Misc. Erotica The Art of Falling - the story of Sejal Sharma

[chickenpakoda]

The Art of Falling

Chapter 1: The Numbers don't lie

The autumn wind nipped at Sejal’s thighs as she hurried down 8th Avenue, her phone screen burning with the truth she already knew.

$1,243.18

Pathetic.

Three years of a master’s degree in economics, and here she was—still trapped in the same cycle of rent, loan payments, and the soul-crushing grind of serving overpriced cocktails to people who’d never understand her desperation. She exhaled sharply, tucking her phone away before the sight of that number could suffocate her completely.

The neon sign of Velvet buzzed to life as she approached, its deep crimson glow staining the sidewalk like spilled wine. Inside, the lounge hummed with low conversations and the clink of ice against glass. The air smelled of bourbon, expensive perfume, and the quiet hunger of New York’s elite.

Sejal adjusted the cuffs of her fitted white satin shirt—sleek, slightly sheer, tucked into a black mini skirt that hugged every curve. The thigh-high stockings she wore made her legs look endless, the kind of detail that earned her better tips but also lingering stares. She hated how much she’d learned to weaponize her own body.

“Cutting it close, princesa,” Mateo muttered as she tied her apron. The bartender’s eyes flicked over her outfit, but he knew better than to comment.

“Traffic,” she lied smoothly, rolling her shoulders back.

Then they walked in.

The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair swept back in a way that screamed old money. His suit was immaculate—midnight blue, tailored to perfection. But it was the woman beside him who made Sejal pause.

She was younger than him—mid-forties, maybe—with honey-blonde hair cascading in loose waves over one shoulder. Her dress was understated but expensive, the kind that clung just enough to suggest wealth without effort.

They took a booth in Sejal’s section, the man’s hand resting possessively on the small of his wife’s back.

Sejal approached, forcing her customer-service smile into place. “Welcome to Velvet. Can I start you with something to drink?”

The man’s gaze dragged over her—slow, assessing. Not leering, but noticing. His wife’s eyes flicked up, sharp and amused, as if she’d caught him.

“A Manhattan for me,” the man said, his voice smooth, faintly accented—Indian, but softened by years abroad. “And a gin martini for my wife. Extra dry.”

The woman smirked, her fingers tapping the table. “And make sure it’s cold.”

Sejal nodded, but as she turned, she felt their eyes still on her. The weight of it prickled down her spine.

Rich couples. She knew the type. Knew the games they played.

Sejal returned with their drinks, her hips swaying just slightly—unintentional, a habit born from balancing trays in crowded spaces. But Rajan Malhotra noticed.

His dark eyes tracked her like a predator studying its next meal. The white satin of her shirt clung to the dip of her waist, the fabric sheer enough to hint at the soft curve of her breasts when she leaned forward to set down his Manhattan. The black mini skirt hugged her like a second skin, riding up just a fraction as she bent—enough to reveal the taut line where her thigh-high stockings met bare skin.

Youth. That’s what he was drinking in, more than the liquor. The way her collarbones peeked from beneath her shirt, the defiant set of her jaw even as she played the part of the obedient waitress. She was all sharp edges and hidden fire, and Rajan wanted to see how far that fire could burn.

His fingers twitched around his glass, imagining the weight of her hip under his palm.

Across the table, Nandini watched—not her husband’s wandering gaze, but Sejal herself. Her assessment was colder, more calculated. The girl had the kind of beauty that wasn’t just pretty; it was useful. High cheekbones, full lips that could pout or part in surprise, eyes that held a flicker of intelligence behind the practiced demureness.

Nandini’s gaze dropped to Sejal’s hands—slender fingers, nails painted a muted rose. No rings. No signs of a life that could interfere. Good.

“You’re Indian,” Nandini stated, her voice smooth as the gin in her glass. Not a question. An observation.

Sejal stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

“But not from here.” Nandini’s smile was a razor wrapped in silk. “I can always tell. The way you carry yourself. Like you’re still deciding whether this city owns you or if you’ll ever really belong to it.”

Rajan chuckled, swirling his drink. “My wife has a habit of reading people. It’s why our business thrives.”

Sejal’s pulse jumped at the way he said business—like it was a private joke between the three of them.

Nandini tilted her head, her gold earrings catching the light. “What’s your degree in, Sejal?”

The question caught her off guard. “E-Economics.”

“Ah.” Nandini’s lips curled. “So you’re good with numbers. And yet here you are.” She gestured lazily to the lounge around them. “Serving drinks to men who’ve never had to calculate how much their dinner costs.”

The words hit like a slap, but Sejal refused to flinch.

Rajan leaned forward, his cufflinks glinting. “We could change that.” His voice dropped, intimate. “A girl like you shouldn’t be worrying about overdraft fees.”

Sejal’s breath hitched. How the hell—?

Nandini’s laugh was low, melodic. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. That little frown you made when you checked your phone outside? That’s the look of someone who’s 
tired of losing.” She reached into her clutch and slid a black card across the table. “We’re in the business of solving problems, Sejal. And you?” Her manicured nail tapped the card once. “You’re a problem we’d very much like to solve.”

Rajan’s gaze burned hotter now, tracing the flush creeping up Sejal’s neck. “Think about it,” he murmured. “A single night could erase every one of those loans.”

Nandini’s eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. “And if you’re as clever as I think you are… it might just be the beginning.”

Sejal’s fingers trembled as she tucked the card into her apron.


The Malhotras watched her walk away—Rajan with hunger, Nandini with the satisfaction of a collector who’d just found a rare, precious thing.

[Pvzro]

Excellent writing 

Keep posting regular updates to keep the story alive..

[Pvzro]

This is going to be the best story written in this forum, only would like to update the  writer to plz continue with the forum and keep posting regular updates

Thanks for a wonderful story

[chickenpakoda]

Chapter 2: The Power Play

The rest of Sejal’s shift passed in a haze, the black card burning a hole in her apron pocket like a secret too hot to keep. Every time she moved, she felt the weight of it—the promise, the danger.

And then there were the eyes.

Always the eyes.

Marcus DuPont leaned against the bar, his massive frame taking up space like he owned it—which, of course, he did. A man built on charm, ego, and real estate, Marcus had a thing for women like Sejal. He watched her now with hooded eyes, sipping a bourbon he barely tasted. The sway of her hips was hypnotic. Her body moved with unconscious rhythm, each step a subtle performance. The sheen of her stockings caught the light with every shift of her legs, and he imagined peeling them down slowly, savoring the contrast between silk and skin.

Marcus didn’t miss the way her skirt rode up when she bent, or how the satin blouse hugged the swell of her breasts. She was sharp and clever, but tired—and he liked that too. Worn-down women were easier to mold.

When she passed him, his hand darted out, fingers curling around her wrist. Her skin was warm, pulsing beneath his thumb.

“You good, Sejal? You look… distracted.”

She smiled that waitress smile, the kind meant to pacify and disarm. “Just thinking about my student loans, Marcus.”

He chuckled, but his gaze didn’t leave her mouth. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be stressing over money.” His voice dipped low. “You know I could help with that.”

He didn’t mean a raise.

He meant the kind of help that came with strings—silk ropes and locked doors.

When she pulled away, it was smooth, practiced. But the scent she left behind made him want more.

Behind the bar, Mateo watched her with his usual scowl, but tonight it wasn’t annoyance that tightened his jaw—it was want.

He’d never touched her. Never dared. But every time she reached over the bar, the hem of her skirt teasing up the back of her thighs, it tested him. She was soft where he was rough, fire where he was ice. And tonight, something about her was different—looser, bolder.

When she bent to grab a bottle from the fridge, the arch of her spine was deliberate. He could see the strap of her stocking where it disappeared beneath her skirt. His mouth went dry.

“You’re fucking up orders tonight,” he growled, because he had to say something. Because if he didn’t, he might say what he really wanted.

Sejal tilted her head, letting her dark hair fall like silk over one shoulder. Her voice was syrup. “Am I? Or are you just not paying attention to the right things?”

She licked her lips. Slow. Lazy.

His hand tightened on the shaker until the metal bit into his palm. He looked away, jaw clenched—but his mind was already somewhere else. A couch in the stockroom. Her legs wrapped around his waist. That mouth silencing every sound he wasn’t supposed to make.

In the far booth, the Wall Street boys were slouched like kings in a den, drunk on money and power. One of them—Cole, he’d said—had been watching Sejal from the moment she brought them their first round.

He liked brunettes. Especially the dangerous-looking ones.

Sejal was too smart for her uniform, too composed for someone walking around with bourbon sloshing on her tray. That made him want her more. She had the kind of face that would look even better messy—eyes wide, lips parted, hair tangled from fingers pulling too hard.

When she leaned over the table to serve their fourth round, he let his hand wrap around her wrist. Her skin was soft, cool from the tray.

“How much for an extra hour with you, sweetheart?”

His voice was slurred but confident. He thought money could buy everything.

Sejal didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. Instead, she leaned down until the whisper of her blouse brushed his sleeve, and he swore he could see the outline of her nipple through the satin.

“How much you got?”

The whole table howled in delight—but not Cole. His smile flickered. Her voice had steel in it.

When she pulled back, her hand wiped clean on her apron, dismissing him like he was nothing. It stung more than he’d admit.

By the time her shift ended, Sejal’s skin hummed with something new—not fear, not desperation.

Power.

All night, men watched her, devoured her with their eyes, spoken to her like they owned her. But they didn’t.

She stepped into the alley behind Velvet, the city’s neon glow painting her in streaks of pink and gold. Her hands were steady as she pulled the Malhotras’ card from her pocket.

She dialed before she could second-guess herself.

It rang once. Twice.

Then, a voice—smooth, expectant. “Sejal.”

Not Hello. Not Who’s this?

They’d been waiting.

She exhaled, her breath curling in the cold air. “Tell me what I’d have to do.”

A pause. Then Nandini’s laugh, low and knowing, filtered through the line.

“Oh, darling. You already know.”

[chickenpakoda]

Chapter 3: The Test

The line went dead, but the echo of Nandini’s voice lingered in Sejal’s ear like a dare.


Ten minutes. That’s all it took for the sleek black town car to materialize outside Velvet, its tinted windows swallowing the neon glare of the city. The driver didn’t speak, didn’t even glance at her as she slid into the leather backseat. The partition stayed up.

The silence was deliberate.

They want you nervous.

Sejal clenched her jaw, forcing her fingers to uncurl from the hem of her skirt. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

The car stopped at a high-rise in Tribeca, all steel and smoked glass. The elevator ride to the penthouse was smooth, silent. When the doors slid open, the Malhotras were waiting.

Nandini lounged on a white sofa, a martini in hand, her honey-blonde hair spilling over one shoulder. Rajan stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled at his feet like a glittering conquest.

“You came.” Nandini’s smile was a knife wrapped in silk.

Sejal lifted her chin. “You knew I would.”

Rajan turned, his gaze dragging over her—still in her work clothes, the satin shirt rumpled, the stockings slightly snagged from the shift. His nostrils flared. He likes that you didn’t change.

Nandini set her drink down with a soft clink. “Before we discuss terms, we need to see what you’re capable of.”

Sejal crossed her arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Nandini purred, “you’re going back to Velvet tomorrow night. And the first man who walks through that door? You’ll seduce him.”

A beat. Sejal’s pulse jumped, but she kept her voice steady. “And if I refuse?”

Nandini’s laugh was low, melodic. “Then you leave now, and we pretend this never happened.” A pause. “But you won’t.”

She was right. Sejal knew it.

They all did.

The Next Night – Velvet Lounge

Sejal adjusted her stockings under the bar, the silk whispering against her thighs like a secret only she knew.

She’d dressed carefully. Not overly done, but calculated—every detail selected like a weapon.

A black wrap dress, soft velvet that clung to her curves like a lover’s hand. The neckline dipped just enough to offer a glimpse of the lace bra beneath—the same one Rajan had nearly glimpsed two nights before. 

Her legs were sheathed in sheer black stockings, the tops hidden beneath the hem of the dress, her heels high enough to command attention but silent as sin on the hardwood floor.

Her hair was loose, waves cascading over her shoulders with careless precision, a glossy curtain that moved when she turned her head. Her lips were wine-red, bitten just slightly at the center.

She smelled like jasmine and sandalwood—warm, dusky, with a sharp edge of something citrus that lingered just behind it. It was the kind of scent that lingered on sheets and skin, the kind men couldn’t forget even when they tried.

She didn’t look like a waitress tonight.

She looked like temptation personified.

The Malhotras’ test was a game, and she’d play it—but on her terms.

The door swung open.

Him.

Tall, broad-shouldered, in a tailored suit that screamed expensive but understated. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that scanned the room like he was assessing threats.

Mark.

She didn’t know his name yet, but she recognized the type—military posture, the kind of stillness that came from control. He didn’t sit at the bar; he took a corner booth, his back to the wall, his gaze never settling.

Sentinel. Bodyguard. Lover?

Sejal grabbed a bourbon—top shelf, neat—and sauntered over.

“You look like a man who drinks alone,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him.

Mark’s eyes flicked to hers. Cold. Assessing. “I prefer it.”

She pushed the glass toward him. “Try this. It’ll change your mind.”

He didn’t touch it. “I don’t drink on the job.”

“What’s the job?” She leaned forward, letting her dress slip just enough to tease.

His gaze didn’t drop. “None of your business.”

Sejal smirked. Challenge accepted.

She trailed a finger along the rim of his glass. “You’re not like the other men who come here.”

“And you’re not just a waitress.” His voice was flat.

Her stomach tightened. He knows.

But that was the game, wasn’t it?

The Malhotras were watching. Somewhere in the shadows, Nandini’s lips curled in approval.

Sejal let her foot brush his under the table. “What if I told you I could make tonight worth your while?”

Mark finally looked at her—really looked. His eyes darkened, but not with desire. With warning.

“You don’t want to play this game with me.”

Sejal’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Oh, but I do.”

She let the silence stretch between them, her fingers still tracing lazy circles around the rim of Mark’s untouched bourbon. His jaw was set, his posture rigid—but she caught the way his knuckles whitened ever so slightly around his glass.

Oh, he’s affected.

She tilted her head, letting her hair spill over one shoulder. “You don’t talk much, do you?” Her voice dropped to a husky murmur.

Mark’s gaze flickered—just for a second—to the exposed curve of her neck. “I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

Sejal smirked. Got you.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached for the top button of her dress. His breath hitched—just a fraction. The first button came undone, revealing a sliver of golden skin.

“Too bad,” she sighed, fingers moving lower. “I was hoping you’d tell me what else you’re good at.”

Mark’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t stop her.

Button by button, the neckline loosened, the fabric slipping off one shoulder. The dim lighting caught the lace edge of her bra, the swell of her breasts rising with every breath. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, knowing full well the view she was offering.

“You’re not even going to take a sip?” she asked, nudging the bourbon closer. “Or is your self-control really that good?”

Mark’s throat worked as he swallowed. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Sejal laughed, low and throaty. “That’s the only kind worth playing.”

She let her foot trail up his calf under the table, the sheer fabric of her stocking whispering against his tailored pants. His muscles tensed, but he didn’t pull away.

Interesting.

Her hand slid across the table, fingertips grazing his wrist. “You know, I can think of better ways to spend tonight than sitting here… pretending you don’t want to touch me.”

Mark’s breath came faster now, his control fraying at the edges. But just as she thought she had him, his hand snapped out, catching her wrist in a grip that sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.

“Careful, sweetheart.” His voice was rough, edged with something dangerous. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Sejal’s pulse raced, but she held his gaze, her lips parting in a challenge.

Oh, but I do.

Mark’s grip tightened—just enough to make her breath catch—before he abruptly released her and stood. His expression was granite, but his eyes burned with something feral, barely leashed.

“This little show is over,” he growled, tossing cash onto the table for the untouched drink.

Sejal leaned back in the booth, her dress still open, her skin flushed from the game. She watched him stride toward the exit, his broad shoulders rigid with tension.

Oh no, you don’t.

She waited until his hand was on the door before she made her move.

“Mark.”

His name dripped from her lips like honey laced with poison.

He froze.

Sejal stood slowly, letting her skirt ride up another inch as she stepped out of the booth. The lounge’s patrons watched—some openly, some through half-lidded glances—but she didn’t care. Her eyes were locked on him.

“You really think Nandini sent you here just to resist me?” she purred, sauntering closer. “Or did she want to see how far her loyal dog can be pushed?”

Mark turned, his jaw clenched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” She stopped just inches from him. “You’ve never broken her rules, have you? Never even looked at another woman.” Her fingers trailed up his tie, twisting it playfully. “But here’s the thing…”

She rose onto her toes, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered:

“She didn’t tell you to leave.”

Mark went utterly still.

Sejal smirked against his skin. Checkmate.

Then—

His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to force her to meet his gaze. His breath was ragged, his control hanging by a thread.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned.

Sejal’s pulse hammered, but she held her ground. “Then burn with me.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The air between them crackled.

Then the lounge’s back door swung open—and Nandini’s laugh cut through the tension like a blade.

“Well, well,” she mused, stepping into the light. “It seems we have a winner.”

[chickenpakoda]

Chapter 4:  The Pact

Sejal woke with a gasp, her skin still humming from phantom touches. The sheets beneath her were impossibly soft—Egyptian 

cotton, no doubt—and the scent of jasmine, leather, and expensive cologne clung to her bare skin like invisible fingerprints.

Where—?

Memories flickered like a half-remembered dream.

Nandini’s smirk in the dim lounge light. The way Mark had stormed out, leaving her flushed and exposed. The Malhotras’ shared glance—predatory, possessive—before Nandini had murmured, "Let’s take this somewhere private."

Sejal sat up, the silk sheets slipping from her breasts, nipples still stiff from earlier attention. Her waitress uniform lay discarded on the floor, the black velvet shirt torn open, one sleeve hanging like a ghost of innocence. Her black lace panties were nowhere in 
sight. A bruise bloomed on her hip in the shape of fingers. Between her thighs, she still throbbed.

Oh god.

She could only remember the limo.

The partition was up. The city blurred past, but all Sejal could see was Rajan's large, warm hand sliding beneath her skirt, his knuckles pressing against the slick heat between her legs. His breath was thick against her ear.

She was sandwiched between them, every inch of her surrounded by heat and hunger. Nandini’s fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her into a kiss that stole the air from her lungs. Her tongue was commanding, exploring, tasting. Her thigh pressed between Sejal’s legs as Rajan worked her skirt up to her waist.

"No panties," Rajan murmured, voice low. His fingers grazed her folds. "Such a needy little thing."

Nandini climbed into her lap, breasts pressing against Sejal’s. She took Sejal’s hands and placed them on her own hips. "Touch me. Show us you deserve this."

Sejal obeyed.

Nandini kissed her again, her hands pulling open Sejal’s shirt. Buttons popped, exposing her black lace bra, the fabric already damp where Rajan’s thumb circled her nipple through the lace.

"On your knees," Nandini whispered.

Sejal slid down between them, her cheek brushing the leather seat, the tension in her thighs turning molten as Rajan gripped her chin and tilted her head up. His kiss was rough, dominant, while his other hand stayed busy between her legs, fingers slick with arousal.

"Look at how soaked you are," he growled. "You want to come like a slut in the back of a limo? Say it."

"Yes," Sejal moaned. "Please—please, I want to."

"You don’t come until we tell you," Nandini said sharply, slapping Sejal’s thigh. The sting bloomed into heat. "You belong to us tonight. Your pleasure is ours to give."

The penthouse elevator opened directly into sleek marble and shadows. Rajan didn’t wait. He lifted Sejal into his arms effortlessly, carrying her through the modern opulence of glass walls and low lighting. Nandini led the way, shrugging off her robe to reveal bare curves and long legs that moved with feline ease.

The bedroom swallowed them in silk and dim golden light. Sejal was tossed onto the bed, her skirt rucked up, legs parted without modesty. Rajan fell to his knees before her.

"Hold her down," he ordered.

Nandini straddled Sejal’s chest, her thighs pressing into her ribs. She leaned forward, palms pinning Sejal’s wrists into the mattress, her breasts inches from Sejal’s face.

Rajan poured a trail of whiskey between Sejal’s thighs. The cold shock made her cry out.

Then Nandini was there, her mouth hot and merciless. She licked slowly, collecting the liquor drop by drop, her tongue dragging through Sejal’s folds. Sejal screamed, her hips bucking into Nandini’s mouth.

"Stay. Still," Rajan growled, gripping Sejal’s thighs and holding her down.

Nandini moaned softly against her, sending vibrations through her clit. Sejal writhed under them, barely able to breathe.

"Beg."

"Please—please let me come. I need it. I’ll do anything—"

Rajan’s fingers replaced Nandini’s mouth, pushing inside, stretching her. Two thick fingers curling just right. Sejal thrashed.

"Say who you belong to."

"You—I belong to you. I’m yours!"

"Good girl," Nandini whispered, flicking her tongue again.

That was all it took. Sejal came hard, her cry echoing, her muscles locking tight as heat flooded her.

Later, Sejal lay breathless between them, bruises like kisses blooming across her breasts and thighs. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as Nandini crawled over her, straddling her hips and leaning in.

"Touch me," Nandini whispered, guiding Sejal’s hand between her own legs.

Sejal obeyed, two fingers sliding into soaked heat as Nandini rocked into her hand. The look in her eyes was feral. Rajan sat behind her, hands gripping her waist, whispering filth in her ear as she chased her own climax.

When Nandini came, she bit Sejal’s shoulder, marking her again.

Rajan pulled Sejal into his lap, her back to his chest. His cock pressed hard against her ass as he cupped her breasts, thumbs flicking her nipples until she was trembling again.

"One more," he whispered. "You can give us one more."

Rajan didn’t wait.


With one arm still around her waist, he lifted Sejal slightly and slid his cock inside her in one deep, claiming thrust. She gasped—half shock, half pleasure—as her body arched into the intrusion. Her muscles clenched around him instinctively, still sensitive, still dripping. Behind her, his breath was ragged, his mouth pressed to her neck.

“God, you’re perfect like this,” he growled, thrusting again—slow, deliberate, each movement designed to make her feel completely filled.

In front of her, Nandini had gone feral. Her lips closed over Sejal’s collarbone, sucking hard, biting until Sejal whimpered. Then her teeth moved lower, grazing along the swell of Sejal’s breasts, leaving little bruises and wet kisses as Rajan fucked her from behind.

Sejal moaned openly, her body suspended between them, pleasure spiraling tighter with each stroke. Rajan’s grip on her hips grew rougher, his pace quicker. Nandini kept up her assault—tongue flicking over a nipple before she bit down again, hard enough to make Sejal cry out, her whole body jerking in response.

“You like this, don’t you?” Nandini murmured darkly, watching her squirm. “Being used. Being marked.”

Rajan’s rhythm turned urgent, his breath coming in short bursts as Sejal tightened around him. Her hands clawed at the sheets, her body trembling, her moans becoming cries.

“Come for us,” Rajan groaned, his fingers digging into her hips. “Now.”

And she did—helpless and raw. Her body convulsed around him, wet and shuddering. Nandini bit down on her neck just as the climax hit, her teeth sinking in as if to brand her again.

Rajan barely held back. With a deep groan, he pulled out at the last moment, stroking himself once, twice—then coming in hot, thick spurts across the curve of Sejal’s ass. He let out a broken sound, collapsing against her back, his breath hot against her ear.

They stayed like that for a moment—sweat-slicked bodies tangled, bruised and bitten, trembling in the aftermath.

Then Nandini leaned in, licking a trail up Sejal’s spine like she was savoring the taste of her.

“Good girl,” she whispered, her voice a purr. “You’ll remember this.

Back in the steam of the penthouse bathroom, Sejal stood motionless under the hot water. Her body bore the evidence of the night—finger marks, reddened skin, the ache between her legs still blooming. The shower didn’t wash it away. It soaked into her.

She stepped out, skin flushed and hair dripping.

On the vanity: a sleek black dress. A note.

Wear this. We’ll send for you tonight.

Her hands trembled slightly as she picked it up. Her thighs still sticky. Her lips raw.

Her reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable.

Not innocent.

Not afraid.

Just hungry.

She slipped into the dress without hesitation.

One more night, she told herself.

But the truth was undeniable:


She was theirs—and she wanted to be.