Chapter 4

Dane Carver slouched in his math class desk, his six-foot-three frame barely contained by the cheap plastic seat. The room buzzed with the low hum of pencils scratching and muffled whispers, but Dane’s mind was elsewhere. Life was fucking good. At sixteen, he was a goddamn king—star linebacker of the undefeated football team, chiseled like a Greek god, and packing an eleven-inch cock that made girls weak. For weeks now, he’d been pounding his mom, Lacey, every night, her tight pussy gripping him as she moaned like a bitch in heat.

The thought of her curvy body—those full tits, that round ass—waiting for him at home made his jeans tighten. Sure, he still fucked the hottest teen sluts at school, their perky breasts bouncing as he railed them in empty classrooms or the backseat of his Chevy. But nothing beat bending Lacey over the kitchen counter, her ditzy whimpers fueling his dominance as he slammed into her, owning her completely.

His green eyes scanned the room, hunting for his next conquest. Sofia Alvarez, the Hispanic cheer captain, sat two rows over, her caramel skin glowing, her tight sweater hugging her generous rack. He’d fucked her last year, her pussy clenching as she screamed his name. Maybe he’d hit that again.

Or maybe Jasmine Chen, the shy Asian junior with porcelain skin and a dancer’s body, her hazel eyes flicking nervously when he caught her staring. Untouched by him, but ripe for the taking. His cock twitched at the possibilities, his smirk spreading as he imagined breaking them under his power.

Then he felt it—eyes on him. Not the usual giggles from the cheerleader squad, but something hungrier. Mrs. Satkowski, the math teacher, stood at the board, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her tailored blouse clinging to her full breasts as she looked at Dane, then hurriedly turned back to the board.

At thirty-five, Lisa Satkowski was a fucking milf, her lithe frame and bright blue eyes screaming sex. Her knee-length skirt hugged her rounded hips, and Dane’s gaze lingered on the way her ass swayed as she turned to write an equation. Every guy at the school knew she was a former NFL cheerlader, and her body showed it. She was also the coach of the school’s cheerleading squad. When the football team practiced near the cheerleaders, Mrs. Satkowski got her share of the lustful glances from the young men.

She glanced back again, her eyes locking on his, a faint flush creeping up her neck. Caught. She looked away quickly, but Dane’s smirk widened. The hot teacher was checking him out, her gaze tracing his broad shoulders, his sculpted arms straining his tight tee. His cock stirred, the idea of pounding her mature pussy making his blood surge.

The bell rang, snapping the tension. Students shuffled out, but Dane stayed seated, his eyes on Lisa as she erased the board, her movements deliberate, her skirt riding up slightly. He stood, sauntering to her desk, his swagger radiating confidence. “Nice lecture, Mrs. Satkowski,” he said, his voice low, dripping with charm.

She turned, her smile warm but nervous, her blue eyes flickering over his chest before meeting his gaze. “Oh, Dane, please—call me Lisa.” She giggled, the sound breathy, her cheeks pink. “Mrs. Satkowski makes me feel so old.”

“Lisa, huh?” He leaned against her desk, his muscular frame looming, his grin predatory. “Suits you better. Sexy name for a sexy lady.” The compliment was bold, testing her, and her giggle deepened, her hand brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes darting to his biceps.

They chatted, the conversation light at first—math, football, his college plans. But Lisa’s voice softened, her eyes growing distant as she opened up. “It’s been tough lately,” she admitted, her fingers twisting a pen. “Greg and I ... we’ve been trying to have a baby. Years now. Fertility doctors, tests, the works. But ... nothing.”

Her voice cracked, her vulnerability raw, and Dane’s cock throbbed painfully in his jeans. Knocking her up—filling her tight, desperate pussy with his cum, giving her the strong baby her loser husband couldn’t—fuck, the thought was electric, his manhood rapidly stiffening.

“Shit, Lisa, that’s rough,” he said, his tone consoling but his eyes dark with hunger. He stepped closer, his hand brushing her arm, the contact sending a shiver through her. “You’d make a hell of a mom. I’m sure I’d be happy to ... help you out in any way I can.” His words hung heavy, laced with intent, and her breath hitched, her pupils dilating as she stared up at him.

He was about to push further, maybe pin her against the desk and feel her squirm, when she glanced at the clock. “Oh, gosh!” she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “I’m late for cheerleading practice! I’m so sorry, Dane, I have to go!” She grabbed her bag, her movements flustered, her eyes lingering on him one last time, apologetic but charged.

“No worries, Lisa,” he said, his smirk unfazed, his cock still raging. “Catch you later.” She hurried out, her heels clicking, her ass swaying in that tight skirt, leaving Dane alone in the empty classroom. He adjusted his jeans, the ache in his groin demanding release.

Lisa was a fucking tease, but she’d have to wait. He needed pussy now, something tight and eager to take the edge off. Time to scour the school—Sofia, Jasmine, or some other slut would do. He grabbed his backpack and headed out, his mind already plotting his next conquest, the thrill of the hunt mixing with the promise of Lacey’s waiting body at home.

Lacey Carver sat at her cluttered desk in the bank’s back office, her fingers fumbling over the keyboard as she processed account updates for a major client. The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting stripes across her tight lavender blouse, which hugged her ample breasts and strained slightly at the buttons. At thirty-two, her hourglass figure—full tits, narrow waist, rounded hips—still turned heads, but her mind was a haze, her blue eyes glassy with distraction.

She’d been late to work again, her morning spent lingering in bed, replaying the way Dane fucked her last night. Her son, her sixteen-year-old stud, his six-foot-three frame rippling with muscle, his eleven-inch cock stretching her pussy until she screamed. She called him “Big Daddy” now, a silly joke from their motel night that had morphed into something primal. She moaned it as he pounded her, her voice breaking—”Yes, Big Daddy, yes!”—and soon it slipped out casually, over breakfast or when he fixed the sink, her heart fluttering at his smirk.

God, she loved how he fucked her. Last week, he’d pinned her against the kitchen counter, her skirt hiked up, his massive cock slamming into her so hard the dishes rattled. Her pussy clenched just thinking of it, how he’d growled, “Take it, you slut,” his hands bruising her hips, her orgasm crashing through her like a tidal wave.

Another night, he’d bent her over the dining table, her cheek pressed into the wood, his cock driving deep as he spanked her ass red, her cries of “Harder, Big Daddy, harder!” echoing through the house.

Even yesterday, he’d woken her at dawn, flipping her onto her stomach, fucking her doggy-style while she clutched the headboard, her pussy soaking the sheets as she came, his cum filling her until it dripped down her thighs. Dane was her mean, dominant lover, his cruelty a twisted aphrodisiac, and she craved every brutal thrust, every degrading word.

But her cock-drunkenness was screwing her up. She’d been spacy, ditzier than ever, her mind drifting to Dane’s chiseled jaw or his thick cock mid-task. She’d botched three major client accounts this week—transposing numbers, misfiling transfers, double-charging a withdrawal. Last Tuesday, her boss, Mr. Thopmson, a stern fifty-year-old with a perpetual scowl, had chewed her out in the break room. “Lacey, you’re on thin ice,” Thompson snapped, his voice cutting through Lacey’s fog. “These errors are costing us clients. Shape up, or you’re out.”

Lacey had mumbled apologies, her cheeks burning, her pussy traitorously wet as she imagined Dane punishing her for her stupidity. She wondered now, staring at her computer screen, how close she was to getting fired. The thought tightened her chest, but it was distant, drowned by the ache between her thighs.

She glanced at the clock—5:47 p.m. Shit. Her heart lurched. Dane would be home by six, expecting dinner, his green eyes flashing if she wasn’t there, apron on, stirring a pot for her Big Daddy. She’d promised to make his favorite, creamy fettuccine Alfredo with grilled chicken, the table set with candles like he liked. Panic surged, her hands trembling as she saved her work haphazardly, grabbing her purse. “Mr. Thompson, I’m so sorry, I have to go!” she called, hurrying past her boss’s office.

Thompson’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Lacey, you’re still two hours short from this morning!”

“I’ll make it up tomorrow, I swear!” Lacey’s voice was desperate, her heels clicking as she bolted for the door. Thompson’s exasperated sigh followed her, but Lacey didn’t care. She had to get home to Big Daddy.

She slid into her beat-up Toyota, her pencil skirt riding up, her pulse racing as she peeled out of the parking lot. The drive was a blur, her mind on Dane’s anger if she was late. She sped through a red light, her ditzy focus on the clock—5:53—blinding her to the blaring horn of a pickup truck swerving to avoid her. The near-miss jolted her, her hands shaking on the wheel, but she pressed the gas harder, her only thought to reach home.

She pulled into the driveway at 6:04, her stomach sinking at the sight of Dane’s Chevy already parked, its hood still warm. He was home. He’d be pissed. Her heels wobbled on the gravel as she hurried to the front door, her purse slipping off her shoulder, her blonde hair disheveled. She burst inside, the living room dim, the air thick with tension. “Big Daddy, I’m so sorry!” she sputtered, her voice high with panic. “I got held up at work, I—”

Dane loomed in the doorway to the kitchen, his muscular frame filling the space, his tight black tee clinging to his sculpted chest. His green eyes blazed with fury, his jaw tight, his dark hair damp from a shower. Before she could finish, his hand cracked across her face, a violent slap that sent her reeling, her cheek stinging as she stumbled over the arm of the living room couch. She caught herself, her hands gripping the worn fabric, her skirt hiking up to expose her thighs. “You fucking stupid bitch,” he roared, his voice a guttural snarl. “Can’t even get home on time to cook for your man? Useless slut.”

“I’m sorry, Big Daddy!” she whimpered, her eyes watering, her pussy already wet despite the pain. His rage was terrifying, but it lit her up, her body craving his dominance. He stalked toward her, unzipping his jeans, his massive cock springing free, thick and veined, already hard. He grabbed her hair, yanking her upright, and shoved her over the couch, her ass in the air, her panties yanked down in one brutal tug. “You’re gonna learn to fucking listen,” he growled, his hand smacking her ass so hard the sound echoed, her skin burning red instantly.

Lacey gasped, her body trembling, her pussy throbbing as he drove his cock into her without warning, stretching her painfully, gloriously. “Big Daddy!” she cried, her voice breaking as an orgasm ripped through her almost immediately, her pussy clenching around his shaft.

He fucked her violently as he came with her, his hips slamming against her ass, each thrust jolting her forward, her tits bouncing in her blouse, buttons popping free. His hand cracked her ass again, the pain blending with pleasure, her moans filling the room. “Stupid fucking whore,” he spat, his voice thick with contempt, his cock pounding deeper, claiming her. “This is all you’re good for, isn’t it? Taking my cock.”

“Yes, Big Daddy!” she sobbed, her body surrendering, another orgasm building as he ravaged her, his smacks and thrusts relentless. The couch creaked under their weight, her world narrowing to his cock, his rage, his dominance, her ditzy mind lost in the ecstasy of being his.

Dane’s cock throbbed inside Lacey’s tight pussy, his hips slamming into her with brutal force as she sprawled over the living room couch, her curvy body jolting with each thrust. He towered over her, his chiseled muscles glistening with sweat, his green eyes blazing with rage and lust. She’d fucked up, coming home late, leaving him waiting like some chump, and now she’d pay.

His hand cracked against her ass again, the red welts blooming on her pale skin, her pathetic whimpers—”Big Daddy!”—only stoking his fire. He was horny as hell, his eleven-inch cock still rock-hard even after cumming once, filling her pussy with his load. The pent-up frustration from school burned in his veins, and Lacey, his thirty-two-year-old slut of a mom, was the perfect outlet.

That blonde milf, Lisa Satkowski, had fucked with his head during the last period of the day. Her tight blouse, those full tits, the way her blue eyes lingered on his muscles in math class—shit, she’d practically been begging for his cock. Listening to her talk about wanting a baby, her voice all soft and desperate, had made his dick rage, imagining pumping her full of his cum, knocking her up where her loser husband failed.

He’d prowled the school after, hunting for a quick fuck to take the edge off—Sofia’s curvy ass, Jasmine’s delicate frame, even that naive freshman Chloe—but the halls were empty, the cheerleaders already at practice with Lisa. No pussy to pound, no release, just his balls aching and his roid-fueled temper simmering. Now, Lacey was getting every ounce of it, her body his to wreck.

He gripped her hips, yanking her off the couch and flipping her onto her back, her blonde hair splayed across the cushions, her lavender blouse torn open, her big tits bouncing free. “Fucking useless slut,” he snarled, his hand crashing down on her left tit, the flesh jiggling under the violent smack, a red handprint forming instantly. She gasped, her blue eyes wide with pain and twisted pleasure, her pussy clenching around his cock as he thrust deeper, her legs spread wide.

He smacked her other tit, harder, relishing her cry, the way her body arched under his cruelty. “You like that, don’t you, you filthy whore?” His voice was a growl, his rage pouring out—Lisa’s tease, the empty school, Lacey’s fucking tardiness—all of it fueling his need to dominate, to break her.

His cock pounded her relentlessly, her pussy slick with their cum, her moans filling the room as her tits bounced with each brutal thrust. She was a goddamn vision, her hourglass figure made for fucking—full breasts, narrow waist, hips he could grip and ruin. He leaned down, biting her nipple hard, her scream sending a jolt through his cock.

“Big Daddy’s gonna fuck you raw,” he spat, his hand smacking her face, lighter than before but enough to make her cheek flush. His balls tightened, the pressure building again, and with a guttural roar, he came, his cock pulsing as he flooded her pussy with another thick load, her body trembling through her own orgasm, her pussy milking him dry.

But he wasn’t done. His cock stayed hard, veins bulging, still hungry despite two climaxes. The steroids, the rage, Lisa’s teasing eyes—it was too much. He pulled out, her pussy dripping with his cum, and grabbed her hair, yanking her to her knees on the floor. “Open your fucking mouth, slut,” he growled, his voice thick with contempt.

Lacey’s eyes were glassy, her lips parted, her face a mix of fear and adoration as she obeyed. He shoved his massive cock past her lips, forcing it deep, her throat constricting as she gagged, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Take it all, you cock-hungry bitch,” he sneered, his hand gripping her hair, guiding her head as he fucked her face, his cock hitting the back of her throat.

She choked, her hands clutching his thighs, but she didn’t fight, her tongue swirling desperately, trying to please her Big Daddy. Spit dribbled down her chin, her mascara smearing, her tits swaying as he thrust. “Look at you, just a hole for my cock,” he taunted, his other hand smacking her cheek, the sting making her moan around his shaft.

Her submission, her degradation, it was fucking perfect, every gag and whimper feeding his godlike ego. He could still see Lisa in his mind, her tight skirt, her needy voice, but Lacey was here, taking his punishment, her throat tight and warm, her body his to use. He’d fuck her until she couldn’t walk, until every ounce of his frustration was spent, his dominance unchallenged.

Lacey’s throat burned as Dane’s massive cock pulsed in her mouth, her lips stretched painfully around his eleven-inch girth. His hand gripped her blonde hair, forcing her down, her nose pressed against his pelvis as he came, his thick cum shooting straight into her stomach. She struggled to swallow, gagging, her blue eyes watering, spit and cum dribbling down her chin as her throat convulsed. The taste was bitter, overwhelming, but she fought to please her Big Daddy, her pussy throbbing despite the ache, her mind a haze of submission and twisted adoration.

He yanked his cock free, the slick shaft glistening with cum and her saliva, dripping onto her heaving chest. Lacey gasped for air, her mascara-streaked face flushed, her lips swollen. Dane towered over her, his six-foot-three frame rippling with muscle, his green eyes still dark with rage but softening slightly, the beast within him sated—for now.

His hand cracked across her face, a sharp smack that stung her cheek, followed by another, lighter but firm. “Fucking slut,” he growled, his voice low, the edge of his fury dulled but not gone. Lacey whimpered, her head bowing, her body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal, her pussy dripping his cum onto the carpet.

He stepped back, zipping his jeans, his cock still half-hard, bulging against the denim. “Get your ass up and make me some damn dinner,” he snarled, smacking her ass hard, the impact jolting her forward, her skin burning red. “And don’t fuck it up like you did getting home.”

“I’m so sorry, Big Daddy,” Lacey stammered, her voice shaky as she scrambled to her feet, her heels wobbling on the worn carpet. “I didn’t mean to be late, I—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, his eyes flashing. “Just make me some food, you useless bitch.” His words cut deep, her heart twisting with shame, but her pussy fluttered, her body craving his cruel dominance. She nodded frantically, tottering toward the kitchen, her legs unsteady from the brutal fucking he’d given her. Her pussy ached, his cum leaking down her thighs, soaking her torn panties as she moved. Every step was a reminder of his power, her body marked by his rage, her mind spinning with the need to please him.

In the kitchen, Lacey’s hands trembled as she pulled ingredients from the fridge, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She started on the fettuccine Alfredo he loved, her fingers fumbling with the cream and parmesan, her ditzy mind struggling to focus. The pain in her ass and throat lingered, but so did the heat between her legs, her body alive with the memory of his cock stretching her, his smacks igniting her. She worked fast, desperate to make up for her mistake, her heart pounding at the thought of his anger if the food wasn’t perfect.

From the living room, the TV blared, Dane sprawled on the couch, his muscular frame taking up half the space. He’d switched on Alpha Dogs, a gritty, X-rated show about a motorcycle gang, all leather and violence. On the screen, a slutty character named Candy strutted into a dimly lit bar, her long, straight platinum-blonde hair swinging past her waist, her tight denim shorts barely covering her ass, her cropped halter top exposing her flat stomach and perky tits.

Candy smirked, tossing her hair as she straddled the lap of a bearded biker named Razor, his hands groping her ass as she ground against him. “You gonna take care of me tonight, Daddy?” she purred, her voice dripping with tease. Razor growled, yanking her top down, her tits bouncing free as he sucked a nipple, the other bikers cheering. Candy moaned, her hands in his hair, her hips rocking, the scene raw and filthy, mirroring the dynamic Lacey craved with Dane.

Lacey hurried to the living room, a cold beer in hand, her heels catching slightly as she bent to set it on the coffee table. “Here, Big Daddy,” she said softly, her voice deferential, her eyes on his chiseled jaw, his dark hair still damp from his earlier shower. He grunted, not looking at her, his gaze fixed on Candy’s writhing body on the screen. Lacey returned to the kitchen, plating the creamy fettuccine and grilled chicken, arranging it carefully with a sprinkle of parsley, her hands shaking as she carried it to him. She set the plate on his lap, her breasts brushing his arm as she leaned in, her body tingling at the contact.

“Good girl,” he muttered, his tone dismissive but approving, his hand swatting her ass lightly as she straightened. She beamed, her heart swelling at the praise, her pussy clenching despite the ache. “Get me another beer,” he added, his eyes still on the TV, where Candy was now on her knees, sucking Razor’s cock, her blonde hair bobbing, her moans muffled.

Lacey obeyed instantly, fetching another beer, her heels clicking as she hurried back. She stood by the couch, waiting, her hands clasped, her torn blouse barely covering her bruised tits. “Seconds,” Dane said after a few bites, shoving the half-empty plate at her without a glance.

She took it, rushing to refill it, her movements frantic, her mind chanting to please Big Daddy, to be his good girl. She brought the plate back, setting it carefully, her eyes flicking to the screen where Candy was bent over a pool table, Razor pounding her from behind, her tits swaying, her screams of pleasure filling the bar.

“I’m really sorry about being late, Big Daddy,” Lacey ventured, her voice small, her hands twisting together. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

He turned his head, his green eyes narrowing, his jaw tight. “Don’t fucking let it happen again,” he snarled, his voice low and menacing. “Now shut up and let me eat.” She flinched, nodding quickly, her cheeks burning, her pussy wet at his harshness.

She backed away, hovering nearby, ready to jump at his next command, her body and mind wholly his. On the screen, Candy climaxed, her body shaking, Razor’s cum splattering her ass, and Lacey’s heart raced, her own submission mirrored, her role as Dane’s slut, his homemaker, her only truth in that moment.

Lacey stood shakily, her blue eyes fixed on his chiseled jaw, his dark hair mussed, his six-foot-three frame sprawled across the couch. Alpha Dogs moved on to another scene, and on the screen, Candy was grinding against a biker, her long, straight platinum-blonde hair swinging, her perky tits barely contained in a cropped halter top. Lacey’s heart fluttered, her mind chanting to please her Big Daddy, to be his perfect girl.

A few minutes later, as she handed Dane another beer, his green eyes flicked to her, his expression lazy but commanding. “You should brighten your hair,” he said offhandedly, his voice gruff, his gaze drifting back to the screen where Candy pouted, her glossy lips parted, her hair catching the bar’s neon lights. “It’s too ... dull.”

Lacey’s breath caught, her hands twisting together, her ditzy mind latching onto his words. “How bright, Big Daddy?” she asked, her voice soft, eager, desperate to please. “Like ... a little lighter, or...?”

He gestured at the TV, his hand waving toward Candy, who was now straddling Razor, her denim shorts riding up her toned ass, her hair a cascade of platinum perfection. “Like her,” he grunted, his tone dismissive but final. “Bright. Hot. Like that.”

Lacey’s eyes locked on Candy, memorizing every detail—her hair long, thick, and straight, a shimmering platinum blonde that screamed sex, her pouty lips, her sultry sway. “Okay, Big Daddy,” she whispered, her heart racing, her pussy tingling at the thought of making him hard by looking like his fantasy. She noted the show’s title and Candy’s appearance, determined to transform herself into the slutty vixen he wanted.

Later, after Dane had finished his meal and growled at her to clean up, Lacey hurried through the dishes, her heels wobbling, her body sore but driven by devotion. Dane lumbered to the basement, the clank of weights soon echoing through the house, his nightly ritual of pumping iron to fuel his godlike physique.

Alone in the kitchen, Lacey grabbed her laptop, her fingers trembling as she opened it on the counter, her torn blouse still exposing her bruised tits, her skirt stained with cum. She had to learn about Candy, to become the girl who made Big Daddy’s cock rage. She typed “Alpha Dogs Candy actress” into the search bar, her blue eyes wide, her mind focused despite her ditziness.

The results popped up, identifying Candy as played by Vanessa Holt, a thirty-year-old actress famous for her role in Night Vipers, a gritty crime drama about a sexy undercover cop. Lacey clicked on Vanessa’s IMDb page, her breath hitching at the headshot—a stunning woman with long, thick, straight platinum-blonde hair, just like Candy’s, framing a heart-shaped face with full, glossy lips and smoky green eyes.

Vanessa’s bio mentioned her breakout role as a seductive informant in Night Vipers, her body always clad in tight leather skirts and plunging tops, her hair a constant cascade of platinum sex. Lacey’s pussy throbbed, imagining Dane’s cock hardening for her if she looked like that—slutty, bold, irresistible.

She opened Instagram, searching for Vanessa Holt’s feed, and gasped at the flood of photos. Vanessa pouted in one, her lips glossy pink, her hair sleek and straight, falling past her waist, her cleavage spilling from a black lace bra top, her toned midriff bare. In another, she preened in a mirror selfie, her ass hugged by skin-tight jeans, her hair shimmering under studio lights, her eyes sultry as she smirked.

A third showed her on the Alpha Dogs set, as Candy, straddling a motorcycle, her denim shorts barely covering her thighs, her platinum hair tousled, her tits pushed up by a red crop top. Caption: “Riding hard, loving harder! #AlphaDogs #CandyVibes.” Lacey’s fingers hovered over the trackpad, her heart pounding, her body aching to emulate that raw, slutty allure.

Lacey clicked on a streaming service, finding Alpha Dogs and queuing it up, her laptop balanced on the counter as she fast-forwarded to Candy’s scenes. In one, Candy sashayed into the biker bar, her platinum hair swinging, her hips swaying in a miniskirt that barely reached her thighs, her heels clicking, her tits bouncing in a low-cut tank top. She teased Razor, her voice a husky purr, her lips pouting as she leaned close, her hair brushing his shoulder, her body screaming sex.

In another scene, she danced on a table, her hair a platinum curtain, her body grinding to the music, her short-coated nails flashing as she gyrated, her moves fluid, provocative, every gesture designed to make men drool. Lacey studied her, noting the way Candy’s lips stayed parted, her eyes half-lidded, her hair always perfect, thick and straight, framing her face like a halo of pure sex.

Lacey practiced in the kitchen mirror, pouting her lips, tilting her head, letting her dirty blonde hair—too dull, too plain—fall over one shoulder. She pushed her tits up, mimicking Vanessa’s cleavage-baring poses, her torn blouse slipping lower, her bruised nipples hardening. She whispered, “Hey, Big Daddy,” trying Candy’s husky tone, her voice shaky but determined. She wanted to move like Vanessa, to preen like her, to make Dane’s cock throb the way Razor’s did when Candy straddled him.

She saved screenshots of Vanessa’s Instagram—her hair color, her long, straight style, her sultry makeup—determined to book a salon appointment, to bleach her hair to that perfect platinum, to make it thick and sleek, to become Big Daddy’s ultimate fantasy. Her pussy clenched, her mind set: she’d be his Candy, his Vanessa, his slutty dream, no matter what it took.

A few days later, Lacey sat in the plush chair of Bella’s Salon, the air thick with the chemical tang of hair dye and the hum of blow dryers. Her reflection stared back from the brightly lit mirror, her dirty blonde hair—dull, as Dane had called it—pulled back in a loose ponytail, her heart-shaped face flushed with nervous excitement. Her curvaceous figure filled out the tight, low-cut red top she’d chosen, her ample breasts straining the fabric, her denim skirt hugging her rounded hips.

Lacey’s blue eyes sparkled with ditzy determination, her mind fixed on pleasing her Big Daddy, her sixteen-year-old son whose massive cock and brutal dominance owned her body and soul. She blushed, her cheeks pink, as she thought of Dane, her “boyfriend” in this moment, the lie both thrilling and shameful.

The stylist, a wiry woman in her forties named Carla, with a choppy black bob and a nose ring, adjusted the cape around Lacey’s shoulders, her fingers brushing Lacey’s neck. “So, what’s the plan today, hon?” Carla asked, her voice warm but professional, her eyes meeting Lacey’s in the mirror.