Kylie
Chapter 1 (Edited)
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 (Edited) - A modern retelling of a classic story from a time long past. Following in the footsteps of Tiffany Daniels, Kylie Morgan stars in her own story. In the end, it's a classic blackmail story within a modern setting. AI-assisted story telling. This is more of a work of tribute to Dr. Wu than anything else as it was one of the first stories I loved a long time ago. If you don't like AI generated content, then don't read it.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft ft Mult Blackmail Coercion NonConsensual Rape Reluctant BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction School MaleDom Humiliation Rough Spanking Gang Bang Group Sex Anal Sex Analingus First Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Teacher/Student AI Generated
This is the edited version of Chapter 1. I spent a great deal more time reviewing and fixing issues with consistency and pacing. A huge shoutout to Nemo for offering editing advice and suggestions. Please let me know what you think!
The lights of Mr. Harrington’s classroom felt harsh after the test. Kylie lingered as the last students filed out, her pulse thumping against her ribs. She pretended to search her backpack at her desk. His voice, low and dry, cut through the quiet; she hadn’t noticed him approaching. “Curious placement for your water bottle sleeve, Miss Morgan.” He tapped the clear plastic, where a tiny cheat sheet curled behind the logo. Her breath froze.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, forcing her gaze upwards. His eyes, magnified slightly by glasses, held hers without blinking.
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Harrington said. The sharp scent of disinfectant clung to his lab coat. “That’s the test answer key tucked behind your ‘Hydrate!’ sticker.” He reached out suddenly, grabbed the water bottle, and pulled it out of her reach. “Principal Alvarez will hear about this before you make it to your next class.”
Her throat tightened. “Mr. Harrington, please—Don’t ... my parents...” She pictured her father’s disappointed frown, the college rejection letter looming. “I panicked. It’s just this one test! It won’t happen again.” She clutched the straps of her backpack until her knuckles whitened.
He chuckled, a dry rasp that made her skin prickle. “One test?” He shook his head slowly. “This could end your gymnastics dreams, your college goals ... all with one call.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and opened his contacts. The light glared overhead as he loomed over her, casting his shadow across her worried face.
“Wait!” Kylie blurted, stepping forward instinctively. Sweat dampened the back of her shirt under her hoodie. “What ... what can I do, can I retake the quiz, a different one?” The silence stretched, thick with the hum of the lights and the frantic drumming of her own heart. Harrington lowered his phone, a slow, predatory glimmer spreading in his eyes.
“That depends,” he murmured as he leaned forward, gripping her water bottle before sliding it into his lab coat’s large pocket. The disinfectant smell intensified as he straightened the lab coat. “Depends entirely on what you’re willing to do.” His gaze drifted deliberately from her panic-wide eyes down to her tightly crossed arms, lingering a moment too long. Kylie felt a cold trickle seep through her veins.
Her voice cracked, barely a whisper against the oppressive stillness. “Anything, Mr. Harrington. Please. Just ... Don’t call anyone.” The words tasted like ash. “I’ll retake it, do extra assignments, clean labs ... Anything.” Her voice sounded panicked as she fidgeted under his gaze.
A flicker of triumph, sharp and cold, flashed behind Harrington’s glasses. He slowly eased his phone back into his pocket and left his hand there to fiddle with a pen. He clicked it a few times as he considered her situation. The stage was set up and Kylie was the lead actress in the scene. Like a director, it was time for Harrington to guide her through her role. It happened to be precisely the casting he’d lead her toward.
“Anything?” he echoed softly, grabbing a pen from his lab coat’s breast pocket and clicking it repeatedly. The metallic click seemed loud in the room. He scanned her face – the fear tightening her jaw, the desperation in her eyes – then let his gaze trail pointedly towards the locked classroom door. A slow breath hissed through his teeth. “We’ll see about that. Meet me here tomorrow afternoon. After gymnastics practice.” He paused, letting the isolation of that timeframe sink in. “We’ll figure out what to do about you”, he said before she let out a tiny sigh of relief.
Kylie’s shoulders slumped with a shaky breath, a sliver of terrified relief coursing through her. “Thank you,” she stammered, the words thick and unnatural on her tongue. “I ... I won’t let you down.” She gripped her backpack straps and practically bolted for the door without waiting for dismissal. She completely forgot about her water bottle now resting in Harrington’s lab coat. The heavy wooden door thudded shut behind her, muffling the clicking of the pen.
Inside the silent classroom, Mr. Harrington sat at his desk and leaned back, the predatory smile hardening into cold satisfaction. His fingers drummed slowly on the desktop. “Oh, I sincerely doubt you will,” he murmured to the empty room. As the image of her panic-flushed face lingered in his mind, a distinct, familiar warmth stirred beneath his belt, pressing insistently against the fabric of his slacks. He shifted slightly in his chair, the leather creaking, a low hum escaping his lips as he stared at the door Kylie had bolted through.
Kylie burst out into the cool hallway, the slam of the door echoing behind her, and didn’t stop moving until she found herself in the gym locker room. This was her sanctuary, her safe place, and she leaned against the cool cinderblock wall, gasping like she’d surfaced from drowning. Yet, beneath the fluttering butterflies in her stomach, a wave of relief surged – no call tonight. No immediate explosion. She clutched her straps tighter in her hands, the rough edges digging into her soft fingers, a grounding pain. Tomorrow, she thought. So stupid to use the water bottle. She leaned against the wall until she caught her breath.
She pushed off the wall and hurried towards the exit, her footsteps unnaturally loud in the deserted locker room. Just get home. She made her way out of the gymnasium, back into the school hallways, and headed toward the exit. The late afternoon sun glared harshly through the glass doors as she pushed them open, stepping into the blinding light.
The familiar scent of garlic and roasting chicken hit Kylie the moment she opened her front door, the comforting chaos of her family swirling around her. “Hey superstar!” her younger sister, Lisa, yelled from the living room floor, clicking her controller furiously before the TV.
Her mother glanced up from stirring a pot at the stove, eyes soft with warmth. “How was school, sweetie? You look flushed.”
Kylie forced a smile, dropping her backpack with a heavy thud. “Fine. Decided to put in some extra work on the mat. It was intense,” she managed to explain her flustered appearance, her throat dry. “Drills on the beam.” She smoothed her hair as she walked into the kitchen where her mom gave her a quick hug before turning back toward the oven. “Chicken again?” Kylie asked, not surprised in the least.
Her mom chuckled, “Well, it’s cheap and a good source of protein. Everything you need to be your best! Although your father will complain again, I’m sure. You know he’s a steak and potatoes kind of guy.”
Kylie giggled, a bubbling little sound signifying agreement. She gave her mom a quick peck on the cheek and turned toward the living room. “I gotta do homework; yell at me when dinner is ready?” Her mom nodded and Kylie disappeared around the corner and ascended the stairs to her bedroom.
She slid into her chair at the crowded table later, listening to Lisa’s play-by-play of her soccer game and her father’s dry commentary on the news. She pushed peas around her plate, and made faces at her younger brother.
Upstairs later, Kylie stared blankly at the open biology textbook on her desk, the intricate diagrams of cellular structure dancing meaninglessly before her eyes. The hum of her laptop felt accusing. Outside her window, streetlights cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to creep across the floorboards. She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over Maya’s contact photo. I need to tell someone, the thought screamed inside her skull. But the shame was a suffocating blanket. What could Maya do? It would all explode. No one else needs to know about this. Her finger drifted away. Instead, she mechanically flipped pages, the words blurring. Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and fractured, filled with the sharp click of a pen and locked doors somehow swinging open into nothingness. Kylie stirred in her sleep.
The next morning dawned grey and damp. The drive to school felt longer, the dread making her drive slowly and cautiously. Kylie parked her car, took a deep breath and got out, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. Each step seemed to drag against the wet pavement. She navigated the bustling hallways like a ghost, the chatter and locker slams forming a buzzing static in her ears.
In homeroom, Maya nudged her arm. “You okay, Ky? You look like you saw a ghost.”
Kylie forced her face upwards. “Just tired,” she mumbled, tracing the wood grain pattern on her desk. “Bio test fried my brain.”
All day, every clock tick seemed amplified, every period a slow, inexorable march towards the final bell. During practice, her muscles moved through conditioning drills with robotic precision, the familiar burn offering no distraction, only emphasizing the phantom pressure of Harrington’s gaze. As the final whistle blared announcing dismissal, she hugged Maya and said she’d see her tomorrow. She lingered, pretending to search her locker until the hall emptied, the silence pressing in. Taking a shallow breath, she turned towards Harrington’s classroom. The polished floor reflected the light from above like a dark, watery surface she was about to plunge into. Just get it over with, she told herself.
The classroom door felt heavier than usual when she pushed it open. The air inside was thick with the stale scent of chalk dust and formaldehyde from yesterday’s dissection lab. Harrington sat behind his desk, grading papers. At the sound of the door, he slowly lifted his head. His eyes, sharp behind his glasses, tracked her progress from the threshold to the center of the room. He took in her appearance: the grey athletic zip-front jacket worn over her practice leotard clung slightly to her damp shoulders, her long brown hair pinned severely into its usual tight competition bun atop her head. A thin smile stretched his lips. “Ah, Miss Morgan,” his voice was smooth, a low murmur that bounced off the silent cabinets lining the walls. “Right on time.” He leaned back, the chair groaning softly. “I appreciate punctuality.” He didn’t gesture toward a seat. The space between them hummed with unspoken consequences.
He folded his hands neatly on his desk, his knuckles prominent. “Let’s discuss ... plans.” The word hung heavy and formal. “The consequences of your actions remain severe. Expulsion. Dismissal from the squad. Reputation ruined? Possibly.” He tapped a finger lightly on the desk. “But I detest unnecessary paperwork.”
Kylie breathed a sigh of relief.
“Your ... cooperation yesterday was ... encouraging.” He paused, letting the silence build tension. His eyes flicked back to hers, holding them captive. “Perhaps I’ve just let you down.” The silence stretched taut, broken only by the faint buzz of the lights overhead and the sound of Kylie’s own pulse in her ears. “Why don’t you let me tutor you, one-on-one? And if you can ace the quiz, then no one has to know about ... Yesterday...”
Kylie’s mind spun. I’m safe, a chance to fix my screw up. The image of her father’s shattered pride, the college letter stamped ‘DENIED,’ flashed in her mind. She swallowed hard, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. Her knuckles were tight where she clutched her backpack straps. Harrington watched, utterly still, his calm a stark contrast to her panic. “Well, Miss Morgan?” he prompted, his voice devoid of warmth, filled only with expectation. “Shall we?”
“Yes! Yes, Mr. Harrington,” she stammered, relief flooding her voice, making it tremble. Her shoulders slumped slightly, a physical release of some tension. “Thank you. Thank you so much, sir. Of course I accept. I’ll do anything—study, tutor ... whatever.” The words tumbled out, desperate, grateful ... and ignorant of the foul implication beneath his offer.
Harrington nodded slowly, a tight, satisfied smile touching his lips. “Good. Very good.” He pushed his chair back with a deliberate scrape against the floor. Standing, he straightened his lab coat. He was taller than she remembered, looming unexpectedly as he moved around the desk towards her. The faint scent of antiseptic wafted from his clothes again, mixed with stale coffee. “Then let’s get started,” he announced, his tone brisk, businesslike. He gestured towards the empty student desk directly in front of his own. “Have a seat.” His gaze held hers.
Kylie hesitated for only a fraction of a second. But the promise of salvation outweighed the fear. She took the few steps towards the desk, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor, her back momentarily turned to him. She slid her backpack off her shoulder and placed it carefully beside the metal chair legs. Harrington’s gaze took in the view proffered as she bent down slightly to deposit her bag. Although obscured by baggy clothes, her form still stirred something within him. Unaware of his eyes, Kylie quickly settled herself and slid into the desk, turning back around to face him.
“Today’s lesson,” Harrington began, his voice suddenly crisp and pedagogical as he circled back behind his desk, “concerns human anatomy. Specifically, musculoskeletal systems relevant to athletic performance. Take notes, Miss Morgan.” Kylie fumbled her spiral-bound notebook from her backpack, fingers trembling slightly as she flipped past pages filled with neat, bubbly handwriting. She clicked her pen, the sound sharp in the silence, and flinched although she didn’t really understand why. Harrington stood tall again, running a hand down the front of his lab coat. “We shall begin proximally. Prime movers ... Muscles whose main function is to pull.” He peeled the white coat off, tossing it casually onto his chair, revealing a surprisingly fitted grey sweater beneath. He tapped his own shoulder. “The deltoids,” he stated matter-of-factly, flexing the muscle subtly. Kylie’s pen scratched frantically across the page, her brow furrowed in intense concentration as she scribbled del-toid, shoulder. She didn’t dare look up fully, keeping her gaze downcast, focused on the notebook resting on her desk. She could smell the faint mix of his aftershave and the lingering formaldehyde from the dissection trays across the room. The air felt thick, charged.
He moved closer, stopping just beside her desk. Kylie instinctively pressed her knees tighter together under the desk surface. He pointed deliberately at his own back. “Then, the trapezius,” he continued, enunciating each syllable slowly. His sweater stretched taut over the defined muscle group. Kylie scribbled trap-e-zius, upper back, her hand cramping slightly. The proximity was suffocating; she could hear his steady breath, the faint rustle of his clothing. She kept her eyes glued to the page, only casting a furtive glance in his direction to see where he was pointing. Her knuckles were white around the pen, the tips of her ears burning hot; her nervousness obvious. A drop of sweat trickled down her temple.
Harrington smiled thinly, watching her frantic note-taking posture. He took another deliberate step, now directly beside her chair, his hip level with her shoulder. He curled his arm, flexing his bicep sharply. “And the brachialis,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a murmur. He tapped the prominent muscle bulge. “Underneath the biceps brachii. Essential for flexion.” Her pen skidded wildly across the page, leaving an ugly ink smear. She held her breath, frozen for a moment, the scent of his aftershave overwhelmingly potent. The quiet hum of the lights seemed deafening. She forced her hand to move again, writing brach-i-a-lis. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage, the sound surely audible across the unnaturally still room. She dared a fleeting glance upwards, noting his strong physique.
He continued with his back to her. “Latissimus dorsi,” he commanded, rolling his shoulders deliberately. The thick muscles bunched beneath his grey sweater. Kylie’s gaze snapped back to her notebook. She scribbled lat-issi-mus dor-si. He continued tracing invisible lines across his own back with a fingertip. “Rhomboids,” he pointed near his waistband, “and the erector spinae.” Kylie mechanically wrote rhom-boids, er-ec-tor spi-nae, her knuckles bone-white around the cheap plastic pen. The proximity was stifling; she could feel the faint heat radiating from him, smell the sharp tang of his sweat mingling with the cologne undertone. A bead of perspiration trickled down her temple and splashed onto the notebook page, blurring the ink. The room felt hot, too hot, and Kylie blinked sweat from her eyes to focus.
Harrington straightened abruptly, the sudden movement making Kylie jump. “Enough for now,” he declared, his tone shifting to something almost conversational. “Hydration is crucial for cognitive and muscle function, Miss Morgan.” He walked briskly to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved two sleek, identical metal water bottles. He unscrewed the cap on one and took a long, deliberate swallow, his throat working. Kylie watched, her own throat parched and tight. He recapped his bottle and picked up the second one. Turning back towards her, he extended it casually. “Here. Drink. Since you seem to have forgotten one.” He held it out, the metal gleaming dully under the harsh lights. His expression was unreadable behind his glasses.
Kylie’s relief was visceral as she unscrewed the cap and heard water sloshing in the bottle. She raised it to her lips, innocent and blissfully unaware, and took a tiny sip. A cool wave washed over her, beating back the suffocating anxiety. The water felt ice-cold. “Thank you, Mr. Harrington,” she breathed, her voice scratchy. The water tasted faintly metallic and blessedly cold. She took three deep, gulping swallows, the coolness spreading down her throat, momentarily clearing the fog of anxiety. It felt like swallowing sanity. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, offering a shaky, grateful smile. “It’s ... really hot in here.”
Harrington watched as he moved back toward his desk, his expression impassive behind his glasses. He leaned back casually against the front edge of his desk, arms folded loosely across his chest. “Indeed. Now focus,” he murmured, picking up his own bottle again and taking a drink. “The gluteus maximus.” He gestured vaguely towards his own hip. “Primary hip extensor. Crucial for powerful tumbling passes, wouldn’t you say, Miss Morgan?” Kylie’s pen hovered over her notebook page stained with sweat and ink smears. She scribbled gluteus max-imus, the word blurring slightly as her hand trembled. Her brows furrowed at the oddity. The mention of gymnastics, her sanctuary, got her attention. She nodded mutely, focusing intensely on the words as she wrote them. The taste of metal lingered on her tongue.
“Drink,” Harrington urged softly, his voice suddenly closer. Kylie hadn’t heard him move. Startled, she raised the metal bottle again, taking another long pull. The water felt colder this time, washing away the metallic tang but leaving a faint, unfamiliar bitterness beneath. She swallowed hard, her gaze drifting upwards against her will as she lowered the bottle. Harrington was pointing demonstratively at his own thigh, the taut grey fabric pulling across defined quadriceps. Her vision swam momentarily, the harsh lights seeming to pulse. She blinked rapidly, trying to anchor herself to the notebook. Her pen fell to the floor.
A peculiar lightness bloomed behind Kylie’s temples. The classroom seemed to tilt slightly, the sterile smell of formaldehyde sharpening abruptly before receding. She gripped the edge of her desk, knuckles white, trying to force air into her suddenly constricted lungs. Her notes blurred into meaningless swirls. Harrington’s voice continued, low and rhythmic, discussing hamstrings. “ ... semimembranosus, semitendinosus ... powerful flexion...” His words slurred slightly in her ears. He shifted his stance, his sweater stretching tighter across his broad shoulders and chest. Against her will, a vivid, mortifying image flashed behind her eyes: that grey sweater peeled away, revealing sculpted pectorals and the sharp lines of abdominal muscles she’d just been writing about. Heat flooded her cheeks, contrasting violently with the icy dread pooling in her stomach. No, she thought desperately, Focus on the notes!
Harrington witnessed the creeping blush spreading across her face, “Are you well, Miss Morgan? Perhaps the topic of human anatomy is too advanced for you?” He took another pull from his water bottle, licking his lips. “Maybe we should stop and talk to the principal about your predicament.”
Kylie blinked up at him as the words percolated through her brain. No! “It’s ... Okay ... Fine, I’m good,” she mumbled, “Just hot in here. I ... can do it. Please...”
“Excellent, you’re showing determination. Let’s continue the lesson,” he announced. He resumed the detailed tour of his own leg musculature. “Drink more water, Miss Morgan, it will help you focus.”
Kylie raised the bottle to her mouth and drank once more. Another wave of relief washed through her body as the fluid travelled down her throat. The bottle felt empty, light as it nestled in her hands.
Harrington was demonstrating knee flexion now, bending his leg deliberately. The motion brought him closer still. Kylie’s gaze, heavily lidded, clung to the powerful curve of his calf muscle beneath his dark slacks. Her own muscles felt weak, distant. Her breathing stuttered, shallow and rapid. The faint scent of his aftershave seemed overwhelming, mingling sickeningly with the phantom smell of antiseptic. She fought to concentrate, to remember the word he’d just said –gastrocnemius? – but his physique dominated her foggy awareness. She imagined the lean strength beneath his clothes, the latent power coiled like springs, and a wave of dizzy nausea washed over her. The empty metal water bottle slipped from her loose grasp, hitting the floor with a dull, echoing clang that sounded impossibly distant. Her vision tunneled.
Harrington watched the bottle roll slowly to a stop near his polished shoe. A slow, satisfied smile stretched across his face, devoid of surprise. He didn’t glance at it for long. “Excellent demonstration of gravity, Miss Morgan,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth. “But perhaps it’s time ... for a different kind of review.” He straightened, adjusting his glasses. “Observing demonstrations is one thing. Applied anatomy requires tactile confirmation.” He paused, letting the implications hang thick in the stifling air. “Don’t you agree?”
Kylie blinked slowly, the classroom swimming. His words echoed strangely, meaning seeming to slip away like smoke. Confusion warred with coherent thought as the sedating haze settled over her. “A ... review?” she echoed thickly. “O ... okay?” Her tongue felt clumsy, unwieldy.
“Indeed,” Harrington affirmed smoothly. He stepped decisively around the fallen bottle, closing the small distance between them. His hands, surprisingly gentle but firm, closed around her upper arms just above her elbows. He pulled her upright from the chair effortlessly. She swayed slightly on her feet, his grip the only anchor. He guided her the few steps to stand directly before his imposing desk, positioning her facing him. Her legs trembled faintly. “We shall conduct the same lesson,” he announced, his tone clinical yet intimate, “but upon your own musculature. Practical application.” He released her arms, stepping back slightly to survey her slight frame clad in the grey jacket over her dark blue practice leotard.
Her competition bun felt painfully tight and Kylie swallowed hard, the metallic taste sour in her mouth. Confusion battled with a dawning, humiliating comprehension. Practical ... Application? As soon as the comprehension registered, it fled once more, confusion retaking its place. Her skin prickled beneath her clothes. “I ... it makes sense,” she stammered weakly, trying to prove that she understood. Resistance seemed impossible, a concept lost in the fog. She stared fixedly at the floor in front of her, cheeks burning.
“Beginning proximally,” Harrington stated, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur. He stepped close again, his presence looming. His right hand lifted slowly, deliberately. His fingers brushed lightly over the taut fabric covering her shoulder, tracing the line of the deltoid muscle beneath her jacket sleeve. The touch was feather-light, exploratory. “Prime mover for abduction,” he murmured, his breath warm near her temple. His fingers drifted downwards with calculated slowness, skimming the sleeve’s edge towards her upper arm. His thumb pressed gently against the front of her arm, just above the elbow. “Biceps brachii,” he identified softly, applying the faintest pressure. “Flexor.” His gaze was intent, professional, yet Kylie felt utterly exposed. Her skin burned where he touched, a fiery path blooming beneath the thin layers. A fierce blush flooded her face, spreading down her neck, radiating intense heat into the warm classroom air. She squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath, as she swayed, her backside running into the desk. Her hands gripped the edge for support as the rough wood grain of the desk underside dug into her fingers. His hand moved lower.
“Now ... the pectoralis major.” His voice was low, almost detached. His fingertips settled lightly, spread wide and high on her chest, just below her collarbones, over the grey jacket fabric. He could feel the rapid, frantic drumming of her heart beneath his palm. His touch lingered, exploring the defined musculature beneath the jacket’s collar. “Primary mover for ... adduction.” His thumb brushed slowly inward, downwards, tracing the swell beneath the jacket’s zipper panel. His other hand came up, mirroring the action, thumbs meeting at the zipper pull tab nestled just below her throat. “Observe its attachment...” His fingers slid downwards along the zipper track, deliberately slow, the metal teeth scraping faintly. “To the sternum.” His thumbs rested just between her breasts, applying a subtle downward pressure. Kylie whimpered softly, her breath catching audibly.
“The jacket obscures proper demonstration,” Harrington observed clinically, his thumbs pulling firmly downward on the zipper tab. “For accurate observation ... remove it.” His command was soft, yet absolute. Kylie’s trembling fingers fumbled blindly for the small metal tab. She couldn’t meet his gaze, instead stared fixedly at the knot of his tie. Her movement was clumsy, fueled by terror and the encroaching haze. The zipper rasped harshly as she dragged it down, inch by agonizing inch, revealing the dark blue Lycra of her high-neck leotard beneath. The grey jacket slid off her shoulders and crumpled in a heap at her feet. Kylie stood rigid, arms hanging limply at her sides, clad only in the snug leotard that hugged her breasts, her grey athletic shorts worn over it for modesty after practice, and her worn white sneakers. The classroom air prickled her exposed arms and shoulders. Harrington’s gaze swept over her, lingering on the defined contour of her ribs beneath the thin fabric. He hummed softly, appreciatively. “Much better.”
“Continuing ... pectoralis major,” he reiterated. His hands returned, palms flat now against the high-cut neckline of the leotard, directly over her chest. His hands swept slowly outward, thumbs tracing the upper swell. Then, deliberately, he dragged his thumbs downward along the pronounced curve, applying firm pressure. The pad of his left thumb caught, ever so lightly, against the hard nub of her nipple straining against the stretched Lycra. Kylie gasped sharply, a tiny, involuntary sound escaping her lips. Her entire body flinched violently, but Harrington’s hands held her firmly in place, pressed flat against her generous chest. He paused. A slow, triumphant smirk curled his lips as he watched. Through the thin fabric, the hardened peaks were unmistakable. He lingered, feeling the frantic flutter of her heartbeat beneath his palms. He raised his eyes to hers, his gaze predatory and knowing. Kylie’s breath came in shallow, rapid gasps, her face crimson. Humiliation warred with a confusing jolt that tightened her stomach. “Ah,” he murmured to himself, the sound thick with dark satisfaction.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.