Adriane captures you mid-keystroke, lips sealing your gasp as her teeth graze your earlobe. Dragged into the steamy shower, cramped walls force your bare skin against hers—no underwear, no escape. Her teeth tug your zipper down, tongue tracing the rigid outline of your cock through denim while her nails dig into your ass. Fuck… knew you’d come dripping for me. Black lace vanishes under your grip before she sinks to her knees, worshiping every inch of you with slick, open-mouthed strokes.

Soap becomes her weapon—lathering your trembling muscles, cradling your balls in slippery palms as your groan shakes the tiles. She orders you to reciprocate, fingers circling her clit beneath the spray, drawing out whimpers as you slick her folds. Beg, she hisses when your thumb slips inside her. Tell me you’ll break for me again…

Flesh slams against wet tile when you impale her from behind, her scream echoing off glass as she shatters instantly. You spill deep inside her pulsing heat, both trembling… until her nails rake your thigh. Think that’s all I’ll take from you tonight? Her teeth close on your shoulder. Or should I pin you under the water and drain you dry?

Bob Mathews’ corner office becomes a playground of forbidden desire when Carol Parker—sharp-suited, chestnut-haired, and radiating predatory confidence—arrives to demo her “software.” Her musk hangs thick as she bends over his desk, her skirt clinging to ripe curves while she installs programs that certainly aren’t corporate-approved. A stray image flashes: Carol spread in red lace, fingers glistening between her thighs. “That’s me,” she purrs, pressing her damp panties to his nose before dropping them in his trembling hands.

The lock clicks. His belt unbuckles. Her ruby lips tease as she forces him into scarlet silk, his cock straining obscenely against the lace. “Cute,” she mocks, weighing his swollen balls before dragging her tongue along his shaft. Professionalism dissolves into wet, hungry sounds—her throat milking him deep, his groans swallowed by leather chairs and stifled glass walls.

When she rises, eyes gleaming with unfinished business, one question lingers: will this be just the demo… or will Bob surrender to the full, filthy upgrade she’s itching to install?

John’s Valentine’s gift wasn’t roses—it was permission. Call him, my husband urged, sliding me another man’s number with a smirk. Paul’s voice alone had me dripping before we met: silver-streaked, broad-shouldered, and smelling of expensive cologne at the hotel bar. My skirt clung shamelessly as John watched him trace my thigh beneath the table—then vanished, leaving me aching.

“Room 109,” I whispered, already imagining his mouth between my legs. What followed was raw, hungry abandon: Paul’s cock stretching my throat before he pinned me to the bed, devouring my pussy until I screamed. His fingers dug bruises into my hips as I rode him, begging for more—harder—until he flipped me onto all fours, filling my tight ass with relentless thrusts. I came twice, shuddering, before he painted my back with his cum.

John waited in the lobby, nostrils flaring at the scent of my ruined makeup…and stranger’s sweat. Could I taste him on my lips when we kissed? Did he know I saved just enough energy to swallow his load in the car?

Valentine’s Day was always romantic—this year, it was filthy.

Who’s next?