The entire next day was torture. I couldn’t focus on anything. Work emails went unanswered. Food tasted like nothing.

All I could think about was Mr. Blackwell’s thick fingers stretching my pussy, his deep voice commanding me to confess my filthiest thoughts, and the massive bulge in his sweatpants as he left me dripping and desperate on my couch.

I had cum three times that morning just replaying the confrontation, but each orgasm felt hollow. My body knew what it really wanted — what it *needed*.

By late afternoon, I couldn’t take it anymore. I showered carefully, shaving everything smooth, then stood in front of my closet for way too...