Hypnomania Pt. 02

Morning light spilled into the suite, brushing golden fingers across Emily's bare skin as she stirred on the carpet. With a slow, honeyed stretch, her back arched, and the faint jingle of the little pink bone hanging from her collar broke the silence. A soft, playful yip escaped before she could stop it, excitement blooming warm and low inside her. The sun kissed her shoulders, her ass, her hips--and as she stretched again, loose and lazy like a waking pup, something shifted deep inside her, drawing out a breathy little gasp and a wiggle of her bare toes.

The smell of coffee hung in the air, drifting through the room and mixing with the low voices of the men and the occasional chuckle. Emily's tongue darted out in a soft pant, breath brushing her lips as she glanced toward the breakfast table, where cups clinked and plates shifted. The familiar sounds wrapped around her, warm and comforting. With a little happy whine in her throat, she began to crawl--each movement smooth, instinctive, her body alive with sensation. The snug pressure tucked deep between her cheeks moved with her, a soft, pulsing reminder that made her hips sway just a little more than necessary, her tail wagging in delicate flicks, each tug coaxing another tingle from the dildo shaped plug in her tight little butt.

When she reached them, she let out a small, eager bark that drew warm laughter. Dr. Meddows glanced down at her with a smile, hand reaching out to ruffle her hair. "That's my good girl," he murmured, fingers sliding through her hair and scratching gently behind her ears. Emily leaned into him with a soft little sigh, warmth flushing across her pink cheeks as her eyes fluttered half-closed, a dreamy sound humming in her throat. His skin carried a faint trace of soap and coffee, and the warmth of his skin and that easy praise made her breath catch, a little shiver tumbling down her spine, curling at the base where the tail twitched in response.

Dr. Patel gave a low chuckle, holding out a strip of bacon between his fingers. Emily's eyes sparkled as she padded toward him, a cheerful ruff bubbling out of her before she could stop it. Her tail wagged in short, eager flicks, the movement nudging the plug just enough to make her body flutter. She leaned in, lips parting to gently take the bacon between her teeth, letting out a soft, pleased moan as she chewed. Her eyes lifted, sweet and round, and her tongue slipped out in a long, slow lick along his fingers--grateful, a little teasing, and utterly happy.

She moved between them, accepting small bites of food--crispy bacon, bits of toast, pieces of fruit--and each treat sent a joyful shudder through her, the plug shifting inside and sending tingles through her core. Warmth bloomed between her legs, slickness gathering with every needy little clench. She leaned into their hands, pressing her cheek to a palm here, angling her chin into a scratch there, soft moans slipping free as fingers stroked her hair or drifted along her neck. Now and then, she'd drop to her elbows, chin resting on her hands, eyes glinting with playful mischief, tongue slipping out as she waited for another treat. Whenever a hand reached down, she met it with a soft, teasing lick along the fingers, breath hitching in quiet little sighs, the smell of breakfast thick and heavy in the room.

When Dr. Patel fastened the leash to her collar, Emily jolted with a sharp little gasp. Her thighs squeezed together as a flutter ran through her belly, tongue spilling from her mouth in a soft pant, eyes wide and glowing with eager energy.

"Good girl," he murmured, tugging lightly on her leash as he held the bacon just above her face. Her eyes went adorably crossed trying to follow it, tongue lolling out in a helpless little pant, making him chuckle. "Such a hungry little thing. Ready to show us how good you really are?"

Emily dropped into a crouch, knees tucked beneath her, tail perked high in anticipation. She gave a little shimmy of her hips, cheeks warming as the movement tugged at the snug pressure inside her. Her breath came fast and soft, a happy little ruff escaping her lips as she looked up at him, waiting.

"Atta girl," Dr. Patel said with a grin, stepping forward. "Up and over--show us that cute little bounce!"

She launched forward with a delighted yip, hands and knees gliding over the carpet, her whole body bursting with eager energy. She leapt the first cushion in one smooth bound, back arched in a graceful curve, a breathy laugh spilling from her lips. Her perky, youthful breasts bounced with the motion, rising and falling in a soft, cheerful jiggle that made her giggle even harder, tongue flicking out in pure, giddy joy.

"Under!" he called, and she ducked low, sliding under the chair with puppyish grace, her ass high for a moment before she slipped through, her stiff nipples brushing the rug just enough to draw a soft, surprised squeak from her lips.

"That's it, pretty girl--slow now. Show them how well you move," Dr. Patel said, his voice warm with praise.

Weaving through the final stretch, her movements were a teasing mix of playfulness and charm--knees skimming the carpet, fingers splayed for balance, hips rolling just enough to make the men's eyes linger. Her grin was pure mischief, her posture full of puppy charm--obedient, playful, a little showy without even meaning to be. Soft, panting breaths and happy yips mixed in the air as she finished with a little leap into a breathless heap at their feet.

Emily looked up, eyes sparkling with joy, tongue curling out in a sweet, silly pant. Crawling closer, she leaned in and gave Dr. Kim's fingers a long, eager lick, a pleased little murmur rising in her throat as she nuzzled into his hand like a needy pup. The men chuckled, amused and utterly charmed, their touches light and lingering--stroking her hair, trailing down her back, caressing the soft curve of her ass. Gentle hands moved to her chest, cupping her tits with idle fondness, thumbs brushing over her stiff nipples in lazy circles that made her gasp and press into the attention with a helpless little moan. Emily melted beneath their hands with blissful sighs, her tail swaying in slow, dreamy arcs behind her, every touch drawing her deeper into the warmth of their affection.

Dr. Patel tossed a small ball into the air, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Fetch, sweetheart! Go on, go on!"

Emily's ears might as well have perked. She gasped--then yipped--and scrambled forward, hands and knees racing across the carpet. Her breasts bounced with every gleeful bound, her tail flicking fast behind her like a metronome of excitement. The sunlight danced across her skin as she snatched the ball in her teeth, a soft, satisfied moan catching in her throat as she turned and scampered back, breath hitching.

As she neared, her tail thumped against the chair with a soft thump, and she gave a surprised squeak, hips jolting as her puckered hole fluttered tight in reflex. The sudden squeeze only made her squirm more, a flush blooming across her cheeks as she let out a shy, breathy whimper.

Dr. Patel laughed as she dropped the ball at his feet.

"Good girl. Clever girl," he murmured, reaching down to ruffle her hair before offering her a treat.

Emily leaned in with shining eyes, lips parting as she gently took it between her teeth. A soft, contented hum slipped from her throat as she pressed into his palm, her lashes fluttering, her body warm and buzzing.

Around the table, the men watched with soft smiles as Dr. Patel guided her through more tricks.

At his signal, she flopped onto her back with an exaggerated little huff, paws curling up over her chest as she cupped her bare tits--nipples stiff and aching, rising with each breath as the morning light kissed her flushed skin. Between her thighs, her pussy glistened, slick and swollen, catching the light in perfect, teasing glimmers.

When told to play dead, she collapsed with dramatic flair, tongue lolling from her mouth, a high-pitched whimper escaping like a pup trying very hard to behave. The room chuckled with delight.

Then came wiggle, and she sprang to her knees with a cheerful bark, hips shaking in an eager shimmy, breasts bouncing with every joyful jiggle. Her tail flicked against a nearby chair with a soft thump, making her squeak and squirm, practically glowing with pride and playful glee.

Laughter and gentle praise filled the room.

As the final trick ended, Dr. Meddows rose, mouth tugged into a fond smile. He crouched beside her, fingers brushing behind her ears.

"Well, well... looks like our little pup's a natural."

Emily whimpered sweetly, her breath catching as she leaned into him, body pliant, tail wagging in slow, sensual waves. Her tongue slipped free in a soft, teasing pant, and she gazed up at him through heavy lashes, those big, puppy eyes wide and shining--utterly devoted, aching for another command, another drop of praise.

As the laughter softened, Dr. Kim tilted his head, a teasing lilt in his voice.

"You know," he mused, "puppies live to please their masters. And what's the one thing they love most?"

A ripple of chuckles passed through the room. Dr. Meddows grinned.

"Bones, naturally."

"Exactly," Dr. Kim said, his eyes glinting. "And not just any bones--good, hard ones."

At that, Emily perked up, head tipping with bright curiosity, her eyes gleaming. A few eager yips escaped her lips, high and playful, her tongue poking out between fast little pants. She went to her knees in front of them, eyes shining, her bare chest rising and falling with quick, needy breaths. Her tongue lolled out in a loose, happy pant, and a tiny shiver rolled through her body as she sat waiting--obedient, hopeful, and already aching to be their good girl.

The men's eyes gleamed with anticipation as they lowered their boxers, thick shafts springing free, already hard and waiting. Dr. Meddows, still wearing that knowing smile, looked down at her and murmured,

"I think our little slut puppy's ready to show us just how much she loves to please."

Emily nodded eagerly, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a soft, needy pant. Her body practically vibrated as she crawled forward, tail swaying in slow, hungry arcs. She was a bitch in heat--mind foggy with need, every nerve tuned to their approval. Her movements were instinctive, almost desperate, driven by that raw ache to serve and be filled. She leaned in close, nuzzling against a thigh, letting out a soft whine before her tongue slipped out--slow, loving strokes up each thick length. Her breath hitched with every taste, her soft, eager moans mixing with the men's low groans of satisfaction.

One by one, she took them into her mouth, lips stretching eagerly around each thick length as her tongue worked in smooth, hungry motions. Her breasts bounced softly with the rhythm of her movements, nipples stiff and brushing the cool air with every slow bob of her head. The men watched, low groans slipping from their lips, faces flushed with heat--amused, aroused, and completely mesmerized by their sweet little pup's devoted, messy worship.

Her tongue moved with steady devotion, licking eagerly from one man to the next, giving each of them her full, undivided attention. A concentrated look settled on her face--brows softly furrowed, lips parted around shallow breaths--while a flicker of need and determination shimmered in her eyes. The room stayed mostly quiet, filled only with the soft, wet sounds of her worship and the occasional grunt of approval.

She worked with practiced care, starting with long, slow licks from base to tip--pressing her tongue flat, dragging it up the underside with just the right amount of pressure. At the crown, she'd swirl softly, circling with delicate flicks before giving the head a warm, open-mouthed kiss. Now and then she paused to suck gently, just her lips wrapped around the tip, tongue teasing the slit with playful flicks that made the men groan low and deep.

Then she'd move on, nuzzling closer to the next cock with a happy, obedient murmur--eager to please, to taste, to make them melt. Her tail wagged harder with every little sigh she pulled from them, her energy never fading. If anything, it only sharpened--her licks faster when they twitched in her mouth, slower when they moaned, always adjusting to give exactly what they needed.

A warm, dreamy calm settled over the room, drawn from the steady rhythm of her motions--wet kisses, soft pants, the swish of her tail behind her. She didn't rush. She didn't hesitate. She simply served, with a glow in her cheeks and a shimmer in her eyes, each lick full of pure, wordless devotion.

The men responded in kind--gentle strokes along her back, fingers threading through her hair, soft murmurs of praise drifting down like warm rain. Emily leaned into every touch, her body loose and fluid, completely immersed in her task. The air around them thickened with heat, rich with the scent of arousal and skin, each breath heavier than the last. Her steady, devoted pace anchored the room in something slow, deep, and almost unbearably intimate.

They stood close around her, shifting in and out of her focus, never far from her mouth or her hands. While she worshiped one, another would rest his cock against the top of her head, or gently rub it along her cheek, smearing precum across her flushed skin. She didn't flinch. If anything, she pressed closer, a soft whimper slipping from her lips as she offered herself to each touch without hesitation--her tongue still working with slow, obedient rhythm on whoever she knelt before.

Her movements grew smoother, more precise, as though she'd slipped fully into a quiet, obedient trance. Her world had narrowed--just mouths, hands, hard cocks, and the praise she earned with every lick. She moved by instinct now, her tongue responding to every twitch, every sigh. The men's voices grew rougher, more breathless, their bodies shifting under her touch--hips jerking, thighs tensing, faces flushed with mounting pleasure.

Eventually, Dr. Rodriguez gave her leash a gentle tug. Her lips slipped from his cock with a soft pop, a string of glistening saliva stretching between them.

"Open up, little slut puppy," he said--his voice firm but full of warmth.

Emily obeyed without hesitation, lifting her chin and parting her lips wide with a happy little whimper. The first thick burst of cum hit her tongue--hot, heavy, unmistakably his--and she moaned as the taste spread across her palate, salty and deep, claiming her completely. Her whole body trembled as a soft orgasm rippled through her, hips giving a helpless twitch, breath catching. She swallowed eagerly, tongue pressing forward, greedy to catch every last drop. A shiver of pride and pleasure hummed through her chest.

The next man stepped in, cock already thick and pulsing, his release beginning to spill even before she could wrap her lips around him. Emily moaned, her tongue darting out in fast, frantic licks, trying to catch it all. Her breath came in short, shaky gasps, and her eyes fluttered as her face was painted with streaks of white. The mess ran down her cheeks, over her chin, dripping across her tits and splashing to the floor--but she didn't stop. She didn't care. She was glowing.

Her tail wagged wildly behind her, body practically vibrating with joy. She sat in the mess with her tongue hanging, chest rising and falling in fast little pants, skin glistening with sweat, cum, and the pure thrill of being used and adored.

Dr. Kim stepped in next, stroking himself slowly as he moved forward. His load spilled across her face in thick, hot ropes, catching in her lashes, dribbling down her jaw and neck. Emily whimpered with bliss, face tilted up, lips parted in shameless offering. Her eyes fluttered half-shut as she licked her lips between soft, puppyish pants, catching what she could, glowing in the warmth of their pleasure.

Unable to resist, she dropped back onto all fours, tongue darting out in quick, eager swipes as she began lapping the cum from the floor. Her breasts swayed with each movement, nipples stiff and glistening, brushing against the rug with every shift of her shoulders. Her tail wagged behind her in frantic little bursts, matching the wild spark in her eyes. The mess only seemed to excite her more--her energy bright, raw, and radiant, like a puppy overwhelmed with joy.

The men watched her with a mix of amused indulgence and quiet awe. Their laughter was soft and low, warm with affection, blending with Emily's cheerful yips as she cleaned with unfiltered, messy glee. She moved fast, proud, her tongue flicking out again and again as she chased every drop--her body glowing, her face flushed, her whole world distilled down to this sweet, sticky joy.

The room swelled with quiet satisfaction as she continued, still panting softly, still glowing. Tongue out, chest heaving, she scoured the floor with blissful determination--gathering every drop she could find like it was the greatest reward she could be given.

Dr. Meddows watched her crawl and lick with glowing admiration--her tail swaying, her tongue darting out over the slick floor, her body flushed and covered in streaks. With a low grunt, he stepped behind her and gripped the base of her plug.

"Good girl," he murmured, giving it a slow, deliberate pull.

Emily whimpered, back arching instinctively, her ass rising into the air. The plug slipped free with a wet, audible pop, leaving her hole gaping, stretched, and twitching. She let out a breathy moan, her knees widening, her chest low against the messy floor.

Without hesitation, he lined himself up and pressed in--thick, hard, and stretching her all over again.

She gasped, her whole body jolting forward as his cock sank into her used little hole. Her fingers clawed the carpet, breath stuttering as he bottomed out inside her, her rim clenching greedily around the thick intrusion. A soft yip slipped from her lips, her eyes fluttering, tongue flicking out as her tail stub twitched helplessly behind her.

He began to move.

Each thrust sent her rocking, her face dragging lightly across the cum-slick floor, breasts swaying beneath her, nipples smeared and stiff. His hips smacked against her bare ass in a steady, brutal rhythm, her tight little hole gripping every inch with pulsing resistance. Her soft, breathy whines filled the air--high, helpless, sweet--as her tongue hung out in a panting moan, her head bobbing with each stroke.

Her body moved with instinct: back arched deep, ass tilted to take more, tail flicking in rhythm to his thrusts. She moaned as her knees slipped slightly, leaving streaks in the mess, her movements messy, perfect, utterly obedient. Her pleasure wasn't sharp--it was full, blooming hot in her belly, made of rhythm, submission, and the heat of being used.

"That's it," Dr. Meddows growled behind her, voice thick with pleasure. "Such a sweet little bitch."

Emily's answer came in the wag of her hips, the push of her ass, the squeaky whimpers that escaped her lips. Her hole clenched tighter as his pace grew rougher, hips slamming hard enough to echo, filling the room with slick, wet sound and soft, breathless cries.

Then with a final thrust, he groaned and buried himself deep.

She let out a long, high-pitched moan as warmth spread inside her, the thick rush of cum filling her gaping ass. Her mouth fell open, face flushed, arms shaking beneath her. She whimpered through a quiet orgasm of her own, her body trembling as her hole twitched around him, greedily holding every drop.

When he pulled out, she stayed frozen for a moment--still panting, still glowing--her hole twitching, stretched wide and glistening. The ring of muscle slowly pulsed, flexing in soft, helpless spasms. Her rim, swollen and trembling, gaped open in the absence of him, still shaped by his cock.

Then, with a lazy little twitch of her hips, a thick white blob slipped free--dripping from her used hole and sliding down between her cheeks, tracing a slow, sticky path over her wet, swollen pussy. The contrast of slick heat against her flushed folds made her whimper softly, hips giving a needy little wiggle as she felt it smear across her.

Emily let out a shaky breath, a soft moan buzzing in her throat. Her hand reached back, fingers gliding through the mess, scooping it from between her thighs. She brought it to her lips without hesitation, licking each digit clean with slow, greedy strokes. Her eyes fluttered, lashes heavy, as her tongue circled again and again, savoring the taste with an expression of glowing, messy satisfaction.

Cum glistened on her chest, her thighs, her face--painted in streaks of pleasure and praise. She was radiant.

As she finished her playful routine, a wave of laughter and applause rippled through the room. The men's voices lifted in warm praise, calling out to her with genuine affection.

"There's our good girl," Dr. Meddows murmured, crouching to rest his hand gently at her nape.

Emily's chest swelled, heart fluttering beneath her ribs as the plug-tail was carefully reinserted, the familiar pressure grounding her. She let out a happy, helpless moan as her hips gave a soft twitch. Her tail began to sway again, slow and sweet.

She gazed up at them, eyes bright, tongue peeking out in a soft, giddy pant. A little yip slipped free--playful and sweet--as she wriggled closer, brushing her shoulder against a knee, nuzzling into the nearest hand with pure, glowing contentment.

Then Dr. Meddows's voice came--low, calm, and sure.

"Sleep."

It was like a switch flipped inside her.

Emily's body melted, muscles releasing all at once as she curled down onto the plush carpet. A soft, dreamy sigh slipped from her lips, her head nestling against her folded arms. The faintest smile still lingered at the corner of her mouth. Her lashes fluttered once... twice... and then stilled, her breath settling into a slow, peaceful rhythm. Her tail gave one final, drowsy twitch before falling still behind her.

Silence settled gently over the room. The men exchanged quiet, satisfied glances as they sipped their coffee, their expressions relaxed and fond.

Emily's eyes fluttered open.

The soft elevator lights hummed overhead, casting slow-moving reflections along the metallic walls. They shimmered like water, shifting with every slight movement. She blinked, once--twice. Her head felt thick, heavy, like she'd just woken from a dream that hadn't quite ended. The world tilted a little around the edges. Everything was quiet, too quiet, and her thoughts lagged behind, slow and uneven.

The last thing she remembered--really remembered--was the hypnosis convention. Voices murmuring around her. A hypnotist's low, calming tone. The faintest trace of lavender on the air. That moment felt close and far all at once, already slipping out of reach.

She looked down--and everything inside her went still.

A skirt. Short. Clingy. Barely brushing the tops of sheer, black lace stockings. No garter, no support--just the stockings gripping high on her thighs in a way that made her breath hitch. A top she didn't recognize, tight and low-cut, hugging her chest like a glove. The fabric clung too closely, too intentionally. None of it was hers.

Heat flushed up her neck. Her stomach turned.

No panties.

Oh God. Oh no.

The words tumbled through her mind like loose marbles, clattering hard against the inside of her skull.

How did this happen?

The men beside her--polished, composed, wrapped in sharp suits--stood close. Too close. Their eyes moved over her in quick, assessing glances. Professional. Controlled. But when one lingered--just a second too long--it left a mark, like the brush of fingertips against her shoulder, the small of her back. Invisible, but unmistakable.

Emily crossed her arms over her chest--a reflex more than anything--but it felt like trying to stop a flood with a paper towel. Her skin burned under the synthetic stretch of unfamiliar fabric.

If anyone sees me like this... Her stomach knotted. If someone takes a picture--

The thought shattered before it could finish.

She reached for a memory--any memory--but her mind felt slick and frayed. Every time she caught something, it slipped loose. Nothing held.

She turned slightly, voice small and unsure. "Where... where are we going? Back to the hypnosis convention?"

One of the men gave her a slow, almost indulgent smile. "The hypnosis convention ended yesterday, Emily. We're headed to the other convention."

The words hit like cold water. Her brows pulled tight, confusion creasing her forehead. "No... that can't be right. It just started today. I thought it still had three days left."

The men exchanged a glance--half amusement, half secret.

None of them corrected her.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

A burst of sound and daylight spilled in--sunlight bouncing off polished floors, laughter and voices weaving through the air. Her heels struck the ground with a brittle tap, each step sharp and out of place.

Banners hung overhead, bold and towering. Crowds drifted past in waves, the air crackling with a strange, unfamiliar energy.

And there--just a few steps away--workers on ladders, unpinning the final banner from the hypnosis convention. Emily caught a glimpse of the swirling logo before the fabric folded in on itself, vanishing like a dream dissolving in daylight.

Why am I dressed like this?

They crossed the lobby. She kept pace, though every part of her screamed to stop.

Yesterday? she thought. They said the convention ended yesterday.

That couldn't be right. She remembered being there--soft chairs, dim lights, the faint scent of lavender. A voice speaking gently in her ear. It was supposed to run for three days. She'd only attended the first. That had to be yesterday.

Maybe even this morning? Why was she still here?

The timeline slipped through her fingers like water. She tried to grab hold, to steady it--but every time she reached back, her memory broke apart like mist.

A flicker of motion caught in the corner of her eye--glass, light, color--and pulled her like gravity.

A mirror.

Her feet faltered.

There she was: the too-short skirt, the deep neckline, the faint glint of lace at the top of her stockings as she moved. But it was her face that hollowed her chest--smoky shadow smudged around her eyes, lips painted a red far too loud, lashes thick and dramatic.

She stared.

Unmoving. Unblinking. Not breathing.

That's not me.

Her fingers lifted, trembling slightly, brushing the curve of her cheek. The skin was hers. The body was hers. But it all felt like a costume--worn by someone else, for someone else.

The men moved beside her, calm and unhurried, their presence somehow both comforting and vaguely threatening. Around them, the lobby pulsed with quiet energy--footsteps echoing on polished floors, voices blending together in soft layers, the sharp scent of cologne and varnished wood hanging in the air.

Emily crossed her arms again, but it didn't help. Eyes still slid across her--curious, fleeting, appraising--catching on the shine of her skin, the sway in her hips, the bold slash of her lipstick. She could feel herself blushing, the heat rising to her ears. Everything about her outfit felt louder in this light.

She tried to breathe normally. To slow things down.

How did I agree to this?

Did I ever agree?

They were almost at the far end of the lobby when a man stepped forward--smiling like he'd been rehearsing it in a mirror, his suit so sharp it nearly sparkled.

"Dr. Meddows," he said, offering his hand with an easy, practiced confidence. "A pleasure. Already counting the days until next year."

Emily's gaze flicked to his mouth. Her chest tightened. Do I know him?

She searched for something--his name, a conversation, even a feeling--but nothing came. Just blank space.

"And Emily," he added, turning to her with that same polished warmth, "you were an absolute delight."

Before she could think, his fingers were around hers. The handshake was firm, a little too long. His eyes moved over her--slow, deliberate--tracing from her face down her body like he had every right. She felt it, every inch of it, as if he were touching her outright.

Her chest went tight. Then she realized--her fingers were playing with the hem of her skirt, lifting it without thinking. Her breath caught. She jerked her hand back, heat blooming across her cheeks.

What am I doing? Why am I--

"Thank you," she mumbled, barely above a whisper, glancing toward Dr. Meddows.

Say something. Help me.

But his face was calm. Still. Whatever he was thinking, he didn't show it.

They passed the lounge next--low lighting, velvet chairs, the soft clink of glasses. Emily glanced over without thinking--and froze.

Men lounged on couches, half-sprawled, drinks loose in their hands. Their heads turned in unison. Their eyes locked on her.

She felt it instantly--how their gazes traced the lace at her thighs, the soft curve of her calves, the line of her spine. Her breath stuttered.

It felt like touch. Not imagined--real. Like pressure on her skin. Like being claimed by sight alone. Shame shot up her back, tight and electric, locking her shoulders, making her want to shrink in on herself. But her legs kept moving. Slower now. Like something invisible had caught her by the ankles and tugged.

Why aren't they helping me?

Do they even notice?

And beneath the humiliation, something deeper stirred--low, warm, dangerous. A kind of heat bloomed in her belly, slow and impossible to ignore. Her breath caught. Her skin prickled.

What's happening to me? Why can't I stop this?

She risked a glance over her shoulder.

The men were still watching. Still hungry. Still completely unashamed. A shiver crawled up her back. Her stomach twisted--not with fear, not exactly. With something she didn't recognize.

This is wrong, she thought, cheeks burning. So why does it feel... like this?

"Emily, stop flirting and catch up."

Dr. Meddows' voice cut through the moment like a whip. She flinched, stumbling forward, her heels cracking loudly against the marble.

Flirting?

Was I?

As they walked on, Emily glanced back again--the lounge, the lazy grins, the unmistakable glint of a camera on a nearby table, aimed straight at where she'd been. A wave of cold dread washed over her, crashing against the strange, lingering heat still curled low in her stomach.

What if they saw? What if someone was recording?

Near the front desk, the concierge boy caught her eye. His stare didn't flinch, just landed on her--sharp, curious, a little stunned. Her breath caught.

That's when she noticed her hand.

It had drifted up to her chest, hovering just beneath her collarbone, fingers brushing softly over her breast.

No--not just resting there. Moving. Tiny, slow circles, right over the peak. The touch light and rhythmic, almost tender.

She hadn't even realized. Hadn't meant to.

Her nipple was hard--clearly outlined through the thin stretch of her too-tight top. No bra. No hiding it. Just there, obvious, visible to anyone paying attention. Maybe even the camera.

Her hand jerked down like it had burned her.

Oh my God. What was I doing?

Her face flared hot. She could feel the blood rushing up her neck, behind her ears, flooding her cheeks. Panic bloomed right behind it, sticky and sharp.

Had she really been doing that in public? Just... touching herself like that? Not even noticing?

What is wrong with me?

She risked a glance at the boy. His gaze had darted away--but the damage was already done. She could still feel it on her skin. The echo of it. Her whole chest buzzed, skin prickling, awareness drawn like a magnet to the spot her hand had been.

Why can't I stop? Why does it feel like I'm not the one steering anymore?

She thought, for a second, about turning back. Grabbing Dr. Meddows' arm, demanding to know what was happening, begging for something--clarity, permission, release.

But the thought faded as quickly as it came. Like her grip on it was too weak. Like something inside her just let it go.

And so she kept walking.

Outside, daylight washed over the street--sunlight spilling onto pavement, cars honking, voices tangling in the air. Emily drifted after them, her feet moving as if on strings, the noise and motion swelling around her.

Where are we going? she wondered faintly, heart hammering.

And why does it feel like I wouldn't stop even if I could?

As they neared the convention center, a sharp gust of wind funneled down the street, cutting through the warmth clinging to Emily's skin. It caught her skirt with sudden force, snapping it upward. She gasped and lunged to catch the hem, fingers locking down in a frantic grip. But the wind pressed on, playful and unrelenting, lifting the fabric just high enough to reveal even more of the lace tops of her black stockings, stark against the daylight.

Oh God, not again, she thought desperately, cheeks burning as if lit from within. Why does this keep happening?

The world around her slowed. She felt the shift--the sudden hush of voices, the pause in footsteps, the subtle hitch of breath from men nearby. She didn't need to look to know their eyes were on her. She felt their gazes sweep over her legs, crawl up the bare strip of thigh where the lace clung to skin, hover just a moment too long at the place where her skirt refused to behave.

A raw pulse moved through her, as if their attention pressed physically against her skin, leaving heat in its wake. She could hear low murmurs ripple through the street, laughter folded into conversation--but she could also feel the weight of being watched, like hands brushing too close without ever touching.

Why can't I just disappear?

The thought rose sharp and breathless, tangled in a knot of shame--and something else, something she couldn't quite name. It stirred low in her belly, warm and unwelcome, leaving her breath shaky and her insides strangely damp. No, she told herself, stop it, but the feeling clung, quiet and persistent, no matter how hard she tried to will it away.

Her stiletto heels wobbled as she hurried to match Dr. Meddow's long strides. Her ankle turned--just enough to spark pain--when a hand closed around her elbow, firm and steady. She flinched at the touch, but the jolt it sent through her was undeniable, like lightning curling beneath her skin. For a breathless second, she leaned into it--then caught herself, forcing a shaky smile as Dr. Meddow strode on ahead without looking back.

Why does this feel so familiar? The question whirled in her mind, tugging at the frayed edges of memory she couldn't quite grasp. And why can't I stop feeling like this?

The convention center loomed into view, all steel and glass, throwing sunlight in shards across the street. Massive banners stretched across the entrance in bold reds and silvers, the word Extasia splashed in letters so large they seemed to shimmer, to breathe.

Emily's steps faltered. Her heel slid, catching awkwardly on the pavement.

Her breath hitched. Her chest tightened.

No. Her thoughts curled inward, brittle. No, this can't be right.

She stopped--just for a moment--heels scraping against the pavement, swallowed by the swell of sound around her. Laughter. Fragments of conversation. The rustle of plastic, the scuff of shoes. Beyond the banners, a tide of people surged in and out of the entrance--laughing, shouting, wrapped in a blur of leather, lace, and bare skin.

Emily's mind reeled. Her heart pounded--not with excitement, but with rising panic. This isn't me. I can't go in there.

She clutched the hem

of her skirt again, knuckles whitening, as if the thin fabric could anchor her to some version of herself that still made sense. A gust of wind tugged at her hair, whipped the skirt again--but this time, she barely flinched. How did I get here? Why didn't I say something sooner?

Her eyes snapped to Dr. Meddow, scanning his face for something--any flicker of explanation, some signal that this was all a mistake. But his expression remained calm, almost amused, as though nothing about this moment was out of place.

"Dr. Meddow," she blurted, her voice trembling, "I... I can't go in there. This isn't me. I don't belong in a place like that."

The words tumbled out in a breathless rush, frayed at the edges. And just like that, she was small again--her mother's voice echoing from somewhere deep inside: Good girls don't go to places like that.

Dr. Meddow turned to her fully, his smile soft but immovable. "Emily," he said gently, "you're overthinking this. It's just a convention. Nothing to be afraid of."

Just a convention? The words scraped raw inside her, her stomach twisting. How could he not see it--how wrong this felt, how tightly the panic curled in her chest like a fist?

The crowd shifted around her, laughter brushing past like invisible fingers. A man walking by let his gaze linger--first at her face, then drifting down, slow and deliberate. Another, standing in a nearby group, glanced her way. His lips parted in a faint, knowing smile before he turned back to his friends.

Emily's skin prickled. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, but the gesture felt useless, flimsy. It couldn't stop the sharp, grazing attention, the feeling of being seen--too much, too clearly. Her cheeks burned. Her breath came faster. Her heart stuttered. And beneath the panic, faint but unmistakable, something stirred--something electric.

Why does this feel... exciting? The question sliced through her, sharp and shimmering, hot and cold all at once. She wanted to recoil, to vanish, to melt into the sidewalk and be gone. But her body betrayed her: heat blooming low and quiet under her skin, a flutter in her belly, a pulse quickening in places she didn't want to think about.

If anyone recognizes me... The thought landed like a stone. If someone took a photo, if her name were linked to this--Extasia--everything could crumble. Her reputation. Her future. The careful image she'd worked so hard to maintain.

And still--there it was again. That sensation. Slipping up her spine like a whisper. Tightening in her throat. Her mind screamed no, no, no--but her body... her body answered with a traitorous, aching yes.

She watched the crowd, feeling invisible and exposed all at once. Eyes brushed over her like sparks, and she felt herself splintering--caught between shame and something else, something nameless and dangerous, something she feared almost as much as she craved.

The line outside the convention center edged forward. For a brief, breath-sized moment, Emily felt a flicker of relief as Dr. Meddow stepped in close behind her. His nearness formed a shield--a quiet barrier between her and the tide of sound, motion, and glances that surged around her. Almost without realizing, she leaned back--just slightly--enough to feel the firm, steady press of his chest against her shoulders.

For a few heartbeats, she allowed herself to breathe.

Then his hands shifted--settling lightly at her hips, then beginning to move.

It was subtle. Barely perceptible. Fingers tracing slow, thoughtful lines along her waist, drifting downward toward the delicate skin just above her stockings. Her breath caught. Her pulse stumbled. A shiver unfurled up her spine.

What is he doing? The thought flared, hot and immediate, tinged with alarm. But even as her mind recoiled, something deeper inside her stilled--something quiet, shadowed, breathless. It listened. It waited. It breathed a little faster.

Why does it feel so... right?

The thought horrified her. It bloomed, hot and uninvited, in her chest like a secret she didn't dare examine. And yet--her body, unforgivably, unshakably--did not pull away.

His touch was gentle, almost tender, coaxing the tightness from her shoulders, unwinding the tension she hadn't realized she'd been holding all afternoon. It loosened under his fingers like silk slipping through a hand. Her knees softened. Her weight shifted back again--just slightly, unconsciously--into him. And still his hands moved: unhurried, light, mapping her like he already knew her shape, like he'd been here before.

One hand slid lower, drifting from her waist to the swell of her hip, his thumb brushing along the sliver of bare skin just above her stocking. The contact was featherlight, but it lit a spark--sharp and low and impossibly deep. He circled that spot once, twice, slow enough to make her breath hitch, then traced the lace edge downward, slipping just beneath it.

Her thighs tensed, but she didn't move. Couldn't.

His thumb stroked softly along the inside of her leg, the pressure delicate but deliberate, just enough to tease. Her skirt lifted with the motion--barely, subtly--drawn higher by his hand until cool air kissed skin that hadn't meant to be seen. He stopped just shy of the place that throbbed now with unbearable awareness, the place she could no longer ignore. Not with the heat blooming there. Not with the wetness she felt, slick and shameful and terrifyingly real.

He didn't go further. He didn't need to.

Her whole body leaned into the silence between touch and contact, into the unbearable not-quite of it.

And still--she felt the eyes.

Men, standing just close enough to notice. Just distant enough to feign indifference. Their gazes skimmed her like fingers--trailing the bare line of thigh, the flutter of her chest, the twitch of her hands clinging to the hem of her skirt.

She stiffened beneath their weight, breath catching, fingers twitching at her sides.

And yet--beneath the sharp, humiliating edge of shame, something else stirred. Something slow. Something reckless. Something hungry.

She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. And in the dark behind her lids, she felt it fully: the war beneath her skin. Panic and want. Resistance and need. The dizzy, electric pull of surrender.

Why does this feel so good?

The thought drifted through her mind like smoke--twisting between guilt and wonder, tightening until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

And beneath it all, softer. More desperate. Almost pleading:

Why can't I stop?

As Emily reached the front of the line, a figure stepped forward--a towering security guard with arms thick as tree trunks crossed over his chest, a heavy beard framing a scowl that looked carved from stone. His eyes swept over her, slow and unapologetic, dark with something between appraisal and contempt. The weight of his stare pressed against her skin like heat, and a shiver slid down her spine--not from cold, but from the sheer, raw intensity of being seen like that.

Her throat tightened.

Then he stepped in.

The first pass of his hands was brisk, impersonal--arms, shoulders, sides. Routine. Mechanical. But then, something shifted. His palms drifted lower, the motion slower, more deliberate. They skimmed over the curve of her hips, fingers pausing just a fraction too long at the hem of her skirt, brushing the lace edge of her stockings.

Her breath caught--sharp and audible.

What is he doing?

Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, her heart thudding against her ribs as his hands slid down the backs of her thighs. His fingers grazed the soft curve of her ass--light, almost casual, but far too intimate to be accidental. The air around her felt thinner, charged. Her skin prickled with heat, awareness flaring in places she couldn't control.

Why doesn't this feel... wrong?

The thought slithered in, terrifying and unwelcome. She should have flinched. Should have stepped away. Should have said something. But her body didn't move. Couldn't. Her muscles held her there--tense, trembling, complicit in their silence.

She felt herself tilt, just slightly, her back brushing against the solid heat of Dr. Meddow behind her. Her fingers reached for him without thinking, clutching at the fabric of his suit--needing something to anchor her, something real in a moment that felt anything but.

The guard's touch dragged lower, his fingers brushing the inside of her thighs--just grazing, just enough to leave her breathless with shock. Shame coiled hot in her belly, crawled up her neck, burned across her cheeks.

Why am I not stopping him?

Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Her pulse thundered in her ears--and worse, far worse--something stirred low in her stomach. A flicker. A pulse. Foreign and terrifying and real. Her lips parted on a trembling breath, and--God help her--they curved into the faintest trace of a smile.

Why am I even smiling?

The question struck like ice, cutting through the fever building under her skin. Horror clawed at her chest, desperate to break through--but her body remained frozen, caught in a strange, breathless tension between resistance and surrender. Her fists clutched tighter into Dr. Meddow's jacket, nails digging through the fabric, trying to anchor herself to something steady. Something safe. Something that wouldn't shift beneath her like her own traitorous body.

And all around her, the line kept moving.

But the men didn't.

Not really.

They passed slowly, heads turning. Eyes dragging over her body, lingering. Watching. No one said a word--but she felt them looking. Felt the weight of their stares--not questioning, not shocked, but quietly feeding on the scene. Some smirked. Some simply stared, dark-eyed and silent, their gazes crawling over her legs, her flushed face, the guard's hands still exploring.

Their silence was worse than words. It made her feel bare, pinned open, like her shame belonged to all of them now.

The guard's hands moved higher--bolder. His palms cupped her breasts with calm entitlement, as if this, too, were expected. Routine. His fingers pressed into soft flesh, grazing her nipples through the thin stretch of fabric with a casual roughness that stole the air from her lungs.

Heat surged through her, molten and inescapable, climbing from her chest to her throat to the tips of her ears. Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, trembling on the edge of sound.

Do something, her mind screamed. Push him away. Say no. Move.

But her hands remained locked, white-knuckled in Dr. Meddow's jacket. Nails dug deeper. Her legs felt like stone. Her skin thrummed--alive with humiliation, with fear--and something else. Something worse. A spark that shouldn't be there, flickering low in her belly, sending tremors through her thighs and a tight, aching pressure into her chest.

Behind her, she felt Dr. Meddow shift--his tall frame edging closer, his presence wrapping around her like a shadow. She could feel his gaze--not alarmed, not protective, but still. Watchful. Knowing. When he leaned in, his mouth brushing close to her ear, the soft warmth of his breath sent a ripple of awareness racing down her spine.

"You're such a good little slut," he murmured, the words curling against her skin--silken, sharp, impossible to unhear. "You have permission to let go."

A jolt ripped through her--disbelief, confusion, and something else, something darker and impossibly warm that bloomed low and fast, too close to arousal. Her pulse jumped, thudding hard in her throat. Her body became a battleground--revulsion clashing with want, shame tangled with the dizzying pull of his voice.

Then his tongue flicked lightly at the curve of her ear--a fleeting touch, wet and hot and shockingly intimate.

Emily flinched, breath catching in her throat. A soft gasp slipped out before she could stop it, her fingers spasming tighter in the folds of his jacket. Her heart pounded so fiercely it felt like it might tear her apart from the inside.

How can he call me that? her mind screamed. How can I feel this way?

The questions spun wild inside her, each one crashing into the next, dragging her deeper into the blur. She couldn't find the edges of herself anymore. Couldn't tell where her fear ended and the heat began. Her body felt foreign--trembling, flushed, treacherous--unraveling beneath hands she couldn't stop, breath she couldn't slow, words she couldn't unhear.

The guard's hands slid lower, his fingers probing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs with an unapologetic intimacy. Emily's eyes flared with a mix of shock and embarrassment, but she was stuck, unable to pull away from his unwelcome touch. Her breath hitched sharply as his fingers slid under her skirt, brushing over the damp heat between her legs. A gasp tore from her throat, her body shaking slightly as he worked his fingers with slow, deliberate strokes into her clenching pussy. The combination of being exposed and the guard's invasive touch sent a wave of pleasure crashing through her, and before she could stop herself, she felt a small orgasm ripple through her body.

No. No, no, no.

The word hammered through Emily's head, sharp and panicked, as if saying it over and over inside could somehow change what was happening. Heat rushed up her neck, her face flushing deep red, her cheeks burning with raw humiliation.

How could I let this happen?

The phantom imprint of the guard's fingers lingered cruelly on her skin--a ghost of touch that made her stomach clench, made her feel foreign in her own body. Betrayed by it. Owned by a moment she hadn't chosen, yet couldn't deny.

Around her, the atmosphere shifted.

She felt it before she saw it--the thickening of silence, the quiet hunger hanging in the air. The eyes.

Men nearby--strangers, waiting their turn--had turned toward her. Their gazes fixed, ravenous. No shame. No question. Just hunger, stretched taut across their faces. Emily felt each stare like a touch, dragging across her skin, tracing the lines of her body, curling around her thighs, her breasts, the curve of her waist. Stripping her. Holding her there.

Why are they looking at me like that?

The question twisted in her gut, knotted tight with shame--but beneath it pulsed something darker. A flicker she couldn't name. Couldn't kill.

It throbbed low in her belly, warm and treacherous, spreading through her chest like smoke. Her toes curled inside her shoes. Her thighs clenched, almost involuntarily, as heat bloomed and coiled deep inside her.

She wanted to disappear. To shrink back into herself, to hide in a body that hadn't betrayed her so completely. But she stood there instead--trembling, breath shallow, locked in a brutal loop of humiliation and heat, each fueling the other until she felt faint from the weight of it.

When the guard finally--finally--let her go, it was like a trap springing open. His hands dropped away with practiced indifference, but the damage remained.

Emily sucked in a ragged breath, realizing too late she'd been holding it, as if trying to freeze time.

His eyes stayed on her. Slow. Heavy. Filled with a mixture of cold contempt and dark satisfaction that made her stomach turn and her skin crawl. Like he'd seen something in her she hadn't meant to show. Something she hadn't even meant to feel.

A shiver ran through her as she wrapped her arms tightly across her chest, but the feel of his hands still clung to her, like something she couldn't wipe off. She felt stripped down, raw, like her dignity had been peeled away to the nerve. And underneath all the burning shame, her body still throbbed--a pulse she couldn't quiet, an ache she couldn't explain.

Her thoughts reeled as she stumbled forward, led by Dr. Meddow into the crush of the crowd, each step a fragile attempt to hold herself together while her mind and body spun out of sync.

As Emily and Dr. Meddow stepped into the maze-like corridors of the convention, it was as if the air itself changed--growing thick, heavy, saturated with something she couldn't name. Leather. Latex. Perfume and sweat. But under it all, unmistakable: sex. The scent of it clung to her skin, slipped into her lungs, pulsed low beneath the swell of laughter and voices bouncing off the vaulted ceilings. Somewhere nearby, a sound broke through--soft and wet and rhythmic. A moan. It could've been from a screen. Or not. She couldn't tell.

Emily froze.

Her chest tightened as the space opened before her--vast, glittering, alive. Lights in deep reds and sultry purples flickered above rows of twisting aisles, each lined with booths and tables, shelves stacked high like some strange marketplace. But nothing here resembled the farmers' markets or church fundraisers she'd grown up with. This was something else entirely.

Her breath caught.

Ropes hung in careful coils beside handcuffs that gleamed like polished silver. Paddles and crops in smooth leather fanned out like feathers. There were mannequins in masks and harnesses, their plastic bodies strapped in ways that made Emily's stomach flutter and her gaze dart away--only to land on something even worse.

A table, glittering beneath glass, stretched long and proud with row after row of dildos and vibrators. She recognized the shapes--some, at least. Long, curved silicone in pale pink and purple. Chrome ones that looked cold and clinical. Fat, veined ones in dark rubber that made her blink twice. A few were absurdly big--monstrous, even--and others so small they looked like jewelry, lined up on velvet as if someone might wear them.

She felt the heat climb into her cheeks, up her throat, blooming hot behind her ears.

Oh my God...

The phrase flickered through her like a prayer and a warning at once.

Her hands hovered uselessly at her sides, twitching like they wanted to cover something--her face, her chest, her eyes--but it was too late. Everything had already touched her. The images, the sounds, the air. She could feel it sinking into her skin, humming under it, curling around her thighs.

What am I doing here?

The question came again, louder now. Not from panic--but from something deeper. Something scared. Something tempted.

Because the worst part--the part that made her want to cry and run and hide--was that not all of this repulsed her. Some part of her couldn't stop looking. Couldn't stop wondering.

She stumbled forward, eyes darting helplessly from display to display, a pulse of fascination locking arms with fierce, mortifying curiosity. Her skin prickled. Her mouth went dry. And yet--she couldn't look away.

Dr. Meddow walked calmly at her side, his presence a steady rhythm in the chaos, but even his poise only made her feel more adrift. With every step, the rabbit hole of the convention wrapped tighter around her, folding her into a blur of murmured voices, the snap of leather, the warm thrum of laughter that seemed to sink straight into her bones.

Emily's fingers curled into fists, nails biting deep into her palms. Look away, she told herself. Just walk. But her gaze kept slipping back--drawn to the flash of steel, the shimmer of silk, the wet, liquid gleam of latex catching the overhead lights. Her thoughts scattered like beads dropped in the dark, a restless hum taking up space in her chest.

The shelves were packed with gear that felt too alive. Mannequins molded into latex bodysuits so tight they seemed airbrushed on. Corsets in rich black leather, cinched to impossibly small waists, gleamed when the light hit--like they weren't just garments, but invitations. Stilettos lined up with cruel elegance, heels so narrow and sharp they looked built not for walking, but for wounding.

Emily's eyes flicked over it all, wide and unblinking, her pulse hammering at the base of her throat.

A statuesque woman leaned against a nearby counter, hips cocked, hair gleaming under colored light. A silver hoop pierced one nostril, glinting when she tilted her head. Her gaze met Emily's and held it--slow, unapologetic. That smile followed: curved, knowing, the kind that said I see you, before Emily even knew what was being seen.

Emily shivered. Her fingers twitched, hovering near the hem of her skirt, tugging it lower on instinct.

Just steps away, the crack of leather on skin made her flinch. She turned--too fast--and saw him: a man demonstrating his wares on a half-naked woman, her arms loosely bound, her back arched in practiced anticipation. His thick arms swung floggers and paddles with the ease of muscle memory, each strike landing with sharp precision. The sound echoed--a gasp, a yelp, the faintest moan. It buzzed across the air and found the back of Emily's neck, tingling like static. She felt her shoulders tense... and lower. Something fluttered low in her belly--hot, sharp, dangerous. Excitement? Dread? Both?

What is this place?

They kept moving--Dr. Meddow patient beside her, as if guiding her through a museum and not... this. The aisles stretched on endlessly. Racks of explicit DVDs with garish titles. Quiet corners where couples huddled around live demonstrations, hushed and absorbed, the air thick with concentration and want.

And the people.

Older men with greedy eyes clustered around tiny, tattooed women in collars and thigh-highs. Beautiful couples strolled hand in hand, dressed in lace, in leather, in nothing at all. Some smiled. Some smirked. But they all carried the same thing in their faces--ease. Belonging. That hum of hunger that didn't need to hide.

Emily's heart thudded as she walked, her body thrumming, her mind a frantic blur of sound and color and sensation. She wasn't even sure where Dr. Meddow was now. The floor felt unsteady beneath her heels.

As Emily and Dr. Meddow moved through the packed aisles, the noise around them swelled -- bursts of laughter, the snap of photos, the hum of voices rising like a tide. But all of it seemed to tilt and narrow as they neared a booth radiating a quiet, magnetic pull.

At its center stood a petite redhead, her skin pale as porcelain, her hair a cascade of fiery waves tumbling down her back. She didn't need to try to command attention -- the crowd did that for her. Fans leaned in, eager for a word, a signature, a photo, their faces lit with adoration. Her laugh was easy, her smile radiant, a glow in the swirl of chaos.

Emily's steps faltered, breath hitching as she took it in. Beside her, Dr. Meddow's eyes gleamed with unmistakable pleasure. A slow, knowing smile curved his mouth as he guided Emily closer, his hand slipping around hers with a casual, almost possessive ease. "Ah, Lilly, darling," he murmured, voice silk-wrapped with affection, "I have someone I'd like you to meet."

The redhead -- Lilly -- looked up, her eyes crinkling at the corners as her mouth curved into a dazzling grin. "Dr. Meddow! You wicked man, sneaking up on me," she teased, her voice husky and velvet-soft. Then her gaze slid to Emily, lingering a moment too long, flicking down her body in a sweep that made Emily's cheeks flush with heat.

Dr. Meddow gave Emily's hand a light squeeze, anchoring her as he murmured, "Lilly, this is Emily. She's... a new friend."

Emily's chest tightened. The word friend echoed oddly in her ears, sharp and soft all at once.

Without warning, Lilly closed the space between them and folded Emily into a hug. Emily tensed -- just for a second -- but then her body softened into the embrace as if pulled by a current too subtle to resist. She drew in a breath, catching the faint, clean scent of Lilly's perfume -- a hint of jasmine and something darker, warmer. It settled around her like a second skin, and Emily felt her pulse trip and stutter.

The world outside the circle of their arms fell away -- the crowd noise, the flashing lights, the endless chatter -- reduced to a distant hum. Lilly's hands slid along Emily's arms in a slow, gentle squeeze before she leaned in, her breath a soft murmur near Emily's ear. Emily's eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, her throat tightening with the strange, sudden ache of it.

When they parted, Emily's fingers lingered on Lilly's waist, reluctant, before Lilly's hand slipped into hers -- casual, but firm, fingers twining with a kind of easy confidence. A shiver chased up Emily's spine, delicate but unmistakable, her skin humming under the lightest brush of touch.

Her gaze fell to their joined hands -- slender fingers, the faint glint of rings, polished nails -- and a rush of memory blindsided her: how long had it been since anyone had reached for her without hesitation? Since anyone had held her without asking first, without conditions or warnings?

It had been years -- years -- since anyone had held her hand like this. A vivid flash of memory: childhood friends pulled away one by one, her parents' quiet disapproval walling her off, the small, casual intimacies of touch slipping out of reach. Her throat tightened, the sting of old loneliness sharp and sudden.

Her chest squeezed tight, the sting of old loneliness rising sharp and sudden -- a burn behind her eyes she barely understood.

Lilly gave her fingers a soft, grounding squeeze, and Emily drew in a shaky breath, lifting her gaze to meet the other woman's smile. It wasn't the dazzling, public one now; it was something smaller, realer -- a quiet look that settled deep in Emily's chest.

For the first time in a long time, Emily felt not just seen -- but wanted, without pretense or demand. And the realization left her breathless.

Lilly's eyes stayed on Emily, steady and unblinking, a kind of quiet pull in her gaze that was hard to shake off. It wasn't the polite glance of a stranger or the light, easy flirting Emily had learned to brush aside -- no, this sank deeper, cutting past the surface in a way that left Emily feeling strangely bare, caught between a thrill and a shiver. It was like Lilly saw straight through the little defenses Emily carried -- the doubts, the nervous edges, the smiles she'd learned to put on -- and was brushing up against something raw she usually kept hidden.

Emily felt her cheeks warm, her skin tingling under that gaze. A strange ache stirred in her chest, bittersweet and unfamiliar -- a kind of melancholy, like brushing fingertips over an old bruise. What would my life have been if someone like her had come along sooner? The thought rose unbidden, sharp as it was soft. Someone who saw her. Not as the awkward girl trying to fit in, not as the nervous outsider -- but simply as Emily.

The moment stretched, delicate and taut, until Dr. Meddow's voice slipped in like a sudden gust, breaking the fragile stillness.

"Lilly, would you do me a favor?" His tone curved with mischief, the grin audible in his voice. "Would you sign Emily's thigh for me?"

Emily's breath caught. Her heart gave a sharp, startled thud. Wait -- what? The flush that bloomed across her cheeks was immediate, rising in a hot, mortified wave. Her mouth opened, the beginnings of a protest trembling on her lips -- but she didn't let go of Lilly's hand. She couldn't. It was as if her fingers had threaded into something she didn't want to lose, something that tethered her when the ground felt unsteady.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at Lilly's lips, her eyes flickering with a quiet amusement as she eased Emily onto the edge of the table. Her hands barely pressed at Emily's waist, but even that light touch sent a ripple of sensation racing down Emily's back, goosebumps rising in its wake.

Without any rush, Lilly popped the cap off the marker, her fingers skimming across Emily's bare thigh in a soft, almost absentminded brush. Emily felt her breath catch, the beat of her heart drumming loud in her ears, every gentle sweep of Lilly's fingers stirring a warmth that bloomed slow and sharp along her skin. The sound of the marker scratching faintly against her skin mingled with the pounding of her heart.

"You know, Emily," Lilly murmured, her voice low, velvet-soft, and edged with a hint of teasing, "you have a fantastic body."

The words slid over Emily like silk, sending another shiver rolling through her. Lilly's smile softened, but her gaze stayed locked, steady and sure. "You should really consider getting into the business," Lilly added with a wink, her voice thick with warmth and playful challenge. "You'd be a natural."

Emily's throat tightened. Embarrassment surged hot in her chest, her face burning -- but underneath it, something sparked, something wild and breathless. She felt it in the way her toes curled in her shoes, in the way her fingers clenched slightly around the edge of the table, in the quiet electric thrill humming under her skin.

She sees me, Emily realized, dazed. Not as a curiosity or a joke -- but as someone worth seeing. As someone beautiful.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Emily felt her own reflection shift -- not into the girl she was supposed to be, but into the woman someone else, finally, saw. It was as if Lilly was seeing her, truly seeing her, and finding her worthy, desirable, and beautiful.

Emily's face burned with shame as she stuttered out a protest, but Lilly's hand slipped beneath her skirt, lifting it up to reveal her aroused pussy to the crowd. "Oh, look at that," Lilly said, her voice husky with excitement. "You're already getting into the spirit of things, aren't you?"

The room exploded in a wild mix of cheers and catcalls, and Emily's face flushed hot with embarrassment as she tried to shove Lilly's hand away -- but her body, traitorous and hungry, flared with a rush of arousal she couldn't control. Dr. Meddow's grip tightened on her arm, holding her steady while Lilly's fingers kept moving, sending a flood of shivers racing down Emily's spine like a quiet, wicked promise. Her fingers felt so foreign yet insanely soft on her aroused pussy as she fondeled her most intimate parts in front of everyone. The roar of applause and sharp whistles filled the air, feeding a restless, electric buzz that crackled through the room, and Emily felt herself slipping -- the edges of her hesitation starting to melt, falling away like ice under the heat of Lilly's touch and the crowd's eyes.

The sounds around her built fast -- bursts of laughter, the sharp pop of camera flashes, voices buzzing loud with heat and curiosity. Emily stood on edge, caught in that shaky space where fear and wild excitement blur together. Everything familiar -- the rules, the structure, the quiet, predictable safety she'd lived by -- felt like it was slipping away, unraveling one piece at a time. Here, in this blur of latex, leather, and reckless want, she stood caught in the pull between running back to what was familiar... or letting go, giving herself up to the wild rush pulling at her from all sides.

As Lilly finished the last graceful swirl of her autograph across Emily's thigh, she looked up, her eyes glittering with mischief. Without warning, she leaned in. Emily's breath caught--too late. Soft, warm lips brushed hers, a touch so light at first it was almost like a whisper, but it carried a charge that shot straight through Emily's chest.

Emily's eyes flew open, her body jolting with a rush of startled arousal. For a suspended moment, everything else fell away--the crowd, the noise, the blinding overhead lights. All that existed was the press of Lilly's mouth, the teasing flicker of her tongue, the faint taste of champagne on her lips.

Then the world crashed back in.

Cheers erupted around them, a wave of applause and catcalls, as Lilly deepened the kiss, her fingers sliding lightly along Emily's jaw. Emily felt the heat flare in her cheeks, her pulse a wild drumbeat beneath her skin. Her thoughts tumbled, fragmented, swept away by the sheer sensation of it--the startling softness, the scent of Lilly's perfume, the low hum of pleasure unfurling in her belly.

When Lilly finally pulled back, Emily stood frozen, lips tingling, breath shallow. She barely heard the roar of the crowd; her ears were filled with the rush of her own blood. Lilly's smile was slow, lazy, and devastating.

"I would very much enjoy doing a scene with you, Emily," Lilly murmured, her voice like velvet over steel, dark with invitation. "You have a certain... je ne sais quoi that's absolutely captivating."

The words coiled around Emily like a ribbon, winding tight, and for one dizzying heartbeat, she felt herself lean forward, wanting more, craving that spark again.

Then Lilly turned away, graceful and effortless, swept back into her circle of fans. She tossed Emily a playful wink, blowing her a kiss before slipping back into the whirl of autographs and flashing cameras.

Emily stood there, blinking, heart hammering, her body still humming with aftershocks. The cheers and laughter blurred to a muffled roar, as though she were hearing it through water. She pressed her fingers to her lips, feeling the ghost of the kiss still lingering there, sharp and sweet.

But as the heat began to ebb, something colder threaded into her mind--a flicker of panic, a voice she hadn't heard all evening. What am I doing?

Her stomach tightened. She imagined headlines, judgmental eyes, the sharp sting of whispers behind her back. She imagined her future boss pulling up a tabloid photo, lips pursed, eyebrow raised. A flush crawled up her neck--not the flush of arousal this time, but the burn of realization.

This isn't who I'm supposed to be. This isn't the kind of attention I want.

The thrill cracked, splintering into unease. Emily took a small, shaky step back, the edges of the room sharpening again around her--the noise, the stares, the cameras, the blinding lights. Her hands curled at her sides, nails pressing faint crescents into her palms as the rush of the moment gave way to a thrum of doubt.

Dr. Meddow guided her back into the crowd, his hand resting lightly at her lower back, a flicker of excitement in his eyes as he shot Emily a quick glance. "Well, my dear," he murmured, voice low and edged with mischief, "looks like you've left quite the mark on Lilly. Let's see where this little spark leads, hmm?" His words sent a subtle shiver up Emily's spine -- though this time, it came with a faint twist of unease.

Emily's head was still spinning, her lips tingling from the ghost of Lilly's kiss. She peeked up at Dr. Meddow, hoping to read something in his face, some clue to help her make sense of it all -- but all she caught was that same sly smile, the tug of something hidden just under the surface. Maybe it was a promise. Maybe it was a warning. Around her, the air seemed to hum with new tension, her pulse flickering fast just under her skin.

As they moved deeper into the crowd, Emily became achingly aware of the attention clinging to her. It was as if Lilly's kiss had turned a spotlight on her, marking her, and the crowd responded like moths to a flame. Hands reached toward her--some curious, some bold. Fingers brushed her waist, ghosted over the bare skin of her thighs, slipped beneath the hem of her skirt with daring ease.

At first, Emily's breath caught in her throat, her heart leaping in alarm. She tried to push the hands away, her palms trembling, desperate to keep some boundary intact. But the touches kept coming--light, teasing, almost playful--and slowly, against her will, her body began to betray her.

A wave of heat spread under her skin, a flush that started in her cheeks and spread downward. Her bare skin tingled with every brush of fingers, every squeeze of her ass, every fleeting stroke. The lack of panties only sharpened the sensation as fingers slid between naked folds, sending tremors through her legs that left her breathless. Emily's face burned with embarrassment, but layered beneath it was a pulse of something she couldn't quite name, something that made her knees weaken and her breath come faster.

She tried to reason with herself--It's just the crowd, just the atmosphere, just adrenaline--but the excuses fell flat as a deep, gnawing thrill stirred inside her. The anonymity of the touches, the swirl of sensation and forbidden excitement, sent her mind spinning.

What's happening to me? she wondered, panic and exhilaration twisting together in her chest. Why can't I stop this? Why does it feel... so good?

Emily stood on a razor's edge, caught between the flush of shame and the pull of surrender, torn between the instinct to pull back and the restless, aching hunger twisting low in her belly -- a want she barely recognized, let alone knew how to handle.

With every touch from those rough, greedy hands, whatever fight Emily still clung to slipped through her fingers, her resistance thinning, coming undone bit by bit. A surge of shame rushed up inside her, tangled with a biting sense of betrayal -- her own body betraying her, burning up with a heat she couldn't push down no matter how hard she tried. Her nipples hardened, her thighs trembled, and a wet ache pulsed between her legs, slick against her skin. It was dizzying and terrifying all at once, like she was slipping into a part of herself she'd spent years trying to bury.

Dr. Meddow's eyes stayed on her, calm and steady, a flicker of knowing amusement glinting there as he watched her slowly come undone. He didn't speak, didn't intervene. He merely stood by--steady, calm, a silent spectator--as the crowd's hands continued to roam over her trembling body. His very presence felt like a silent permission, an unspoken nod that allowed those dirty creeps to keep going.

Emily's cheeks burned, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as she struggled to hold onto the last scraps of control. But it was slipping fast--so fast. She felt like she was drifting, lost in a storm of sensation, her body leaning into every touch, every slow brush of fingers against her skin. Clear thought slipped further from reach; her mind was thick with haze, her body on fire, every nerve raw and keyed to the tangled pulse of pleasure and shame.

What's happening to me? The thought sparked and flickered in her mind, only to be drowned out by the pulsing wave of sensation crashing over her. She wasn't thinking anymore; she was only feeling--her body reacting with an abandon she couldn't have imagined, couldn't have predicted. The walls she'd spent so long building inside herself were breaking apart, leaving her bare and open to wants she'd tried for years to bury.

The shame hit like a punch, sharp and sudden, tightening in her chest, squeezing her throat until her eyes burned with the threat of tears. I've lost myself, the thought flashed through her like a blade. I'm nothing but their plaything now. The weight of it settled over her, cold and suffocating, a knot of guilt and disgust twisting hard in her belly.

And still -- buried under all that heavy shame -- something else stirred, faint but impossible to push away.

A dark thrill. A rush of excitement that twisted low in her belly, hot and forbidden. She felt alive in a way that shook her to the core, as if some locked part of her had been broken open, raw and electric. And as the touches dragged on, as the perverts's hungry eyes swept over her, Emily felt herself caught in a storm she couldn't outrun--spinning between guilt and hunger, between humiliation and a desperate, aching need.

Her body tightened, clenched, straining toward a release that hovered just out of reach. She could feel it coiling inside her, a taut string drawn to its limit. Every brush of skin, every teasing flick of fingers, sent her closer to the edge--and yet she couldn't fall. Not without him. Not without Dr. Meddow. She knew it with a bone-deep certainty that startled her: only his permission could unlock the tension writhing inside her.

The realization made her stomach churn with embarrassment. The thought of asking, of saying the words out loud, was unbearable. Her skin prickled with dread, her mouth went dry. But the minutes stretched, the pressure built, her body clamoring louder, until she could barely stand under the weight of her own need.

In a voice that barely rose above a whisper, Emily forced the words past her trembling lips--a timid, pleading murmur that hung between them like a fragile thread.

But Dr. Meddow didn't glance her way. His eyes stayed on the crowd, lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile. He looked like he was soaking in every bit of her struggle, savoring the thick tension in the air, the crackle of control and surrender hanging between them. And Emily, trapped in that charged hush, could only shiver--waiting, aching, crumbling under the unbearable pull of her own want.

Her face burned, cheeks so hot it felt like her skin might split open. Shame tightened around her chest, thick and choking, making it hard to pull in a full breath. The man's hands were all over her, possessive, bold, hungry--and it was like she'd stumbled into a dream she couldn't shake off, one that left her raw and exposed.

She knew she had to speak, to ask--but the words stuck fast in her throat, bitter and heavy. Swallowing hard, she pushed them out past her shaking lips.

"May I... may I cum, sir?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, thin and hesitant, trembling on the edge of collapse.

Dr. Meddow's face remained unreadable, his expression smooth, but his eyes flicked to her--a brief glance, sharp as a blade, cutting through the fog inside her. Then, with deliberate calm, he turned back to the crowd, his voice curling with amusement.

"I didn't quite catch that, Emily." His tone was light, almost playful, but there was steel beneath it. "You'll have to be clearer."

The humiliation hit her like a wave, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her body shook with need, her hungy pussy clenched tight around some strangers finger, and yet it wasn't enough. She was teetering on the edge, desperate, drowning in sensation.

Her chest heaved as she drew in a shaky breath. "Please, sir," she whispered, her voice fraying at the edges, raw with urgency. "May I cum? I--I need it. Please." The words fell out like a confession, torn and ragged, a plea she never imagined herself making.

Dr. Meddow's gaze rested on her again, slow and deliberate, his lips curling in the faintest smile. He looked like a man savoring a rare wine, drinking in every ounce of her shame and desperation. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, almost lazy, like a cat stretching in the sun.

"I don't know, Emily. You don't sound very convincing. If you want to prove to me what a horny little slut you are, you need to try... a little harder."

The words cut her open, leaving her raw and trembling. Emily's heart pounded, her mind racing in circles as she grasped for anything--anything--to break this tension, to claim the release her body craved.

"Please," she gasped, louder this time, her voice trembling but urgent. "Please, sir. I'll do anything. Anything. Just let me cum. Please--I need it."

The glint in Dr. Meddow's eyes sharpened, the smile on his lips deepening, slow and cruel.

"Anything, Emily?" he murmured, his voice silky with skepticism, amusement curling at the edges. "Are you sure about that?"

The air seemed to freeze, every sound around her muffled under the roar of her own pulse. Emily's throat worked as she swallowed, nodding with small, jerky motions, her gaze locked on his.

"Yes, sir," she whispered, the words almost lost in the noise of the crowd, her voice thick with surrender. "Anything."

Dr. Meddow's eyes gleamed with something sharp and unreadable as he tilted his head toward the corner of the room. There, barely noticeable until now, was a small platform--a raised stage with a gleaming metal pole at its center. A cruel smile touched his lips.

"You see that stage, Emily?" His voice was soft, coaxing, but beneath it was the unmistakable edge of command. "I want you to go up there and give them a show. I want you to sit down, spread your legs, and pleasure yourself for the crowd. I want to see you cumming all over that pedestal, your body writhing in ecstasy as the crowd cheers you on."

Emily's face burned, cheeks flushed deep with shame, her body trembling with a raw, aching need. Inside, it felt like she was being torn in two -- the part of her clinging to pride, to self-respect, crashing hard against the part desperate for release, desperate to give in. She took a shaky step back, eyes darting around the room, searching for some kind of escape she already knew didn't exist. This will ruin me, she thought wildly.

My career, my name -- everything I've worked for, gone. And yet, the cruel truth sat heavy in her gut: she was already caught. And worse -- she would do anything now to come, no matter how low it dragged her, no matter how much it scraped her raw.

"No... no, no," Emily whispered, her voice thin and shaking. "I can't do this, Dr. Meddow," she choked out, the words cracking as they left her mouth. "Please... don't make me do this."

Dr. Meddow's smile curled wider, his eyes glinting with something sharp, almost amused. "You're not walking away from this, Emily. It's time you learned to let go of those pretty little walls you hide behind."

A tremor ran through her. Her mind raced, flipping through every possible way out -- but she knew the fight was already lost.

As his words hung in the air, a fresh wave of shame crashed over her, bitter and suffocating. Emily felt sick at herself, horrified that some dark part of her was even thinking of surrendering. The thought twisted in her gut, scraping against every bit of pride she had left. She swept her gaze around the room -- the crowd blurred together, their faces smearing into one hungry, faceless mass, their eyes sharp as blades against her skin. She felt like she was standing trial, and the verdict was already carved into her bones.

Dr. Meddow's grin deepened, and a surge of disgust flooded through her -- not at him, but at herself. How had she let it get this far? How had she been so weak, so desperate? The shame coiled tighter, and Emily hated the soft, desperate parts of herself that had brought her to this moment.

"I... I don't know if I can do this," she stammered, voice low and shaky, the words tasting like ash in her mouth -- a last, thin thread of defiance that was already fraying.

Dr. Meddow didn't blink, his gaze pinned on her with a quiet, unshakable force. "Oh, you'll do it, Emily," he murmured, the confidence in his voice cutting straight through her. "You need it more than you know."

Her stomach twisted, the weight of everything crashing down on her like a storm rolling in fast -- the shame, the want, the terrible ache to let go of everything she thought she was. She knew, deep down, she was about to cross a line she could never uncross.

As she took her first unsteady step toward the stage, a rush of heat surged into her cheeks, like a brand pressed against her skin. Her heart pounded so loud it drowned out the noise around her, her body sharpening into raw sensation -- every glance, every murmur in the crowd scraping across her like tiny needles.

Each step dragged her deeper into a nightmare that felt too real to outrun. Her mind churned, flooded with a mess of regret and desperate need, two forces tearing at her from the inside. Near the stage, Emily felt stripped bare -- nothing left between her and the eyes locked onto her. Her skin thrummed with sharp, restless awareness; her heartbeat hammered, breath shallow, fingers twitching at her sides.

Filled with a feeling of surrender, she moved up the steps, the sharp click of her heels echoing off the cold floor. Her eyes locked on the pole ahead -- a blunt, unyielding shape that had come to stand for everything she'd tried to bury in herself. And now, that buried part clawed its way up, wild and hungry, refusing to stay quiet any longer.

The crowd's gaze clung to her, their eyes sliding over her body like a thousand unseen hands, tracing every curve, prying at every secret. Emily felt raw, peeled back to the bone, laid bare for them all. She didn't know if she could withstand their scrutiny, but she knew, deep down, that she had no choice now but to move forward, no matter how humiliating or degrading it felt.

As Emily stepped up onto the pedestal, the weight of their collective stare pressed against her, wrapping around her like a second skin. She drew a shaky breath, her chest rising sharply, and wrapped her fingers around the cold steel of the pole, her knuckles turning white from the strain. For a long, suspended moment, she paused--her heart hammering in her ears like a relentless drum.

Then, with a slow, measured motion, Emily lowered herself to the floor, her body unfolding with an almost fragile grace, like a flower opening to the sun. Her eyes stayed locked on the crowd, and in that charged silence, As she settled into her new position, a rush of heat coursed through Emily's veins, sending a shiver across her skin and making her heart pound. She became vividly aware of every inch of herself--the slope of her hips, the arch of her back, the taut line of her thighs--and she knew, with an almost dizzying certainty, that the crowd was aware of it too. The air thrummed with a charged, electric tension, and Emily felt like the center of a storm about to break, the eye of a swirling, breathless tempest.

Just as Emily was beginning to surrender to the intoxicating pull of the crowd's attention, a figure stepped from the shadows, his presence cutting through the haze like a blade. Dr. Meddow's eyes locked onto hers, his gaze sharp and searing, making her skin tighten with a rush of prickling awareness. He moved toward her with unhurried confidence, each step eating up the distance, his eyes never straying from hers.

Emily's breath caught in her throat as he leaned in, his warm breath ghosting across her ear, sending a molten shiver down her spine. In that moment, the crowd blurred at the edges, their cheers and whistles fading into a muffled backdrop against the thundering beat of her own heart.

And then--without warning--his lips were on hers, stealing a deep, sloppy kiss that sent sparks crashing through her body.

For a heartbeat, it was as if they were the only two people in the room, the only ones who mattered, suspended in a world spun entirely from tension, heat, and the raw pull of connection. Time seemed to stutter and stretch, leaving only the electric pulse between them, humming under her skin.

She felt both of his hands dive into her cleavage, pulling the fabric of her top to the side, exposing her breasts to the cheering crowd. As she looked back at them, all she could see was a sea of mobile phone lights, filming her degradation. The shame surged through her again, a tidal wave of humiliation that threatened to drown her.

This was it, she thought. She would never become famous now. Her dreams of stardom seemed to crumble around her, like a fragile house of cards, as she realized the depth of her own degradation.

But as he guided her hand between her legs, she felt a spark of defiance flicker inside her. She wanted to sink into the ground, to disappear from the spotlight, but her hand started to move on its own, driven by a stubbornness that refused to let her be defeated.

"Now be an even better girl and give the people something they will remember, will you?" he said, stepping back with a smirk.

She wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for mercy, but her body betrayed her, her movements becoming frantic as she plunged fingers into her needy hole and rubbed her clit like crazy, while kneading her tits with her other hand. She could feel the eyes of the crowd on her, watching her every move, and she knew that she was lost, trapped in a world of lust.

But despite her best efforts, she couldn't reach the climax that she craved. She was a moaning mess, her body writhing and twisting in a desperate attempt to find release, but it was no use.

And yet, the audience loved her for it. They cheered and clapped, their voices a cacophony of approval and admiration, as she brought herself to the brink of ecstasy, only to fall short time and time again.

After a few minutes, her master's voice broke through her hazed mind with the most beautiful words, "Cum now, little slut!" With a jolt, her mind was pulled back into the haze, as a massive wave of pleasure crashed over her. She moaned, twitched, and screamed into the conference hall, as a wide spray of squirt drenched her little stage and even some unlucky men who had been too eager to get close-up shots.

For a moment, the room was quiet--almost reverent--until a sudden cheer erupted, rolling over Emily like a crashing wave. The applause filled the space, washing through her senses, and for the first time that night, her mind cleared just enough to register it fully. A blush rose to her cheeks--not the sharp flush of shame, but something warmer, softer. A glow bloomed in her chest as it hit her just how much she was enjoying the attention.

As Dr. Meddow reached for her, a sudden wave of dizziness swept through her body, her legs trembling beneath her, still unsteady from the storm that had just passed through her. Her knees buckled, but before she could stumble, his arms were around her--strong, steady, unyielding. With a quiet firmness, he guided her down from the pedestal, his hands sure and gentle as they brought her back to solid ground.

Emily leaned into him without thinking, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure and nerves. Against him, she found unexpected comfort--his chest a solid wall of strength, his arms a kind of shelter she hadn't realized she needed.

"You did a really great job, Emily," he said quietly, his voice low and warm. The words landed gently, like something meant to soothe, and they did. They settled deep in her chest, wrapping around her, sending a quiet rush of pride and gratitude through her. Her heart lifted. When she looked up, their eyes met--and for a second, something passed between them. Unspoken. Close. A little too close.

Dr. Meddow's smile was soft, his eyes crinkling at the corners. There was something steady in the way he looked at her, something that cut through the leftover shake in her limbs. She let herself lean into him, just a little more, the tension in her shoulders finally starting to let go. Her breath slipped out in a quiet sigh. For a moment, they just stood there, still wrapped in the heat of the moment, the scent of sweat and adrenaline hanging in the air between them.

Then the noise around them began to dim, the cheers fading into background hum, and her thoughts started spinning again. Gratitude was still there--but now it tangled with something else. Resentment. A low ache of anger at how exposed she felt, like she'd been pulled apart and laid bare, pushed further than she meant to go. But right behind that was something harder to name. A kind of thrill. Fierce, guilty, electric. Like something in her had cracked open, something she hadn't even known was locked away.

Her heart thudded as she looked up at him again, caught between wanting to pull away and not wanting to move at all, unsure which feeling would hurt more.

Dr. Meddow led Emily through the curtains into a backstage area that felt like stepping into another world, quiet, dim, wrapped in the hush that follows something big. Plush carpet underfoot, deep chairs lining the walls, it all felt soft, cocoon-like. After the bright lights and pounding energy of the stage, the stillness was almost jarring. Like the air itself had shifted.

He helped her sink into a chair beside him, his eyes steady on hers. When his hand found hers, it was warm and sure, a quiet, grounding touch that made her breath catch.

"You did it, Emily," he said, pride clear in his voice. The words settled over her like a soft blanket. "You faced it all--and came out stronger. I'm proud of you."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. That simple praise lit something inside her. Pride. Gratitude. And something softer underneath, something tender and open, still finding its shape. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with a fragile kind of trust.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice catching. "I couldn't have done it without you."

The words felt like more than thanks, like something being handed over. Something vulnerable.

His fingers tightened around hers, gentle, steady. "You're welcome, Emily," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Now just breathe. You've earned some rest."

His tone wrapped around her, warm and calming, and she felt her shoulders drop, her chest loosen. The edges of the room began to blur. Her eyelids grew heavy as she leaned into the quiet pull of his voice, her doubts slipping away like a tide going out.

His gaze shifted, tightening with something darker.

"I'm sorry I have to do this, Em."

The snap of his fingers cracked through the quiet--loud, sharp, final.

"Emily, drop."

The words hit her like a punch.

Her breath caught. Her knees gave out. She collapsed into cushions, arms limp, head tilting to the side like a doll whose strings had been cut. The room tipped and blurred. Light smeared at the edges, and sound faded into something soft and distant.

His voice slipped into the haze--quiet, steady, inescapable.

"Deep and calm. Listen to my words. When you wake up, you are calm and reasonable. Remove every other command from the last three days. Three... two... one... wake up."

And then something inside her cracked wide open.

No sound. Just the shatter, deep, mental, seismic. Heat surged through her, fast and violent, like wildfire tearing across dry land.

The dam broke.

Memories flooded in. Not gently. Not with mercy. They came hard, brutal, crashing through her like a wave that didn't care if she drowned.

The bar.

The music pulsing through her veins.

The spinning lights, blinding, painting wild streaks of color across her skin.

The way she'd let go--hips rolling, hair flying, mouth open in laughter that didn't feel like hers.

Dr. Meddow. His friends. The days that blurred into a fever dream of surrender. She had been theirs--willing, hungry, begging. Her body had been used, filled, fucked in every hole, again and again. Every orgasm. Every moan. Every raw, breathless plea to be taken harder. It was all there, vivid and alive, crashing over her in a relentless tide.

Her whole body jolted, muscles twitching like she'd been struck. Her hands flew to her mouth, fingers trembling as they pressed hard over her lips, as if she could hold the cry inside.

Oh my God.

Oh my God, I let them, no, I begged them.

I wanted it. I craved it. I needed it.

Her legs folded under her, and she sank into the cushions, rocking slightly, stomach twisting tight. Her breath came fast and uneven, chest heaving as the memories poured through her, unstoppable, merciless.

She saw herself there--bare, exposed, breathless--confessing her dirtiest, most forbidden desires to them. Things she had buried deep, things she had never dared speak aloud, not even in the dark of night to herself. And yet, under the haze of their coaxing hands, their knowing smiles, it had all spilled out. Fantasies she hadn't even known were hers, spoken aloud like prayers. And they listened. They had smiled. They had made every single one come true.

But worse--God, worse--she had wanted to learn about theirs too.

She remembered their voices, low, rough, confiding their darkest cravings, their filthiest needs. And she--wide-eyed, flushed, trembling--had said yes. To all of it. Eager. Grateful. Hungry to please. Desperate to belong.

I said yes to everything, her thoughts spun, wild and hot. Every filthy thing they wanted--I wanted to show them I could take it, that I could be everything they wanted, that they could ruin me in any way they wished.

A dry, broken sob tore from her chest, her hands raking through her hair, clawing at her scalp as if she could dig out the memories before they swallowed her whole.

She gulped down the shame which rushed through her, thick and suffocating-- Just like the cum she had swallowed--over and over.

She saw herself on her knees--naked, hair tangled and sticky, surrounded by blurred shapes of men. Their gazes bore into her skin, heavy with hunger, with ownership. Their smelly cocks rubbing her face, slapping her. She could feel the ache in her jaw, the burn in her throat, the thick goo filling her mouth. Her stomach turned. The memory crawled up her throat like something alive. For a moment, her muscles seized, her whole body recoiling.

God help me.

She swallowed.

She remembered the slick, cum cocktail slide down her throat how it caught in her chest. And how she'd forced it down anyway. Forced herself to finish. To prove it.

She saw herself lift her face, mouth stretched in a shaky smile, tongue flicking out to show them.

Look, her mind whispered, sharp and cruel. See how good I am. See what I can take. See how much I want it.

Tears streamed hot down her cheeks, the memory wrapping around her like fire, shame, and that dark, awful thrill tangling in her chest until it hurt to breathe.

Who am I?

What have I become?

Her arms wrapped tight around herself, squeezing hard, like she could hold in the pieces, keep from falling apart, keep from turning into something she no longer recognized.

And beneath it all, cold and undeniable, the thought cut through--

I didn't just let them do this to me.

I wanted it.

I asked for more.

Her chest lurched. Her fingers scraped at her lips, as if she could claw the memories out, tear them from her skin, bury them back in the dark where they belonged. But they kept coming--wild, merciless, a storm without edges, without end. And then, slicing through it all like a knife, came the sharp stab of dread.

Her father's face punched through the haze--hard and unforgiving. Jaw clenched so tight the vein at his temple pulsed, his eyes flat with disgust. Stone. Cold.

His voice coiled in her mind, low and venomous:

"Whore."

"Filthy slut."

"You let the devil in, Emily."

"You opened your legs to evil and called it freedom."

Her mother's hands, shaking, clutched the rosary. Beads dug into her skin, lips moving in cracked, frantic prayer:

"Lord, save her. Lord, wash her clean. Lord, drive the devil out."

Tears streamed down her mother's face like each look at Emily burned her, like her daughter's body had become a doorway to hell.

Emily doubled over, folded into the cushions, a broken sob tearing from her chest. Her stomach knotted. Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, like each one was fighting to get free.

"You were supposed to be better," her father thundered inside her. "We raised you right. We gave you rules. We gave you God."

The phantom hiss of a belt sliding free cut across her mind, followed by the sharp, unmistakable crack of leather meeting skin. "I will beat the sin out of you if I have to," his voice spat. "Because you are mine to set right."

Her arms locked around her torso, squeezing tight, trying to shield her ribs, to hold her body together against ghosts she couldn't outrun. Their judgment pressed down like a weight, crushing the air from her lungs.

Slut.

Shame.

Lost soul.

Satan's puppet.

But then--something shifted.

"Good slut," someone whispered, close. A different voice. Warm. Coaxing.

Not her father.

The echo of the belt stayed--but it changed.

Not punishment.

Play.

Hands that gripped not to hurt, but to claim. Heat blooming where it landed. Sting turning to something sharp and sweet. Pleasure curling through the ache.

"That's it... such a good girl. Take it for me. That's my dirty little whore."

A shudder rolled through Emily, raw and electric. Her father's voice cracked, splintered, fell away behind the darker murmurs that had shaped her, praised her, undone her.

Her breath caught again. But this time, it wasn't panic.

It was heat.

It was hunger.

It was something molten and alive, spreading under her skin.

Slowly, her fingers loosened from where they clutched her arms. Her body was still trembling, but something had started to shift.

Low in her belly, like an ember coaxed from ash, something stirred.

Not just arousal.

Defiance.

It was small at first. Just a flicker.

Then a breath.

Then a pulse.

I was... alive.

The word slid into her mind--hot, jagged, undeniable.

Alive.

For the first time in years--maybe for the first time ever--she had been fully awake in her own skin. Not numb, not hiding, not shrinking. She had felt hunger. Joy. Wickedness. Power.

Why should she throw that away?

Why should she crush the one part of herself that had finally dared to rise beneath all the weight she'd carried?

A sharp breath rattled out of her.

Her hands dropped from her face. Her spine, still shaky, pulled upright. A tremble ran through her, but she held it.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and unrelenting--but this time, they weren't just fear.

They were rage.

They were sorrow.

They were the first cracks of something wild breaking loose inside her.

Why should I crawl back?

Why should I erase myself?

Why should I pretend I never touched fire?

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She could still feel the ache in her throat from her whispered begging, the soreness between her thighs, the memory of power and surrender twisted together like rope--hot, alive, real.

As Emily wrestled with the storm still churning inside her, the quiet of the backstage room cracked open. The sharp, deliberate sound of boots striking the floor echoed through the space, followed by a low, smoky laugh.

A man strode in like he owned the room. His suit was razor-clean, his watch caught the low light with a wink, and his presence bent the air around him. He radiated charm the way others wore cologne--easy, thick, and impossible to ignore.

Dr. Meddow rose from his chair, the lines of his face softening with a flicker of warmth.

"Ryder, you old pervert," he said, the affection in his voice easy, a grin tugging at his mouth.

Ryder's handshake was firm, his smile all teeth.

"Meddow, you sly bastard." His voice rolled through the room, deep and rough, full of amusement and heat. "I should've known you were behind this little firecracker. People can't stop talking about her out there."

And then his gaze landed on Emily.

Slow. Intentional. Unapologetic.

He looked her over, taking in every detail--her tousled hair, flushed cheeks, skirt rucked up around her hips, the slick, unabashed mess between her thighs. His eyes paused on her bare, glistening pussy like a man studying a masterpiece. No hesitation. No shame.

Emily met his stare with something close to a smirk. There was no tug at her skirt, no scramble to cover up. That old reflex--modesty--was long gone, broken somewhere between the stage lights and the waves of surrender. She didn't flinch. Didn't blush. Instead, something low and electric curled in her belly.

Go ahead. Look.

"Absolute dynamite," Ryder murmured, shaking his head slowly, voice thick with appreciation. "Where the hell do you find them, Meddow?" He whistled under his breath. "This one... hell, she's something else."

He turned back to Meddow, a spark lighting in his grin.

"I've got a proposition," he said, voice warm and loaded. "I want her on the main stage tonight. My top two male models. Full spotlight. You can make that happen, right?"

Meddow's expression barely shifted, but something in his jaw tensed. His eyes narrowed, just slightly. Calculating.

"Not sure that's a good idea," he said evenly. The weight behind the words landed like a quiet barrier.

Ryder laughed--deep, smooth, dangerous. "Come on, Meddow. You know I can make it worth her while."

His gaze slid back to Emily, slow and indulgent. She still hadn't moved, hadn't fixed her skirt, hadn't even blinked.

"You, sweetheart..." His grin widened. "You've got star written all over you. Trust me. You'd own that stage."

Emily gave a loose, almost lazy shrug, the corner of her mouth quirking up again. "I don't know," she murmured, voice soft, teasing. "Modeling's never been something I considered."

Ryder let out a rich, booming laugh, eyes crinkling as his head tipped back. "Oh, darling -- this isn't catwalk stuff," he said, stepping forward just a little, voice coaxing. "This is art. This is heat. This is the kind of show that makes people stop breathing."

Meddow's eyes flicked between them, sharp, reading every beat, every shift. A ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

"What do you think, Emily?" he asked, voice low and measured, wrapped in challenge.

"Do you want it? To step into the light and leave the world breathless?"

Emily's mind spun, a dizzying mix of fear and excitement. It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under her, and now she was tumbling--weightless--through a storm of possibility.

The word star pulsed in her head like neon, hot and insistent. Her heart hammered in her chest, not just from nerves but from something sharper, something electric curling through her veins.

For a moment, she saw it: lights flashing, cameras clicking, her face glowing on giant screens. Strangers shouting her name. That dream, the one that had first pulled her to this city, suddenly didn't seem so distant.

Ryder's words wrapped around her like a spell, seductive and sure. She tried to summon caution, to listen for the voice that warned her to slow down, to think. But that voice was faint, buried beneath the roar of adrenaline and the raw, breathless thrill climbing up her spine.

"I... I don't know," she said softly, her voice catching.

But then Ryder looked at her--bold, confident, hungry--and she felt it. The weight of that gaze. The heat of it. Like a hand at her back, nudging her closer to the edge.

And something inside her tipped.

"Yes," she heard herself say.

Then louder, steadier: "I want to be a star."

The words sparked like a match struck in dry heat--catching fire, fast. Something wild and reckless lit up in her chest. Her skin flushed with it, her breath quickened, her body alive with a strange, powerful thrill.

Ryder's grin widened, all teeth and triumph.

"I knew it," he said, voice crackling with energy. "Emily, you're not just going to make waves. You're going to be the storm. A fucking legend."

From the corner, Dr. Meddow's voice cut in, cool and precise.

"Ryder. The usual commission, of course."

It wasn't a question.

Ryder laughed, tossing him a wink.

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

His gaze snapped back to Emily, sharp and hungry again. A look that made her feel like she was already on the stage, already under the lights.

Her pulse kicked harder. Her whole body hummed. They talked like businessmen closing a deal, calm and practiced--but to her, it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind screaming past her, the drop below dizzying and endless.

"I'll make it happen," Ryder said, his voice all silk and certainty. "But first--hair, makeup, wardrobe. We'll turn you into something unforgettable. A name they chant. A face they crave."

Emily nodded, dazed and electric, like she'd just jumped onto a speeding train without asking where it was headed.

She wasn't sure who she was becoming.

She only knew one thing.

She was ready to leap.

--------

As Emily stepped into the dressing room behind Ryder and Dr. Meddow, the air hit her like a wave--warm, thick, and perfumed. It smelled of hairspray, powder, and something sweeter underneath, a scent she couldn't quite name but felt dizzyingly intimate.

The room was alive with color and motion. Sequined dresses spilled from crowded racks. Feathers and silk peeked out from half-zipped garment bags. The counters were a battlefield of brushes, palettes, lipsticks, and curling irons tangled in their cords like coiled snakes. It was chaos--but beautiful chaos.

And in the middle of it all stood a woman who looked like she belonged everywhere at once.

Petite but impossible to overlook, she wore her copper curls pinned half-up with jeweled clips that caught the light when she moved. Silver hoops dangled from her ears, a delicate stud glinting in her nose, and her fingers--slender and busy--were weighed down with rings that clinked softly as she moved. She radiated wild, creative energy, equal parts stylist, magician, and mother hen. There was grace in the way she moved, precision in her gaze. This was someone who had wrestled beauty out of madness a thousand times before.

The moment she spotted Emily, a wry grin tugged at her lips. She glanced over the top of her glasses at Ryder and Dr. Meddow, who lingered just inside the doorway like overconfident schoolboys.

"Oh, you boys never change," she said, hands on her hips, the words edged with fond exasperation. "You drag in these poor dazed kittens--all flushed and wrecked--and expect me to turn them into goddesses."

She gave Emily a once-over, not unkindly. "Look at her. Flushed. Glassy-eyed. Barely standing. You two are shameless."

Ryder laughed, already slipping back out the door with an easy wink.

"That's why you're the best, Rach."

Dr. Meddow didn't answer. He moved to the side of the room, poured himself a drink with quiet elegance, and leaned back against the wall. His eyes lingered on Emily for a moment, cool and assessing, touched with faint approval--then shifted away, content to watch.

Rachel turned to Emily, her grin softening into something gentler. Almost a secret. She held out her hand, rings glinting beneath the bulbs around the mirror.

"I'm Rachel, love. And you..." Her smile deepened. "You are officially my canvas."

Rachel's fingers were cool but sure as she guided Emily into the chair, her touch light, her presence somehow both grounding and electric.

"Let's tame this mane first," she murmured, running her hands through Emily's hair--lifting, brushing, feeling the weight with an expert's grace. "Mmm. Thick, soft... you're going to break a few hearts, darling. Mark my words."

The blow dryer roared to life, sending waves of warm air across Emily's scalp. Rachel moved like someone who belonged in this chaos, her hands confident, rhythmic--twisting, pinning, teasing. In minutes, the untamed mess of curls was transformed into a sleek updo, sharp yet soft, a frame that turned her face into something sculpted, intentional.

All the while, Rachel chattered in a voice full of mischief and quiet affection, her words flowing like warm water over stone.

"You know," she said, curling a strand just so, "I've worked on a lot of girls--sweet faces, big dreams, nerves shot to hell--but you..." She paused, meeting Emily's gaze in the mirror. Her voice dipped, losing its playfulness, finding something deeper. "You've got a kind of light, sweetheart. Not just pretty. Magnetic. The camera's going to fall hard."

A flush crept into Emily's cheeks. The compliment sank in deep, slow and warm, stirring something low in her chest.

"Hold still, gorgeous."

Rachel moved on to makeup, her brushes sweeping over Emily's skin with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Cool powders. Creams that melted like silk. Liner drawn with steady hands. Color pressed into her cheeks like whispered secrets.

As the reflection in the mirror began to shift, Emily watched herself take shape--fuller lips, skin glowing, eyes dark and bright, rimmed in drama and fire. She barely blinked, transfixed.

"You're a natural," Rachel said, stepping back with a satisfied hum. One hand on her hip, the other tapping her lip thoughtfully. "God help the poor souls out there tonight--they won't know what hit 'em."

Emily felt something flicker inside her. Small, but real. A spark of anticipation. Not fear. Not quite.

From the corner, Dr. Meddow lifted his glass, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, his gaze steady, watching her.

Emily looked back at her reflection--and her heart skipped. Not from panic, but from something sharper. Something thrilling and strange and alive.

This was the dream--the one she used to scribble into old notebooks when she was young. Half fantasy, half desperate prayer. Back when it felt silly to hope. Impossible. Back before the world taught her to keep those dreams quiet.

And now... now it was right there. Just at the tips of her fingers.

When Rachel stepped back with a satisfied sigh, arms crossed like a painter surveying her masterpiece, Dr. Meddow stepped forward. There was a glint of something wicked in his eye.

In his hands, he held shoes.

Heels--towering, black patent platforms that caught the light like polished onyx. They shimmered with promise. With danger.

Emily's breath caught.

The ankle straps gleamed like a dare. When Meddow knelt to fasten them, his fingers brushed lightly over her skin. Her calves tightened. Her heart thudded. The height made her feel unsteady, yet somehow powerful. The leather hugged her feet like something possessive. When she shifted her weight, the soft creak of it sent a shiver up her spine.

Then came the outfit.

Rachel held it up with a grin and a raised brow, a silent question shimmering between them: Ready?

Emily's cheeks flushed as the fabric slid into her hands. The skirt was barely a skirt at all--black, skintight, high enough to whisper danger with every step. It clung to her like it knew her curves better than she did. Gold letters gleamed across the hem, shouting the name of the convention, turning her body into an advertisement. A promise.

And the top--black fishnet, light as breath, slipping over her skin and leaving nothing to the imagination. Her nipples peeked through the pattern, tight from the cool air and raw anticipation. Shadows played along the weave, casting patterns across her skin that caught the light like temptation itself.

She stared into the mirror.

And for a moment, she couldn't look away.

Was that really her?

The girl in the mirror was a siren. A magnet. A spark in human form--dangerous, radiant, impossible to ignore. Emily's throat tightened with wonder. With nerves. And with something darker, curling deep in her belly like hunger.

Something she wasn't sure she wanted to tame.

Then Ryder's voice boomed over the loudspeakers from the main hall -- smooth as polished whiskey -- promising the crowd a "special show" they absolutely couldn't miss.

Emily's heart skipped, nerves sparking beneath her ribs like struck flint.

What am I walking into?

The dressing room door swung open -- and for one breathless moment, Emily forgot how to breathe.

Two men stepped inside, filling the space with more than just their size. It was the energy that hit her first -- thick, magnetic, alive -- like the air shifted around them to make room.

Marcus entered first. Tall. All muscle and heat, his skin a rich bronze that glowed under the soft lights like molten silk. His jaw was sharp, cheekbones high, his lips full and curved just enough to hint at mischief. He moved like he didn't need to try -- like the room belonged to him and he'd let you stay in it if you behaved. His eyes were brown and warm, and they smiled before his mouth even moved: playful, confident, hungry.

Then came Jamal.

He moved quieter, slower, like distant thunder rolling in. Taller still, his head shaved smooth, a faint scar above one brow like a signature left behind by some old thrill. His chest was broad, arms veined and thick, abs a carved ladder that drew the eye down -- dangerously low -- to the loose waistband of his white shorts. But it was his smile that stopped her cold.

Soft. Steady. Tender, even. Like he could already see every flicker of doubt in her and didn't need to push -- just wanted her to know: Breathe, baby. I've got you.

They moved closer. The heat of their bodies reached her before their hands ever could, and Emily's knees softened. A flush crept up her throat.

They weren't just handsome. They were the kind of handsome. The kind you dreamed about in the dark. The kind you'd never admit out loud. The kind who could make you ache with just one look.

And for one suspended moment, everything else vanished -- the crowd, the lights, the noise waiting beyond the door.

All she felt was this: the raw, electric pull of desire.

Jamal's eyes crinkled with that soft warmth. Marcus gave her a slow, crooked grin that slid right down her spine.

Emily stood frozen, trembling, heart pounding in her chest -- as the realization slid through her like a breath of silk:

They're here for me.

From his place near the mirror, Dr. Meddow's gaze gleamed with quiet satisfaction. He nodded toward the two men, his voice low and velvet-rich, laced with command.

"Follow their lead, Emily."

The air thickened, pressing in close. Her chest tightened. Her pulse pounded against her ribs like it wanted out. The scent of them filled the space -- musk and sweat and skin, heat and something darker -- and it wrapped around her, left her dizzy.

Her gaze traveled up their bodies. The flex of Marcus's fingers as he curled a hand around the leash. The shift of Jamal's hips, the cut of his stomach. Her mouth went dry. A pulse beat low in her belly. The thin strap of her thong bit between her folds, sharp and hot, a vivid reminder of how exposed she was. How ready.

She felt like a rabbit caught between breath and motion, perched on the edge of something wild and unstoppable.

Then Meddow's voice again -- softer now, coaxing, close enough to touch.

"Don't worry, Emily," he murmured. He stepped in behind her, close enough that his breath brushed her cheek. "You're in good hands."

His fingers brushed lightly along her neck. The collar slipped around her throat, snug and soft -- and yet, the feel of it made her shiver. The subtle bite of leather against skin sent goosebumps down her arms. When the leash clicked into place, the faint tug between them buzzed like electricity. A hum of control. A promise.

Meddow's eyes met hers. Steady. Amused. Warm. She felt her breath catch in her throat.

Then her hips gave a little wiggle. Just a flick -- playful, instinctive, electric. It shocked her even as it thrilled her, the motion rolling out of her from some deeper part she hadn't meant to call forward. The echo of submission, of surrender, slipped free without a word.

Her cheeks flushed, heat rising fast -- but beneath it was something else. Something darker. Stronger. Alive.

Meddow's smile curved slowly, knowingly. He passed the leash to Marcus with a deliberate hand.

"Take good care of her, Marcus."

The moment Marcus's hand closed around the leash, a spark jolted through Emily's body. With a gentle tug, he pulled her forward -- not rough, but steady, confident, a kind of quiet authority that made her knees falter. Jamal fell in beside her, his eyes on hers, calm and steady, a magnetic tether that held her gaze and grounded her breath.

Their footsteps echoed down the corridor -- heavy boots, soft sandals, the faint catch of her breathing. The press of bodies grew thicker, the air buzzing with anticipation. She felt it ripple around her -- eyes turning, cameras lifting, voices swelling in the shadows behind her.

But it wasn't panic that filled her chest.

It was release.

A loosening, like something inside her had finally exhaled. A surrender to a path she couldn't name but that her body, deep in its marrow, already understood.

The music hit first -- a deep, pulsing bass, thick as blood, shaking the floor beneath her feet. Then the crowd -- a wall of noise, a wave of clapping, a chant building with heat and hunger:

Let's go! Let's go!

Ahead, the entrance to the main hall blazed with light. Her heart kicked. Her breath caught sharp in her throat as adrenaline surged -- hot, wild, electric. Whatever waited on the other side, she wasn't walking away from it.

She was walking straight into it.

And something inside her was already rising to meet it.

Marcus and Jamal flanked her as they stepped into the light -- and the world narrowed and exploded all at once. The heat hit her face first, followed by a blinding flash that made her flinch. Her pupils shrank to pinpoints. For a breath, she froze, caught in the storm of sound and light and sweat.

Then the roar landed.

It didn't just echo. It hit. A wave of sound slammed into her chest, wrapped around her ribs, thundered in her blood. It rattled her bones, kissed her skin, stole the breath from her lungs. She staggered slightly. Marcus's hand caught her elbow. Jamal's presence anchored her on the other side -- a quiet wall of warmth and steadiness.

She pulled in a sharp breath.

This wasn't a fantasy. This wasn't a dream scrawled in the back of a journal. This was real. Loud. Blinding. Bigger than anything she'd ever let herself imagine.

The cameras waited at either side of the stage -- cold, black eyes, watching, waiting, hungry. And at the center, lit like an altar, stood the bed.

Black velvet. Tight. Decadent. Daring.

The air around it shimmered with silent promises. It wasn't just a prop. It was a threshold. A line she was about to cross -- the last thread connecting the girl she had been to the woman stepping into the fire.

The crowd surged as she stepped into the lights.

Whistles. Cheers. Stomping feet. The noise wrapped around her, punched through her, made her heart stutter and her thighs tighten. For one brief moment, Emily froze. Panic fluttered, cold and bright -- and then something deeper shifted.

A turn. A flicker.

Not fear.

Power.

The crowd wasn't crushing her. It was lifting her. Feeding her. Pulling her upward into something new, something bolder, something she had never let herself believe she could be.

From the edge of the stage, Ryder's voice cracked across the roar -- sharp, smooth, celebratory:

"Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the newest star of the adult stage -- the breathtaking, the irresistible... Emily Wilder!"

The name hit her like a live wire.

Emily Wilder.

She stiffened. Her mouth parted, the start of a protest -- wait-- -- but no sound came.

Porn name. Stage name.

Unfamiliar. Dangerous. Delicious.

The name curled through her chest like a spark she didn't know she'd been waiting for. It caught in her bloodstream. It fit. Not like something borrowed -- but something claimed.

And it stayed. Lodged deep. Wild and sweet and impossible to ignore.

Beside her, Marcus and Jamal flanked her like gods carved from flesh, their bodies radiating heat, power, and promise. Solid. Beautiful. Undeniable.

Emily's gaze swept across the crowd -- a sea of upturned faces, mouths open, eyes hungry. Lights flashed like a thousand tiny suns, flickering against skin and velvet and glass. And something inside her stirred. Stretched. Flexed.

Opened.

She wasn't just being seen.

She was being wanted.

Craved. Devoured.

The applause crested again -- a roar that filled the space until it felt like even the walls were vibrating, the floor trembling under her heels. And then, without thinking, Emily raised her arms. Slow. Fluid. A quiet, stunning act of offering.

To the lights.

To the noise.

To the storm of desire crashing toward her.

She closed her eyes for just a second.

And then she smiled.

The moment tilted.

Spun.

Cracked open.

She wasn't the trembling girl being led to the edge anymore.

She was the edge.

The center.

The pull.

Emily Wilder was no longer emerging.

She had arrived.

And for the first time, she didn't just surrender to the stage.

She owned it.

She commanded it.

-------

As Ryder's voice faded, the stage was swallowed by darkness -- thick, absolute. A velvet hush fell over the crowd like a held breath.

For a moment, nothing moved. Just the charged, jittering air and the sound of hundreds of hearts thudding beneath dress shirts and leather jackets. Anticipation thickened. It crept across skin, crawled up spines, pressed tight against Emily's own chest.

Then --

A single spotlight snapped to life.

Blinding. Sharp as a blade.

And it found her.

Emily Wilder.

The name trembled through her mind as the light poured over her, gilding every line, every curve, turning her skin into something unreal. Luminous. Holy.

She stood still, suspended between the hush of shadow and the heat of exposure, her breath thin as thread in the vast silence. It was as if she had stepped out of her skin and into myth. For one trembling heartbeat, she wasn't a girl anymore.

She was a story. A want. A flame.

The crowd didn't move. They watched -- rapt, frozen -- their gaze a thousand tongues on her skin.

Then, like smoke curling from a struck match, the music began.

Low at first -- a bassline that brushed the edge of hearing, sliding beneath the skin. The melody unwound slow and sinful, each note a hush at the ear, a warm exhale across bare shoulders, a promise breathed in the dark.

Emily felt it pulse under her ribs.

And when she moved, it wasn't decision. It was instinct.

Her hips swayed. Tentative at first -- then deeper, slower, building from her feet, coiling upward into her spine. The crowd gasped, soft and collective, the sound crashing gently over her like a tide.

But she didn't stop.

Her eyelids fluttered shut as something hot and alive unspooled inside her -- something wild and wordless.

The spotlight carved her from shadow. It followed every curve like a lover's hands, illuminating the rhythm that bloomed from her body. Each roll of her hips, every slow bend of her spine, became a push and pull between control and surrender.

The music threaded through her, tugging at the last frayed threads of fear.

She wasn't performing.

She was becoming.

And they were watching -- all of them -- helpless to look away.

In the crowd, mouths parted, hands hovered mid-air, drinks forgotten. Eyes wide. Fixed. Starved.

Emily tilted her head back, baring her throat in a slow, sinuous arc. The warmth of the lights kissed her skin. The melody curled beneath her ribs. She let go.

Arms lifted. Body arched. She moved as if she'd always known how. As if this moment had lived in her, waiting.

She wasn't Emily the girl.

Not Emily the good daughter, or the broken secret, or the name whispered in fear.

She was Emily Wilder.

Raw. Radiant. Untouchable.

And for the first time, she didn't belong to anyone but herself.

Onstage, time stretched thin -- a wire strung between hunger and satisfaction.

In the crowd, the world narrowed to a single, burning point.

And as she danced, the spell deepened -- a pull of bodies and breath and longing -- until every eye locked on her was a silent prayer, and every heartbeat a drumbeat of surrender.

As Emily's dance built toward its fevered peak, the air in the hall tightened -- a breathless hush stretched thin, trembling on the verge of breaking. For a heartbeat, the room hung still, the crowd spellbound, the music thrumming like a pulse under the skin.

And then -- they emerged.

Marcus and Jamal moved from the shadows like summoned spirits, their presence vast and magnetic. Their eyes locked onto Emily with a heat that kissed across her skin before their hands even reached her, and the audience exhaled in a stunned, collective gasp -- a sound like wind through dry leaves.

They closed in, bodies perfectly aligned, the triangle between them humming with tension. Emily's heart raced, a staccato beat against her ribs, as Marcus reached her first. His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that stole her breath, a savage crush of lips that left no room for hesitation. His hands were bold, unashamed -- cupping her breasts through the mesh, sliding over her waist with possessive precision, gripping her hips as though staking a claim.

Emily melted against him, her body arching like a bow pulled tight, her lips parting in surrender as his tongue swept in, tasting, taking, conquering. Around them, the crowd fell into a hush so deep it quivered, transfixed by the raw spectacle unfolding before them.

And when Marcus finally broke away, chest heaving, Jamal stepped in -- his mouth finding hers with a force that matched and deepened the hunger in the room. Emily's knees weakened as his kiss devoured what Marcus had left trembling, his hands sliding up her spine, fisting briefly in her hair before smoothing along her arms, anchoring her as if she might simply drift apart.

The delicate fishnet over Emily's breasts surrendered with a whispering tear, the fabric giving way to eager hands and grazing mouths. The spotlight shivered across her skin, gilding every trembling inch, each curve of hip and slope of shoulder painted in light and shadow, until she seemed to glow from within -- a body in worship, a flame offered up.

Emily's head tipped back, eyes fluttering closed, a soft moan slipping free as her body writhed in the heat of their touch. Her hands reached instinctively, fingers skimming across the taut ridges of Marcus's chest, tracing the hardened lines of Jamal's arms -- her palms hungry to learn every plane of flesh, every dip of muscle.

The heat from their bodies pressed into her, seeping through the paper-thin barrier of their clothes, a living furnace against her skin. Each brush of contact sent a jolt through her, a shiver of both reverence and craving, as if she were caught between worshipper and goddess, between surrender and command.

Around them, the crowd swayed like a single, breathing organism, their desire thick in the air, their cheers rising now in waves that matched the rhythm on stage. Emily, caught between the two towering men, felt herself carried to the edge of something wild -- no longer a girl on a stage, but a storm pulling everything into its eye.

As her hands drifted lower, her fingers grazed the swollen bulges straining against the confines of their pants. A shiver of anticipation coursed through her, her curiosity piqued by the promise of the secrets hidden beneath. A sly, mischievous smile played on her lips as her fingers hooked into the waistbands of their pants, her gaze locked onto their faces with an unspoken challenge.

With a swift, fluid motion, she tugged their pants down, her breath catching in her throat as Marcus and Jamal's cocks burst free. They were imposing and majestic, their skin flushed with arousal, their tips glistening with precum. Emily's eyes widened in awe and desire at the sight.

Her hands reached out, eager to explore the newfound treasures that lay before her. Her fingers traced the veins and contours of their shafts, her touch a whisper against their heated skin. Marcus and Jamal's bodies seemed to shudder in unison, muscles tensing and relaxing under her sensual exploration.

Slowly, Emily sank to her knees, the heat of their cocks radiating against her face like a furnace. She breathed in deeply, the musky scent of arousal filling her senses like a heady perfume. With a teasing touch, she traced the outline of their massive balls, her fingers gentle yet firm like a sculptor molding clay.

Their bodies were ablaze with desire, skin hot to the touch, breaths ragged with anticipation. Emily's mouth watered, her gaze locked onto their cocks like a predator stalking its prey.

She took one cock in her hand, wrapping her fingers around the base, her thumb teasing the sensitive tip. Simultaneously, her other hand stroked the second cock, her fingers exploring its length. She looked up at Marcus and Jamal, her eyes dark with desire and hunger.

Her lips parted, and she leaned forward, her breath a warm tease against their straining erections. The men's bodies trembled, their anticipation palpable as she took one cock into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip.

She sucked gently, her hand stroking the other cock in time with her movements, creating a rhythm as steady and unrelenting as a drumbeat. Their breaths grew more labored, their bodies tense with the building pleasure. Emily's mouth and hands worked in unison, her movements fluid and graceful like a dancer in a ballet.

The men's cocks swelled in her mouth, their precum mingling with her saliva. She could sense their climax approaching, their bodies rigid with the effort of holding back like a dam on the verge of bursting.

Marcus's hand closed around the leash, his grip firm as he pulled Emily closer, her body following his lead like a puppet on a string. She felt his large cock slide deeper into her mouth, the sensation of his thick shaft filling her throat both pleasurable and overwhelming.

Emily's eyes watered, her body trembling with the force of his thrusts, her hands braced against the cold, hard floor, her knees scraping against the rough surface. Marcus groaned, his grip on the leash tightening as he began to walk backward, forcing Emily into a crawling motion.

She stumbled after him, her mouth still wrapped around his cock, her eyes locked onto his six-pack, the muscles rippling. As they neared the edge of the stage, she felt the heat of the crowd, their excited whispers and heavy breathing filling her ears like a symphony of desire.

Suddenly, she was aware of many hands upon her, groping and caressing her body, their touches both intrusive and thrilling. Emily's arousal spiked as she realized she was on display, a plaything for both the men on stage and the audience below, their gazes hot and heavy upon her body.

The thought of being used and pleasured in front of so many people sent a shiver down Emily's spine, a delicious mix of fear and excitement coursing through her veins like a drug. As Marcus continued to back away, Emily's body skimmed the edge of the stage, her ass in the air, her cunt exposed and vulnerable like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked.

She felt a presence behind her, and then a blunt pressure as Jamal's massive cock nudged her entrance. With a moan, she relaxed, her body opening for him like a flower in bloom, his thick girth stretching her deliciously. The dual sensations of Marcus in her mouth and Jamal inside her cunt were overwhelming, a symphony of pleasure that made her body shake with each thrust.

Emily's moans echoed through the room. She felt like a goddess, desired and worshipped by these two powerful men. Marcus's hands were rough and possessive, his touch like a brand on her skin. Jamal's hands gripped her hips, his touch firm and demanding, a reminder of his ownership.

Emily's body trembled with pleasure, her cunt clenching around Jamal's cock, her throat working on Marcus's shaft like a piston. The men moved in perfect sync, their bodies in rhythm with hers like a well-rehearsed dance. The music swelled, building to a fever pitch as Emily was lifted off the ground, her body suspended between the two men.

Emily felt their hot breath on her skin, a tantalizing whisper that sent shivers down her spine. Their musky scent filled her nostrils, a heady aroma that made her pussy tingle with anticipation. The crowd's cheers and gasps filled the room, a cacophony of excitement that made her heart race like a wild animal.

With each thrust, Emily's body shook, her orgasm building to a crescendo like a wave crashing against the shore. Jamal's cock pounded her cunt, a relentless rhythm that made her body tremble with pleasure. His hips snapped forward, a powerful force that made her tits bounce with each thrust. His body tensed with anticipation, a coiled spring ready to unleash its full potential.

Jamal, however, was not done with her yet. With a primal growl, he pulled out of her and lifted her up into the air, her back pressed against his chest, her legs spread eagle by his strong arms. She could feel his massive cock at her entrance, a tantalizing promise of more pleasure to come. With one swift motion, he plunged back inside her, and her cunt impaled on his throbbing shaft. The crowd gasped, their eyes transfixed on the erotic display.

Jamal's grip on her legs tightened as he pounded into her, his hips slamming against her, his cock filling every inch of her cunt. Emily's body was on fire, her orgasm still pulsing through her as Jamal continued to fuck her relentlessly. His breathing was ragged in her ear, a primal reminder of his impending release. His tight grip on her bruised, but she didn't care. All she could feel was the delicious friction of his cock inside her, the way he filled her up, the way her body clenched around him.

As Jamal's thrusts became more erratic, Marcus stepped in front of her, his engorged cock just inches from her dripping cunt. With a swiftness that defied their positions, Jamal pulled out of her, and Marcus caught her in his arms. He lowered her onto his waiting shaft, her legs still in the air, her naked chest pressed against his.

Emily's moans filled the room as Marcus's thick cock filled her up instead, stretching her in a way that was both painful and exquisite. Jamal's hands moved to her ass, kneading her cheeks roughly as Marcus pounded into her. The crowd's cheers and gasps filled the room, their excitement palpable.

Marcus's hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he fucked her, his hips slapping against her with a wet, wanton sound. Jamal's lubricated finger found her asshole and soon he was knuckle-deep in her. Marcus, realizing what was going on, slowed his pace.

But Jamal had more ambitions. He withdrew his finger and pressed something much larger against her pucker. Emily panicked, clinging tighter to Marcus's body as a mix of pain and pleasure washed over her. With one swift thrust, the second cock found its way into her small body.

The sensation of being filled by two cocks, one in her cunt and one in her ass, was overwhelming. As the men moved in perfect sync, their two hard cocks fucking her in a relentless rhythm. Emily's orgasm was building up fast. Her body trembled with pleasure, her cunt clenching around Marcus's cock, her ass gripping Jamal's. Her body shook with each thrust, her muscles tensing and relaxing in a never-ending dance of pleasure and pain.

As another tidal wave of pleasure finally crashed over her, Emily's body shuddered with release, her cries of pleasure echoing through the hall. Emily's eyes clenched shut, her mind reeling with the intensity of her orgasm.

Marcus's cock, thick and engorged, throbbed inside her cunt, his hips bucking wildly. Jamal's cock pulsed with the force of his impending release, buried deep in her ass. The men's bodies shuddered, their orgasms building to a crescendo.

With a final thrust, the men found their release. Their bodies tensed and shuddered, their cries of pleasure mingling with hers. Hot, sticky cum filled Emily's holes. Marcus's cock erupted inside her cunt, his load coating her walls with a warm, slippery substance. Jamal's cock, still buried in her ass, released its load, filling her completely.

Emily's body trembled with the sensation of being filled with their cum. The men's bodies collapsed onto hers, nearly crushing her between their chests. Their breaths were ragged and uneven, their hearts pounding with the aftermath of their orgasms.

As the men caught their breath and stood back, Emily sank back to her knees, her body still reeling from the intense pleasure. Her mouth hung open from exhaustion.

The men, still spent from their release, pushed their slimy cocks into her mouth. Emily did not mind, her tongue eagerly lapping at their spent cocks, savoring the taste of their cum. She cleaned them thoroughly, her mouth and throat working in tandem to extract every last drop.

The room was filled with the sound of their heavy breathing and the wet, sloppy sounds of Emily's mouth on their cocks.

As the men pulled away, Emily sat back on her heels, her body covered in a mix of sweat, cum, and saliva. She looked up at them with a satisfied smile, her eyes shining with the afterglow of their lovemaking. It was a moment she would never forget, a moment that would stay with her forever.

Then Emily's gaze swept the room, taking in the sea of faces. There were men of all ages, shapes, and sizes, but they all shared one thing in common: their eyes were fixed on her with a mixture of admiration and hunger. She felt a surge of power and pride, knowing she had brought them to this state.

But then her eyes landed on Dr. Meddows, standing at the back of the room with a gentle smile on his face. He wasn't looking at her with lust or desire, but with a deep sense of satisfaction and approval. Emily's heart swelled with gratitude as she smiled back at him, feeling a deep connection to the man who had helped her unlock her true potential.

--------

Emily stood radiant in the packed booth, the pink bunny costume hugging her body like a whispered secret -- a secret the whole world now knew. The glossy fabric caught the light with every movement, molding to her hips, gliding over her breasts, shimmering down her thighs. Around her, the crowd surged -- a sea of faces, hands, and flashing cameras, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and something rawer: hunger.

She moved among them like she belonged to this world -- the stage, the cameras, the wide, eager eyes. With each autograph she swept across glossy 8x10s, each playful lean into a fan's shoulder, Emily felt the electric snap of power surge up her spine. They weren't just watching her -- they were drinking her in, and she poured herself out like a gift she'd learned, over these many months, to give with both grace and fire.

The camera flashes burst like fireworks, freezing her in a hundred angles: the curve of her waist, the arch of her back, the flash of mischief in her smile. Emily felt it all -- the weight of their gazes, the thrill of their applause, the greedy, worshipful pull of their attention. It wrapped around her like velvet, like heat, like the crown she'd once only dared to imagine.

And under it all, faint but unmistakable, pulsed the memory of who she'd once been -- a heartbeat from another life. That girl -- shy, cautious, a shadow inside her own skin -- had long since slipped away. Over a year now, Emily thought, and the old fear barely even whispers anymore.

The pink bunny suit wasn't just a costume. It was a declaration. A banner. A shimmering, wicked promise that whispered: Look at me. Want me. Remember me. The soft fluff brushed her skin with every shift, a teasing, decadent caress. And the way the fabric framed her -- breasts high, hips curved, legs bare and gleaming -- made her feel drunk on the way their eyes clung to her. She was the siren at the center of it all, and they were helpless to do anything but follow the pull.

Emily's laugh rang out, breathless and light, as another camera clicked, as another fan stumbled over his words under her playful gaze. She felt like fire in human form -- and she had never, ever wanted to burn so bright.

Then -- a flash of pink at the edge of her vision.

Lilly.

Radiant, mischievous, magnetic -- a mirror in matching pink bunny finery, her smile wicked and soft all at once. Emily's heart skipped, the sound and fury of the crowd blurring into hush. The world narrowed to one point: Lilly's eyes, glinting with affection, and the slow, inevitable lean of her body toward Emily's.

When their lips met, it was soft at first -- a brush of satin, a whisper through the noise -- then deeper, hungrier, until the crowd melted into a smear of cheers and flashes.

Emily's heart lurched, a sweet ache blooming in her chest. "I love you, lil' bunny," she murmured, voice roughened by the rush, the memory of every night they'd spent like this -- stealing heat from the storm.

"I love you too, honey bunny," Lilly whispered, her fingers tracing a teasing path along Emily's jaw.

They lingered in the kiss, unwilling to break the fragile bubble they'd spun around themselves. When they parted, Emily caught Lilly's lower lip between her teeth, playful, daring -- a private promise they both understood. Lilly grinned, then with a flick of her tongue, licked Emily's nose.

For a heartbeat, they were just girls again -- giggling, collapsing into each other as the crowd roared back to life.

As the cheers swelled, Emily felt herself lift, as if her feet barely touched the floor. Together they posed for photos, arms entwined, costumes gleaming under the lights. Their smiles weren't just for the cameras; they were alive with something deeper, something electric and real.

Between autographs, Lilly squeezed Emily's hand, her thumb brushing lightly across Emily's knuckles. And in that small touch, Emily felt the weight of it all -- the climb, the doubt, the wild leap into a world she once only watched from the outside, the love that had caught her and lifted her higher than she'd dreamed.

Looking out over the sea of faces, Emily felt her chest rise, her heart swell. She had remade herself, piece by daring piece. And here she stood -- not just transformed, but claimed, adored, radiant.

The world stretched out before her, vast and glittering, and for the first time, Emily didn't hesitate. She was ready -- not just to be seen, but to be known, to take every risk, to chase every spark.

And at her side, laughing and shining, was Lilly -- her twin flame, her anchor, her match.

Suddenly, Emily and Lilly's faces lit up with excitement. "Dr. Meddows!" they exclaimed in unison, bursting out happily as they rushed to greet him. They threw their arms around him, showering him with kisses and hugs.

He couldn't help but laugh at their exuberance. "Oh, you two are something else!" he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. As he spoke, he reached out and playfully grabbed the asses of both Emily and Lilly, giving them a gentle squeeze. The two bunnies squealed with delight, their giggles and kisses only intensifying as they clung to Dr. Meddows

"I'd like you to meet someone," Dr. Meddows said, his voice warm and soothing. He gestured to a stunning brunette standing beside him, her glazed expression a stark contrast to Emily and Lilly's radiant smiles.

Dahlia's outfit was a sight to behold - a tight, red mini-dress that barely covered her curves, paired with a pair of stilettos that made her legs look like they went on forever. Her nipples were visible through the thin fabric, and her thighs were exposed almost to the point of indecency. A sparkly choker adorned her neck, and her hair was styled in loose, tousled waves that framed her face, accentuating her soft features and large green eyes.

Dahlia's eyes darted between the girls, her face flushing with embarrassment as she realized they were the two girls who were being featured in the explicit video playing on the widescreen behind them. Emily and Lilly, on the other hand, were thrilled to meet her. They exchanged air kisses, their lips barely grazing Dahlia's cheeks as they welcomed her to the party.

As Dr. Meddows handed Dahlia over to the girls, Emily and Lilly began to work in tandem, their movements choreographed to perfection. Emily's fingers danced across Dahlia's skin, tracing the curves of her body as she teased her and caressed her. Lilly, meanwhile, focused on Dahlia's face, her lips brushing against Dahlia's ear as she whispered sweet words.

"Oh, Dahlia, you're so shy," Emily said, her voice playful and teasing. "We're going to have to bring you out of your shell."

Lilly nodded in agreement, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah, we're going to make you feel so good."

Dahlia's eyes widened in shock, her face flushing with embarrassment as the girls played with her. Her heart raced as Emily and Lilly's hands explored her skin, tracing the curves of her body with gentle caresses. Emily's fingers slipped beneath Dahlia's skirt, her touch sending shivers down Dahlia's spine. Lilly, meanwhile, nibbled on Dahlia's earlobe, her teeth grazing against the sensitive skin.

"You're so responsive, Dahlia," Emily said, her voice husky with excitement. "I think you're going to love this."

Lilly nodded in agreement, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah, we're going to make you feel so good."

The crowd watched in awe, their eyes fixed on the three girls as they indulged in a playful and sensual display. Emily and Lilly exposed Dahlia to their fans, turning her on and making her blush even more. They whispered scandalous suggestions in her ear, their hot breath sending shivers down her spine.

Dr. Meddows intervened. "Ok ok, girls. Don't eat her alive, I still need her. We have to be going. I will see you two sweet bunnies later."

As they said their goodbyes, Emily and Lilly kissed Dahlia passionately, their tongues tangling as they explored each other's mouths. Dahlia's eyes fluttered, her body responding to the girls' advances. Her lips were swollen and red as they pulled away, her chest heaving with excitement.

"Thanks for the fun, Dahlia," Emily said, her voice husky with excitement. She winked at Dahlia, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Lilly nodded in agreement, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah, we'll have to make it a regular thing." She leaned in, her lips brushing against Dahlia's ear. "We'll show you the real meaning of fun."

As they walked away, Emily and Lilly couldn't help but glance back at Dahlia, who was still blushing from their encounter. They giggled, knowing they had left her wanting more.