Naughty library 4

They didn’t waste time once they saw how often I showed up.

It was maybe my tenth night—maybe twelfth; the days blurred into one long, throbbing ache. I’d just finished in an alcove: bent over a low bench, skirt hiked to my waist, one masked stranger pounding into me from behind while another fed his cock down my throat. I came twice—once from the deep, bruising thrusts stretching me open, once from the way the second man groaned and spilled across my tongue when I swallowed around him. My knees were weak, lips swollen, thighs slick when the lace-wearing woman from my blindfold night approached.

She handed me a small black envelope, sealed with a wax “N.”

“Read it when you’re alone,” she said, voice low and amused. “But we both know you won’t wait.”

I tore it open right there on the platform, still catching my breath.

Angela,

Your presence has become… noticeable. Consistent. Hungry.

The Society would like to formalize the arrangement.

Attend every night for the next thirty days—no exceptions—and we’ll deposit $3,000 into an untraceable account each week.

No quotas. No scripts. Just show up. Be available. Let the platform use you.

Discretion is non-negotiable.

Accept by returning tomorrow wearing only black lace beneath your coat.

We’ll know.

My cunt clenched just reading it. Paid. To come here. To fuck. To be fucked.

I should have felt dirty. Used.

Instead I felt powerful. Chosen.

I folded the note, tucked it between my breasts, and walked out with cum still drying on my inner thighs.

The next night I arrived in nothing but black lace panties, a matching bra that barely covered my nipples, and a long coat I shed the second the hidden door closed. Heads turned. Whispers followed.

The broad-shouldered man from my first night—let’s call him Jax, though no one uses real names—smiled slow and wicked when he saw me.

“New uniform?” he asked, stepping close enough that I could smell his skin—sweat, soap, arousal.

“New job,” I answered, voice steadier than I felt.

He didn’t ask questions. Just took my hand and led me to the center platform, under the brightest chandelier. A crowd was already forming—men mostly, thick-muscled, fresh off shifts, cocks already half-hard in their unzipped pants. Two women joined too, one with pierced nipples, the other with a strap-on harness already buckled.

They didn’t ease me in.

Jax pushed me to my knees first. “Show them what the new girl can do.”

I opened my mouth eagerly. One after another they fed me their cocks—thick, veined, leaking pre-cum. I took them deep, gagging softly when they hit the back of my throat, drool running down my chin. Hands tangled in my hair, guiding, not forcing. Praise spilled from masked mouths: “Fuck, look at her swallow.” “Greedy little slut.” “That’s it—take every inch.”

When my jaw ached, Jax pulled me up, spun me around, and bent me over the brass rail. Someone yanked my panties aside. Fingers—three at once—plunged into my dripping cunt, stretching me, curling against that spot that made my eyes roll back.

Then the real fun started.

Jax slid into me first—slow, deliberate, letting me feel every ridge as he bottomed out. I moaned loud enough to echo off the tiles. Behind me, the woman with the strap-on pressed the silicone tip against my ass—lubed, patient. “Breathe, baby.”

I did. She pushed in inch by inch until I was stuffed full—cock in my pussy, dildo in my ass, rocking in perfect rhythm. The stretch burned so good I sobbed with pleasure. Another man stepped in front, cock slapping my cheek until I opened for him again.

Three became four.

A second woman knelt beneath me, tongue flicking my clit while the men fucked me senseless. Fingers pinched my nipples, twisted them until I screamed around the cock in my mouth. Someone slapped my ass—hard, stinging—then soothed it with a rough palm. The platform spun with sensation: wet mouths, thrusting hips, low growls, my own broken whimpers.

I came so hard my vision whited out—body convulsing, cunt spasming around Jax, ass clenching the strap-on, a fresh flood soaking the woman’s face below me. They didn’t stop. Jax pulled out, came across my back in hot ropes. The man in my mouth followed, flooding my throat until I swallowed every drop. The strap-on woman fucked me through another orgasm, grinding deep until I was a shaking, overstimulated mess.

When they finally eased off, I collapsed onto soft cushions someone had dragged over. Cum dripped from my chin, my thighs, my back. My lace was ruined—stretched, soaked, torn in places.

I lay there panting, legs spread shamelessly, letting them look. Letting them want.

Jax crouched beside me, brushing sweat-damp hair from my face.

“Day one paid,” he murmured. “Think you can handle twenty-nine more?”

I looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, lips swollen, voice hoarse.

“Try to stop me.”

The envelope money hit my account the next morning.

I didn’t even blink.

I just showered, dressed for work like nothing happened, and started counting hours until midnight.

Because the secret stays locked.

And God, it’s so fucking good.

I’m theirs now.

And I’ve never felt more alive.