Chapter 1 – The Envelope That Owned Me – (The invitation that knew my name before I did)
I was halfway through sorting junk mail when I saw it: a thick black envelope lying face-down on the cold tile, as if dropped in a hurry, the crimson wax seal shattered like a broken heart.
Something inside my ribcage split open the instant I noticed it, just as the wax had cracked.
I should have stepped over it. Good girls — girls who still wear their purity ring every single day, girls who have never let a boy past a closed-mouth kiss — do not stoop to retrieve things that smell faintly of smoke, skin, and secrets they aren’t supposed to know exist.
But my body betrayed me before my conscience could scream. I bent, fingers brushing the floor, and the moment the heavy cardstock touched my skin, it was already too late. Heat flared up my arm like I’d grabbed a live wire.
I turned it over.
Masquerade of Seduction
Adult New Year’s Eve Masquerade Ball
‘Leave your inhibitions at the door, but bring your mask and your fantasies.’
The word ‘Adult’ hit me low in the belly, delivering a sudden, shocking pulse between my thighs. My knees buckled; I gripped the edge of the mailbox bank to stay upright. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed louder, or maybe that was just the blood roaring in my ears.
I told myself I was only curious. I told myself I would carry it upstairs, read the details once, laugh at how ridiculous it was, look at a few modest dresses online, and then delete everything like it had never happened.
I lied to myself so smoothly, I almost believed it.
The truth was darker and far simpler: the moment those gold letters sank in, something starving inside me woke up, stretched, and smiled with all its teeth.
And it was already hungry.
I carried the black envelope upstairs, as if it were ticking. I locked the door, killed every light except the amber glow of my bedside lamp, and sat cross-legged on my duvet, knees together, clutching the card so hard the edges left crescents in my palms.
I read it once, fast, the way you rip off a Band-Aid. Then I reread it, slower, letting every syllable settle on my tongue like communion wine I wasn’t allowed to swallow.
Masquerade of Seduction
Adult New Year’s Eve Masquerade Ball
Dress code
Women: evening gown, cocktail dress, corsetry, or upscale lingerie with heels; garter belts, stockings, and stilettos encouraged.
Crotchless panties, quarter-cup bras, and open-tip pasties are recommended for ease of play.
I stopped breathing at crotchless.
My mind stuttered, then supplied the image uninvited: sheer black lace framing my most private places instead of hiding them, a neat oval window where soft cotton had always been. I imagined cool air kissing bare lips, and I imagined walking and feeling myself open and exposed with every step. My stomach flipped.
Quarter-cup bras. I whispered the words aloud, tasting how foreign they felt. Bras that lifted but didn’t cover. Bras that left my nipples naked, aching, on display. I’ve always used seamless T-shirt bras the color of oatmeal and high-necked cotton bralettes my mother still bought in multi-packs from Target. The idea of my breasts pushed up and offered like fruit made the heat pool low and treacherous.
Garter belts. I pictured the little metal clips biting gently into lace stocking tops, the tug when I moved, the constant reminder that I was dressed for one purpose only.
I had never worn anything but plain, high-waisted cotton panties and sports bras for gym class. My underwear drawer looked like a nunnery. And now my traitor brain was painting me in black satin and sin, turning me into someone who walked into a ballroom and let strangers look, touch, take.
I tried to laugh it off. It came out as a whimper.
I read the card a third time, a fourth, a fifth, until the words blurred. All I could see was myself reflected in some dark mirror I’d never dared look into: tiny waist cinched mercilessly, breasts spilling over satin cups, nipples hard and visible, the shadow between my thighs framed by delicate straps instead of hidden away like a secret I was ashamed of.
‘What would that feel like?’ The lace edges would brush the tops of my thighs. The air would slide between my legs with nothing to stop it. The weight of eyes on skin that had never seen daylight.
I shifted on the bed and realized my conservative cotton panties were soaked clean through, clinging to swollen folds like they were trying to apologize for failing at their one job: keeping me decent.
I set the invitation on my pillow and lay back, hoodie rucked up under my arms, staring at the ceiling while my heart tried to pound its way out of my chest.
I told myself I would ‘wait the feeling out.’ I told myself I would delete the RSVP page and go to sleep as a good girl.
My hand moved anyway, sliding under the waistband of my sleep shorts, past the elastic of those safe, innocent panties, until my fingertips met slick, traitorous heat.
‘Just a little pressure,’ I lied. ‘Just to make the ache stop.’
The first deliberate stroke against my clit was lightning wrapped in silk. My back arched; a broken moan tore loose before I could trap it. I was drenched, embarrassingly so, and the glide of my own fingers felt like the answer to a question I’d never been allowed to ask.
I pictured myself in that lingerie, a corset that shoved my breasts high, nipples peeking like secrets begging to be tasted, crotchless lace leaving me bare and dripping while masked strangers watched me walk. I pictured hands sliding up my thighs, finding that opening, seeing me ready.
My other hand shoved under my hoodie, pinching one nipple hard enough to sting, and the pain arrowed straight between my legs like permission.
I was already trembling on the edge, mortified at how fast my body betrayed every promise I’d ever made.
‘Please, not like this, not to this!’
But my hips rolled shamelessly, chasing my fingers, and the fantasy sharpened: someone behind me in the dark, breath hot against my ear, whispering what a pretty, untouched little thing I was right before they pushed inside the space those crotchless panties left open just for them.
The orgasm slammed into me like judgment and absolution, fierce, blinding waves that wrenched a cry from my throat and left me shaking, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes because it felt perfect and filthy and inevitable.
I rode it out until my limbs went boneless, thighs sticky, lungs burning.
Then, still trembling, still crying, I reached for my phone. The RSVP page glowed like a dare. My thumb hovered. If I decided later not to go, could I take it back? Was there a cancel button? Please let there be a cancel button. There wasn’t.
A soft, wet laugh slipped out of me, half sob, half surrender. I pressed Confirm Payment. The screen flashed green.
Thank you, Riley. Your reservation is confirmed.
I curled around the invitation, thighs slick, heart racing, and whispered into the dark: “No take-backs! I want to go.” The words tasted like smoke and honey.
I was going to walk into that mansion wearing lace that framed my shame instead of hiding it.
And God help me, I couldn’t wait to feel what it was like to be looked at, really looked at, for the very first time.
Chapter 2 – Snow White Dressed for the Wolves – (Where my soul slipped its leash)
Saturday morning, I stood outside Macy’s clutching the invitation like a death warrant, my pulse so loud I was sure strangers could hear it.
I had spent the night writhing between soaked sheets, the word crotchless burning behind my eyelids like a brand.
I kept whispering to myself that I was only coming to look. My body already knew I was lying.
Inside the fragrance hall, the air was too warm, too thick. I drifted past racks of modest dresses until a voice poured over me like heated honey.
“Looking for something sinful, little lamb?”
I looked up, and the world collapsed into green eyes and a mouth painted the color of fresh blood.
Ashley. Tall enough that I had to crane my neck. Mid-fifties, maybe, but carved like every secret I’d ever shoved down. Her perfume (gardenias laced with something darker) curled straight between my legs and stayed there.
I couldn’t speak. I simply held out the invitation, my fingers shaking.
She read it slowly, deliberately, and when her gaze lifted again, her pupils were blown wide.
“Oh, darling,” she breathed, leaning close enough that her breath stirred the baby hairs at my temple, “Macy’s is for girls who still believe in heaven. You’re headed somewhere much, much hotter.”
She glanced at her watch. “I’m off at three. North doors. Don’t make me chase you.”
I should have run.
Instead, I whispered, “I’ll be there,” and spent four hours wandering the mall in a fever, every heartbeat throbbing between my thighs.
At 3:07 p.m., Ashley appeared in a cream trench coat cinched like a promise, stilettos stabbing marble.
She crooked one crimson nail.
I followed.
The boutique had no sign, only a tiny gold mask glowing above a frosted door.
The bell chimed like a warning. Ashley locked it behind us. Click.
Inside smelled of beeswax, rose attar, and the unmistakable musk of women who had long ago stopped pretending.
Marie (ice-blonde, cheekbones sharp enough to cut) greeted Ashley with a kiss that lingered at the corner of her mouth.
“This is Riley,” Ashley said, her fingers brushing the small of my back, sending sparks skittering up my spine. “First time. Still thinks she’s pure.”
Marie’s smile was slow and predatory. “We’ll fix that.”
They circled me.
“Strip,” Ashley stated, as if it were a demand.
My hands shook so violently that I could barely grip my hoodie.
I peeled it off. Then my jeans. Then, there was the plain beige bra my mother had bought me for Christmas. Finally, the high-waisted cotton panties printed with tiny teddy bears (because, of course, I still wore panties printed with tiny bears).
I stood naked under soft spotlights, gooseflesh racing over skin that had never seen more than a one-piece swimsuit and church-camp sun.
My body was pale, almost translucent, the kind of white that bruised easily and blushed crimson at the slightest provocation. Every inch of me looked like it had been kept in a box labeled Do Not Touch.
Ashley’s sharp inhale told me she noticed.
They started with cocktail dresses, but Ashley kept shaking her head.
“Too safe. She needs to be devoured alive.”
Back room. Velvet curtains, the color of spilled merlot. Mirrors on every wall so I couldn’t escape myself.
First came the corset.
Ashley laced a black satin underbust herself, standing behind me, breath warm against my nape.
Every tug of the ribbons pulled a gasp from my throat. When Ashley cinched the final inch, my waist looked impossibly small, and my breasts were shoved high, nipples barely kissed by delicate quarter-cups.
The contrast was obscene: midnight satin biting into skin so white it looked lit from within, like fresh cream poured over sin.
“Look,” Ashley commanded.
I looked.
My reflection was a study in blasphemy: pure, untouched snow wrapped in the devil’s favorite colors. The black lace of the corset made my skin glow like moonlight on fresh-fallen snow. My nipples, flushed dark rose, strained against the edge of the cups that refused to cover them.
Lower, the gold garter belt gleamed like molten metal against porcelain thighs, the black lace tops of the stockings framing skin so pale it looked unreal.
Marie produced crotchless panties (black lace so fine it was almost nothing, a perfect oval opening framed by tiny satin bows the color of fresh blood).
Ashley knelt.
She knelt right in front of me, on her knees, and she slid the sinful scrap up my legs with deliberate slowness.
Her thumbs traced the crease where thigh meets hip, stopping a whisper from where I was already embarrassingly wet.
The black lace settled against my white skin like ink spilled on parchment.
The oval opening framed my bare lips perfectly, pink and glistening, surrounded by the darkest lace imaginable.
It looked like someone had drawn a target on the most innocent part of me and invited the world to aim.
I swayed.
They added sheer black thigh-high stockings, rolling them up calves that had never known anything but drugstore knee-highs.
The lace tops bit gently into flesh so pale it looked luminous, the contrast so stark I could see the faint blue veins beneath.
Gold garter clips snapped against the lace with tiny metallic kisses that shot straight to my clit.
The dress (if four ounces of fabric deserved the name) was liquid black satin, hem skimming the lace bands, neckline plunging so low that when I inhaled, my breasts threatened to spill free entirely.
Against my white skin, it looked like liquid night poured over untouched snow.
Then the shoes.
Ashley knelt again, buckling the three-inch gold Louboutins heels around my ankles.
Her lips hovered inches from the inside of my knee; I could feel the heat of her breath skating over skin that had never been touched by anyone but me in frantic, guilty darkness.
“Three inches keeps you small,” she murmured, voice rough with hunger. “Helpless. Exactly how they like their virgins.”
The word hit me like a fist to the sternum.
Virgin.
Everything stopped. The sound vanished. The mirrors blurred.
My heart slammed once, twice, then tried to claw its way out of my throat.
How do I even know I still am?
The question detonated inside my skull, white-hot, deafening.
I had never let a boy inside me.
Never let fingers, never tongue, never cock.
But I had spent years alone in my bed, two fingers sometimes, three when I was desperate, curling hard and fast while I bit my pillow so my roommate wouldn’t hear.
I had used the handle of my hairbrush once (just the smooth plastic tip, just to see), and it had hurt and felt so good I’d sobbed for an hour afterward.
I had rubbed myself raw against my stuffed bear when I was fifteen, humping it like an animal until I came so hard I saw stars and then cried because I was sure I’d ruined myself.
What if I’d already torn it? What if there’s nothing left? What if I walk into that mansion and they find out I’m not pure at all, just a liar in expensive lace?
The panic was sudden and physical: a wave of ice water followed by fire. My lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe. I made a choked sound (half gasp, half sob) and staggered back a step. The mirrors spun. My knees buckled. I would have hit the floor if Ashley hadn’t caught me by the upper arms, nails biting gently into my skin.
“Riley. Look at me.”
I couldn’t. I was hyperventilating, tears already burning tracks down my cheeks, smearing the careful makeup I’d put on that morning to look brave.
“How,” I wheezed, voice cracking like a child’s, “how do you even know you’re still a virgin when you’ve… when I’ve done things to myself?”
The confession spilled out raw and ugly, shame so thick I could taste it.
Ashley’s grip tightened, steadying, grounding. She turned me roughly toward the biggest mirror and forced me to face the girl shaking in her arms. “Look,” she ordered, voice low and fierce.
I looked.
The girl in the glass was chalk-white against black satin, trembling so hard her breasts quivered in their quarter-cups.
Tears streaked her cheeks, but her nipples were dark rose and diamond-hard, her thighs slick and shining, the crotchless lace framing a pussy so swollen it looked bruised with want.
Ashley’s hand slid down my throat, over the frantic jackhammer of my pulse, stopping just above the satin edge that barely covered my nipples.
“This body,” she said, almost angry now, “has never been opened. I’d know. I can smell the untouched scent on you like church incense. Your desperate little fingers, your hairbrush handle, your stuffed bear (none of it counts). Not for what’s waiting at that ball.”
Her other hand dropped between my legs without warning, two fingers sliding through my soaked folds in one slow, possessive stroke.
I cried out, knees buckling again.
“You’re sealed, baby,” she whispered against my ear, lips brushing the shell. “Still gift-wrapped in the prettiest white skin I’ve ever seen. When the right cock finally forces its way on New Year’s Eve, you’ll feel your innocence tear like wet paper. You’ll bleed. You’ll scream. And you’ll know, beyond any doubt, that you saved it for precisely this.”
She withdrew her fingers, brought them to her mouth, and licked them clean while I watched, open-mouthed, shaking.
The panic ebbed, replaced by something vast, terrifying, and inevitable. I stared at my reflection: porcelain skin glowing against midnight lace and crimson bows, nipples begging, pussy framed like a sacrifice no one had claimed yet. Still a virgin. Still pure. Still walking into that mansion on New Year’s Eve to lose it in the most spectacular, filthy way possible.
Ashley pressed a final kiss just below my ear, soft and lethal.
“Hold on to that panic, little lamb,” she whispered. “It’s going to taste so sweet when it turns into your first real scream.”
I walked out on legs that no longer felt like mine, bags swinging, thighs slick, heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. I was still a virgin. And I was going to the ball to make sure I never was again.
Last came the mask: black Venetian lace, gold filigree, feathers curving over cheekbones so pale as communion wafers, hiding everything but my trembling, bitten mouth.
Ashley stepped behind me, hands settling possessively on my hips so narrow they looked obscene beneath the corset. Her reflection met mine in the mirror. “Look at you, Riley,” she whispered against my ear, lips brushing the lobe. “Snow White dressed for the wolves. Every inch of that untouched skin screams innocence, while the lace screams take me. You’re going to walk in there looking like a sacrifice wearing her own noose.”
I looked. The girl staring back was porcelain wrapped in midnight, untouched white skin glowing against black satin and crimson bows, nipples dark rose and straining, pussy framed like a gift no one had earned yet. She looked like purity begging to be ruined.
Marie rang up $3,487. The number flashed like hellfire. My stomach plummeted.
“I—I can’t afford this.”
Ashley swiped her own card without hesitation. She leaned in until her lips grazed the shell of my ear, and her following words dripped straight into my bloodstream. “Wear it well, little lamb. When some lucky stranger finally slides into that sweet, soaked cunt on that night, remember who dressed your innocence for slaughter.”
She pressed a single, lingering kiss just below my ear, soft and filthy.
I walked out on legs that barely worked, bags swinging, thighs slick, every step rubbing sinful black lace against skin that had never known anything but cotton and shame.
I had just let a stranger dress me like a high-end whore and pay for every inch of my fall. And the terrifying, exhilarating truth was this: Against all that black and gold and crimson, my pure white skin looked like a blank page waiting for someone to write ruin all over it.
And God help me, I couldn’t wait to feel the ink.
Chapter 3 – Rose Water and Ruin – (Shaving away the last of the good girl)
The water was almost too hot to bear. I dropped the rose-and-oud bomb and watched the tub bloom the color of fresh blood, then sank in until only my face broke the surface. Steam curled around me like incense. I clutched the champagne bottle with both hands because a glass felt too civilized for what I was doing.
I told myself I was only going to shave my legs. I told myself I was still in control. My body knew better. The razor glided up my calf, and the first stroke felt like someone else’s hand. By the time I reached mid-thigh, my breath came in shallow, frantic sips. When I brushed the soft auburn curls above my sex, I meant to trim, nothing more. One slip of the blade took half the patch away, and panic flared, then melted into something molten. I couldn’t go half-bald. So I spread my knees wide over the tub edge, water lapping at my nipples, and shaved myself completely, utterly bare for the first time in my life.
The skin that appeared was shocking: pure porcelain, almost translucent, with every fold and secret suddenly, violently visible. I looked like a doll someone had stripped for wicked games. I looked like innocence that had already decided to kneel.
I couldn’t stop touching. One fingertip traced the newly naked seam and came away glistening. I whimpered, ashamed and electrified, because I was wetter than I had ever been and fumbling guiltily. The scent of my own arousal rose with the steam, sweet and unmistakable.
I pictured tonight. I pictured walking through those mansion doors in the corset that would barely cover my nipples, the gold garters biting into my thighs, the crotchless lace framing a pussy no one had ever seen, let alone touched. I pictured the moment the music swallowed me and every masked face turned. I pictured eyes sliding over my body like hands, lingering on the crimson bows that pointed straight to the place I was already aching.
I pictured someone noticing the opening in the lace. I pictured a stranger’s fingers, confident, uninvited, sliding between my legs and finding me soaked, swollen, ready. I pictured a low, approving chuckle against my ear: “Look at you, little lamb. You dressed to be used.”
My hips rolled involuntarily in the water. I didn’t actually know what this party was. I only knew the invitation said, “Leave your inhibitions at the door.”
I only knew the dress code included the words ease of play, open tip, crotchless, and encouraged.
I only knew Ashley had looked at me like she already knew exactly how I tasted when I came.
I pictured myself on my knees in some velvet alcove, mask still on, mouth open, someone’s hand fisted in my hair while another lifted the hem of that sinful dress and discovered I was dripping down my own thighs.
I pictured being bent over a chaise, wrists held, someone sliding into me from behind, while a woman in crimson watched and smiled and told me how pretty I looked, taking my first real cock.
I pictured my first orgasm of the night happening in front of strangers, loud and helpless and unstoppable.
I pictured not wanting them to stop. I pictured begging them not to.
The fantasy was so vivid that I could feel phantom mouths on my nipples, phantom fingers spreading me open, phantom cocks pressing against every untouched entrance.
I could hear the wet sounds I would make, the broken pleas I would offer up like communion.
I circled my clit once, barely breathing. Again, harder. My hips jerked so hard that water sloshed over the porcelain and onto the floor. I came with my own name on my lips and tears in my eyes, thighs clamped around my hand, back arched so high my head knocked against the tile. It was the most brutal, most extended orgasm of my life, and it was only a preview.
Afterward, I sat trembling, razor forgotten, champagne bottle bobbing in the water, pussy still pulsing like a second heartbeat. I didn’t know what waited behind those mansion doors. I only knew that whatever it was, I had dressed for it.
I only knew that the girl who used to pray the sinner’s prayer every night was gone, drowned in rose-scented water and her own slick. I only knew that when the clock struck midnight, I wanted to be unrecognizable.
I rose from the tub dripping, skin flushed crimson against pure white, nipples diamond-hard, shaved-bare lips swollen and glistening.
I was going to the ball. And whatever happened after the doors closed, I already knew one thing with terrifying certainty: I would spread my legs for it. I would open my mouth for it. I would thank them for it. And I would never, ever be the same girl again.
