxy,” she murmured, voice velvet and low.
A single fingertip traced a thick stripe of cum across my breast, gathering it like glaze. Ms. Amii brought it to my parted lips. I sucked it clean instantly, tongue curling around her skin, chasing every salty trace without being told.
“Good girl,” she praised, soft and devastating.
Her thumb brushed my lower lip, still puffy and slick, then slipped inside. I tasted myself on her (sharp, filthy, mixed with strangers) and moaned around the intrusion, sucking harder.
She watched me with half-lidded eyes, drinking in every tremor.
“Look at you,” she whispered, trailing that same thumb down my chin, painting a wet line through the mess on my throat. “Absolutely wrecked. And still so fucking greedy.”
My thighs tried to close on instinct; the muscles screamed in protest. Ms. Amii noticed (of course she did) and pressed one silk-clad knee between them.
“Open.”
The single word cracked through me like a whip. I spread myself instantly, shamelessly, offering the swollen, dripping ruin of my cunt to her gaze. Cool air kissed the raw flesh, and I whimpered, hips rolling without permission.
Her eyes dropped between my legs and darkened, pupils blown wide.
“They were gentle,” she said, almost to herself, “considering what I let them do.” A faint, wicked smile. “But look at you… gaping, glistening, begging to be filled again.”
I made a broken sound (half sob, half plea).
Without warning, she pushed three fingers into me, slow and deliberate, curling deep. I was so wet they sank to the knuckles on the first thrust. My back arched off the cart; the silk ties at my wrists creaked.
“Still so ready,” she crooned, pumping once, twice, scissoring gently, stretching the tender walls that thirty strangers had already claimed. “Such a perfect, insatiable little toy.”
Her thumb settled on my clit (one merciless circle), and I nearly came on the spot, oversensitive nerves screaming. She stopped instantly, withdrew her fingers with obscene slowness, and brought them to her own lips.
She licked them clean, eyes locked on mine, tongue swirling deliberately around each digit, savoring the taste of me and every man who’d marked me tonight.
Then she leaned down and kissed me (deep, filthy, possessive), feeding me the flavor of my own ruin until I was dizzy and moaning into her mouth.
When she finally pulled back, her lips brushed mine with every word.
“Upstairs,” she said, voice husky with everything still unsaid. “You’re staying the night. Tomorrow I’ll drive you back to campus myself, and we’ll decide exactly how many times you’re going to thank me for that A.”
My legs gave out the instant my feet touched the marble. Ms. Amii caught me, strong and sure, and half-carried me up the staircase, my slick thighs dragging, every breath tasting of sex and her perfume.
The bedroom glowed only in low amber and candlelight; the sheets were turned down, waiting. She let me stand, swaying, in the center of the rug.
“Stay.”
One word, and I froze.
She vanished into the bathroom. Water thundered into the tub; thick, jasmine-laced steam rolled out, curling around my ankles like it wanted to keep me.
When she returned, the kimono was gone. Only a whisper-thin black slip clung to her, nipples dark against the silk, hair loose and wild. The professor was gone; this was the woman who had watched me break open for hours and was now ravenous.
She took my hand (no command, just warm fingers laced through mine) and led me into the candlelit marble sanctuary. The water was almost too hot. She tested it with her wrist, then eased me down inch by scalding inch, kneeling beside the tub so I could lean into her strength. I sank to my knees with a broken exhale that sounded like surrender.
Amii slid in behind me, slip and all. Soaked silk plastered to my back; her bare breasts pressed hot against my shoulder blades. One arm circled my waist, palm splayed low over my belly; the other cupped my breast, thumb stroking the bruised, bitten nipple with deliberate tenderness.
“I’ve got you, Kitty,” she whispered into my damp hair, lips grazing my nape. “You’re safe. You were perfect. You’re mine.”
Kitty.
The name hit like a collar snapping gently into place. My breath stuttered; fresh heat pooled low despite the ache. She felt it (her hand slid lower, fingers spreading possessively over the smooth, swollen mound she’d ordered shaved bare).
“Kitty?” I echoed, voice small and cracked.
“Yes,” she murmured, teeth scraping the shell of my ear. “My pretty, purring little Kitty. That’s who arched and begged and came apart so beautifully tonight. And that’s who’s trembling in my arms right now, safe and warm and mine.”
She kissed the spot just below my ear, slow and deliberate.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Kitty.”
I couldn’t lie (not naked in her bathtub, wrapped up in her, stripped down to nothing but truth).
“I don’t know what to think,” I admitted, trembling. “It feels– right. Too right. Like you just named something I didn’t know was inside me.”
Her arms tightened, fierce and protective.
“Then don’t think,” she whispered. “Just feel it. Feel that you’re mine now, my brave, perfect Kitty. And I take care of what’s mine.”
I turned clumsily in the water and buried my face against her throat. She let me cling while one hand cradled my head and the other stroked down my spine in long, soothing lines.
“I’ve got you,” she repeated, rocking us gently, over and over, until the tears came (quiet, overwhelming) and she kissed every one away, murmuring praise against my skin until I quieted.
She washed me like a ritual: slow circles over collarbones, lifting each breast to rinse away salt and strangers’ fingerprints, parting my thighs with reverent care so the water could soothe the raw, aching place they’d all used. When the cloth grazed my clit I whimpered; she shushed me with a kiss to my temple.
Eventually, she lifted me out, wrapped me in a towel warmed on the rack, and dried me inch by worshipful inch, lips brushing every bruise, every bite, every fingerprint (apologizing and thanking them at once).
She carried me from the bathroom, wrapped only in steam and the towel she’d used to wipe every bruise.
The bedroom air was cool against my flushed skin; the sheets were cool silk against my back when she lay me down like something fragile she had no intention of breaking tonight.
Amii stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, candlelight licking over the lean lines of her body, eyes dark and tender and absolutely ravenous.
She opened the nightstand drawer with deliberate slowness, the soft clink of buckles and the low rustle of leather making my breath catch before I even saw it.
A harness, black, butter-soft leather, a slim silicone cock the color of midnight. Not the brutal thing I half-expected after the evening, but something elegant, curved just enough, sized for intimacy rather than punishment.
She stepped into it unhurriedly, adjusting the straps against her hips with the same care she’d used washing me. Every movement was reverent, like she was dressing for church, and I was the altar.
When she crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipped under her weight, and she settled between my thighs without a word.
Her palms slid up my calves, behind my knees, coaxing them apart until I was open and trembling beneath her.
“Look at you,” she whispered, voice raw with adoration. “Still so ready for me.”
She leaned down, breasts brushing my chest, and kissed me (slow, deep, tasting every corner of my mouth like she had all the time in the world). The head of the strap nudged my entrance, slick from the bath and from her, and she paused there, letting me feel the promise.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” she breathed against my lips. “Tonight I just want to love you.”
I couldn’t speak. I could only nod, small and frantic, hips already lifting toward her.
She slid in so slowly I felt every millimeter (warm silicone parting tender, swollen flesh, stretching me gently, perfectly). A low, shuddering moan tore out of me; her answering groan vibrated against my throat as she bottomed out, hips flush to mine.
Then she started to move.
Not fucking. Loving.
Long, unhurried strokes that dragged the curve of the cock over every sensitive spot inside me, slow enough that I felt the complete length leave and return again and again.
Her forehead rested against mine, breath mingling, eyes locked even in the dim light.
“That’s it, Kitty,” she whispered, voice trembling with restraint. “Feel how gently I can take you after they used you so hard.”
Her hips rolled in lazy circles, grinding the base of the harness against her own clit with every thrust; I could feel the tiny shivers that ran through her each time she seated deep.
She kissed me through every stroke (soft, open-mouthed, swallowing every broken sound I made).
One hand slipped between us, thumb finding my clit with devastating tenderness, circling in time with her thrusts.
I came apart almost immediately (quiet, overwhelming, tears spilling over as pleasure rolled through me in soft waves instead of the violent crashes from downstairs).
She didn’t stop.
She kept that same slow, worshipful rhythm, drawing a second orgasm from me while she whispered praise against my lips.
“You’re so beautiful when you come for me like this, soft and open and mine.”
A third built slowly, coaxed by the steady drag inside me and the reverent stroke of her thumb.
When it crested, she buried her face in my neck and shuddered hard, her own climax spilling over in a low, trembling moan as the harness pressed perfectly against her.
Afterward, she stayed inside me, arms wrapped around my back, holding me close while the aftershocks fluttered through us both.
Only when my breathing finally evened did she ease out, unfasten the harness with gentle fingers, and pull me into the cradle of her body.
Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat.
She tucked my head beneath her chin, one hand splayed possessively over the small of my back, the other threading through my damp hair.
“Sleep, little one,” she whispered again, lips brushing my forehead. “You’re home.”
And for the first time all night, I believed it.
*********
I woke slowly, wrapped in the hush of her bedroom and the weight of her arm across my waist.
Morning light filtered through heavy curtains, soft and gold, turning the sheets into warm silk against my skin. I could feel every place she had touched me: the faint ache between my legs, the tender bruises on my hips, the ghost-pressure of her strap still inside me from hours ago. My body felt used, adored, rearranged.
But it was the inside that felt different.
There was a quiet I’d never known before, like someone had turned the volume down on every anxious voice that usually lived in my head. The frantic, people-pleasing, grade-obsessed Lexxy who had walked into this house last night was gone. Not erased; just laid gently to rest, the way you close a book you no longer need.
In her place was something smaller, softer, and infinitely braver.
Kitty.
The name fit as it had always been waiting under my skin.
I tested it silently, lips barely moving. Kitty.
It didn’t feel childish or silly anymore. It felt like the truth.
I turned in the circle of Amii’s arms and studied her sleeping face (hair tousled across the pillow, lips parted, one hand still curled possessively over my hip even in sleep). She looked younger like this, less professor, more woman who had spent half the night whispering mine against my throat while she moved inside me with devastating tenderness.
Tears pricked without warning.
Not from shame. Not from fear.
From relief so deep it hurt.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t performing.
I wasn’t the good daughter, the straight-A student, the girl who smiled too wide and apologized too often. I wasn’t the reckless party girl trying to prove something to people who didn’t matter. I had been stripped down to nothing (literally, publicly, humiliatingly) and then rebuilt, piece by piece, into exactly who I was supposed to be.
And she had loved every raw, trembling inch of it.
I pressed my face to the hollow of her shoulder and let the tears come (quiet, happy ones that soaked into her skin). She stirred, arms tightening reflexively, pulling me closer even before her eyes opened.
“Kitty,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep and wonder, as if saying it aloud still surprised her.
I nodded against her neck, throat too full for words. She understood anyway.
Her hand slid up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, cradling my skull as she pressed slow, deliberate kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
“I see you,” she whispered. “All of you. And you are perfect.”
I was safe. I was desired and wanted. I was hers.
And for the first time in nineteen years, I knew exactly who I was when no one was watching.
Kitty.
Hers.
Home.
