Chapter 10

Lacey Carver sprawled across the worn leather couch in the dim living room, the flicker of the television casting shadows over her bandaged chest. The pain from her new Double-E-cup implants throbbed with every breath, a dull ache that radiated through her thirty-two-year-old body. The surgical bandages wrapped tightly around her torso, constricting her movements, but they couldn’t stifle the relentless heat pooling between her thighs.

For days since the operation, she’d been a prisoner to her recovery, forbidden from the rough, pounding sex that had become her life’s pulse. Her pussy ached with need, slick and swollen from hours of edging, her mind a haze of gooning lust as she replayed memories of Dane’s eleven-inch cock splitting her open, his cruel hands bending her to his will.

The television blared Alpha Dogs, the gritty biker show Lacey had obsessed over recently, and her eyes locked on the screen. She’d fast-forwarded to her favorite scene: Candy, the platinum-haired biker bitch, on her knees in a seedy bar, her glossy lips wrapped around a biker’s thick shaft. Candy’s eyes, wide and vacant, mirrored Lacey’s own ditzy adoration as she worshipped the man’s cock, her moans muffled by his thrusts.

Lacey’s breath hitched, her fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her loose sweatpants. She didn’t bother with panties during her recovery and the ease of access sent a shiver through her. Two fingers plunged into her dripping pussy, the wet squelch loud in the quiet room. Her other hand found her clit, rubbing furiously, the friction sparking jolts of pleasure that made her toes curl.

“Oh, fuck,” Lacey whimpered, her voice a needy whine. Her eyes flicked between Candy’s bobbing head and a photo on the coffee table—Dane, shirtless after football practice, his chiseled pecs gleaming with sweat, his green eyes smoldering with that predatory glint. She imagined him towering over her, his massive cock splitting her lips, her throat, her very soul.

The pain in her chest flared as her body tensed, but she didn’t care. She needed release, needed to feel something other than the maddening frustration of being sidelined. Her fingers worked faster, curling inside her, hitting that sweet spot that made her gasp. Candy’s on-screen moans fueled her, the slut’s submissive surrender a mirror to Lacey’s own descent. She was going to be so fucking hot when these bandages came off—long thick platinum hair, pornstar tits, Dane’s perfect fuckdoll.

Her hips bucked against her hand, the couch creaking under her writhing weight. The image of Dane’s cock—thick, veined, relentless—filled her mind, each thrust from memory driving her closer. Her clit throbbed under her frantic rubbing, her pussy clenching around her fingers. “Dane, baby, Big Daddy,” she gasped, her voice breaking as the orgasm crashed through her.

Her body shuddered, thighs clamping around her hand, her juices soaking her fingers as she rode the waves of pleasure. She collapsed back, panting, her vision blurry with tears of relief and lingering need. The pain in her chest pulsed, a cruel reminder of her temporary uselessness, but the high of her climax dulled it, if only for a moment.

The front door slammed, jolting Lacey from her haze. Heavy footsteps thudded through the house, each one sending a thrill of fear and anticipation down her spine. Dane was home. She scrambled to sit up, wincing as her bandaged tits shifted, the pain sharp enough to make her hiss. She tugged her sweatpants up, her wet fingers leaving a dark stain on the fabric.

Lacey’s heart raced as Dane’s towering frame filled the doorway, his tight black tee clinging to his rippling muscles, his jeans slung low on his hips. His green eyes, dark with irritation, raked over her, and that faint smirk she loved—cruel, possessive—curved his lips.

“Fuck, babygirl,” Dane growled, tossing his gym bag onto the floor. “You’re still laid up like some useless bitch. I’m getting fucking annoyed with this recovery shit.” He stepped closer, looming over her, his presence suffocating. Before she could respond, his hand cracked across her cheek, a sharp sting that made her gasp. “Heal faster, damn it. I need you stripping, cooking my dinner, being my slut again.”

Lacey’s eyes watered, the slap igniting a twisted mix of shame and arousal. “I’m sorry, baby,” she whimpered, her voice small, trembling. “I don’t have any control over it. I’m trying, I swear.” Her hands twisted in her lap, her pussy still throbbing from her orgasm, now aching for his approval. She hated disappointing him, hated being anything less than his perfect toy. The pain in her chest was nothing compared to the agony of his displeasure.

Dane’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. “Yeah, well, you’re still good for something, even if you can’t fuck.” He sank onto the couch beside her, spreading his thick thighs, his bulge straining against his jeans. “Get over here and suck my cock, babygirl. Make yourself useful.”

Lacey’s heart leapt, a surge of gratitude washing over her. She could still please him, still be his good girl. Ignoring the pain in her chest, she slid to her knees between his legs, her hands trembling as she reached for his zipper. The metal rasped as she tugged it down, his massive cock springing free, already half-hard and impossibly thick.

Her mouth watered at the sight—eleven inches of raw power, veined and pulsing, the head glistening with precum. She leaned in, her tongue darting out to lap at the tip, savoring the salty tang. A low moan escaped her as she dragged her tongue along the underside, slobbering over the shaft, coating it in spit.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Dane growled, his hand tangling in her platinum hair. “Good slut. You know what I like.” His voice was rough, laced with that dark approval that made her pussy clench. “Gonna look so fucking hot with those pornstar tits bouncing while you choke on my dick.”

Lacey’s cheeks flushed, her eyes lifting to meet his, adoring and desperate. She wrapped her lips around the head, sucking gently at first, then harder, her tongue swirling as she took him deeper. The stretching of her mouth was familiar, intoxicating, even as her jaw ached. She bobbed her head, spit dribbling down her chin, her free hand slipping between her thighs to rub her clit again. The pain in her bandaged tits flared as her body moved, but she pushed through it, needing to please him, needing to be his everything.

Dane’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into her scalp. “Look at you, babygirl,” he snarled, his hips bucking slightly, pushing his cock deeper into her throat. “Can’t fuck, but you’re still my cock-hungry whore.” He grabbed her head with both hands, taking control, and started fucking her face.

The force of his thrusts made her gag, her throat constricting around his shaft, but she didn’t pull away. Her tits bounced painfully with each brutal thrust, the bandages chafing her tender skin, but she whimpered through it, her eyes watering as she stared up at him. His pleasure was her purpose, his dominance her drug.

Her fingers worked her clit faster, the wet sounds of her pussy mingling with the sloppy gags of her throat. Dane’s growls grew louder, his cock throbbing against her tongue. “Fuck, you’re gonna be perfect,” he grunted, his eyes locked on hers, dark with lust. “Those big fake tits, this tight throat—my perfect fuckdoll.” The words sent a jolt through her, her pussy clenching as another orgasm built. The pain, the degradation, the sheer power of his control—it was everything she craved.

Dane’s thrusts grew erratic, his grip bruising as he slammed into her mouth. “Take it, slut,” he roared, his cock pulsing. Hot cum flooded her throat, thick and overwhelming, and Lacey swallowed eagerly, her tongue working to catch every drop. The taste, the heat, the sheer act of servicing him pushed her over the edge. Her fingers plunged deeper, her clit throbbing as she came again, her muffled moans vibrating around his cock. Her body shook, the pain in her chest a distant echo against the rush of her climax.

He pulled out, his cock still hard, glistening with her spit and his cum. Lacey gasped for air, her lips swollen, her chin slick. She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with devotion, her body trembling with need. “Did I do good, Big Daddy?” she whispered, her voice hoarse, hopeful.

Dane smirked, wiping a bead of cum from her lip with his thumb. “Yeah, babygirl,” he said, his tone softening just enough to make her heart swell. “You’re still my good slut.” He leaned back, his eyes raking over her, and she felt the weight of his gaze, possessive and hungry. “Soon as those tits heal, you’re gonna be unstoppable.”

Lacey nodded, her chest aching but her soul soaring. She’d take the pain, the slaps, the degradation—anything to be his. She curled up beside him on the couch, her hand resting on his thigh, her body humming with the afterglow. The television still played Alpha Dogs, Candy’s moans a faint echo in the background, but Lacey’s world was here, with Dane, her abusive stud son, her everything.

But her pussy ached with unspent need, slick from her recent orgasm, her mind swirling with the reality that her new job—stripping at a local club—would be their lifeline now. After losing her bank job, she’d accepted Dane’s plan, her ditzy heart clinging to the idea of dancing for him, of earning money to ease his burdens. The thought of swaying on a stage, her platinum hair and pornstar tits drawing cash for her man, sent a shiver of arousal through her body.

Dane shifted beside her, grabbing her phone from the coffee table. “Time to get serious about your training, babygirl,” he said, his voice a low growl that made her pussy clench. He unlocked her phone with her PIN—she’d surrendered it to him weeks ago—and pulled up playlists of strippers working poles and grinding lapdances.

“Study these sluts,” he ordered, tossing the phone onto her lap. “That’s your job now, bringing in cash for us. You start as soon as those tits heal.” He smirked, his green eyes glinting with possession. “And masturbate while you watch. Gotta learn to love making us money.”

Lacey nodded, her cheeks flushing with a mix of nerves and excitement. Stripping was her future now, her way to provide for Dane, to be his perfect fuckdoll while keeping their home afloat by shaking her tits and ass onstage for tips. The idea felt daunting, but his command ignited her desire to please him. “Yes, Big Daddy,” she whispered, her fingers trembling as she gripped the phone. Dane stood, zipping his jeans, and headed to the kitchen, muttering about heating a frozen dinner. The microwave hummed, leaving Lacey alone with her task and her pulsing need.

She opened the “Pole Sluts” playlist and tapped the first video. A curvy brunette in a glittery red thong and bra spun on a pole, her long legs wrapping it tightly in a neon-lit club. Her fake tits bounced as she arched back, hips grinding to a thumping beat. Lacey’s hand slid beneath her sweatpants, finding her soaked pussy.

She rubbed her clit slowly, matching the brunette’s sultry rhythm, her eyes fixed on the screen. The stripper dropped to a crouch, her ass teasing the stage, then rose, tossing her hair with a seductive smirk. Lacey’s fingers circled faster, her pussy throbbing as she pictured herself on that pole, Dane watching from the crowd, his cock hard as she danced for their future.

The next video showed a blonde with a bronzed body, her tiny bikini straining over massive implants. She climbed the pole with ease, hooking one leg high and spinning, her thighs flexing with power. Lacey’s fingers plunged into her pussy, the wet squelch loud as she imagined earning tips for Dane, her platinum hair swinging, her new tits bouncing.

The blonde thrust her hips at the stage’s edge, blowing kisses to cheering men, and Lacey moaned, her clit pulsing under her touch. She’d be that confident, that hot, bringing in cash to make Dane proud. Her hips bucked against her hand, the couch creaking as she worked herself closer.

Another clip featured a black stripper in a silver g-string, her curves shaking as she gave a lapdance, grinding on a man’s lap with slow, deliberate rolls. Lacey’s fingers moved frantically, three now stretching her pussy, her mind racing with visions of straddling Dane, his hands gripping her as she danced for their money.

The stripper leaned in, whispering something filthy, and the man groaned, his hands twitching. Lacey’s breath hitched—she’d learn that tease, that control, to keep men begging while she funneled cash to Dane. Her pussy clenched, the pain in her chest fading against the fire in her core.

The videos blurred: a Latina twerking her plump ass on the pole, a redhead dropping into splits, a petite Asian girl shaking her tits to roars. Lacey studied their moves, her fingers never stopping, her pussy dripping as she imagined herself on stage, her body a magnet for dollar bills. She’d be Dane’s stripper, his money-making slut, her new tits and hair drawing every eye. “For you, Big Daddy,” she gasped, her voice lost in the videos’ bass-lines.

She replayed a lapdance clip, a brunette grinding on a customer, her thong riding high as she let him nuzzle her cleavage. Lacey’s fingers plunged deeper, her clit screaming as she pictured Dane in that chair, her body his to command, her earnings his to claim. The orgasm crashed through her, her pussy gushing, her thighs shaking as she came, her eyes locked on the screen, memorizing every move.

Lacey panted, her body spent but her mind alive with pole spins and hip rolls. She’d practice soon, mastering every tease to support Dane, to be his perfect stripper. The microwave beeped, and Dane’s footsteps neared, but Lacey kept watching, ready to learn more for her man, her pussy already aching to please him again.

Dane slouched in his desk at the back of Lisa Satkowski’s math class, his green eyes locked on the thirty-five-year-old blonde bombshell at the chalkboard. Lisa’s tailored blouse hugged her full, perky tits, the fabric straining just enough to hint at her curves, while her knee-length skirt clung to her rounded hips, swaying with every step. Her golden hair cascaded in soft waves, framing a face with bright blue eyes that flickered with nervous energy under his stare.

Dane’s cock twitched in his tight jeans, his mind racing with fantasies of bending her over the desk, her tight pussy stretched around his eleven-inch shaft. She was a fucking vision, a MILF made for fucking, and he didn’t give a shit about the quadratic equations she was droning on about. What turned him on more than anything was that she’d confessed to him how her husband wasn’t getting her pregnant.

The classroom buzzed with restless energy, but Dane barely noticed the girls vying for his attention. Abigail Foster, the eighteen-year-old drama club star, leaned forward in her vintage dress, her strawberry-blonde curls spilling over her shoulders, her curvy tits practically begging for a grope. She twirled a lock of hair, flashing him a coy smile, but Dane’s eyes flicked past her.