Chapter 1: Virgin Ruined by a Starving Slut
The bass was a physical thing, a throbbing pulse that moved through the floor and up into his ribs. Matt stood near a high-top table, a warm beer sweating in his hand, and wished he were literally anywhere else. The strobing lights sliced through the haze of cheap perfume and cologne, catching on glitter and gleaming skin. Bodies writhed on the dance floor, a single, undulating organism.
His friends had dragged him here. “Come on, man, live a little,” they’d said, as if living was synonymous with shouting over music that made his fillings ache. He scanned the crowd, not for a connection, but for an exit strategy that wouldn’t involve explaining his early departure for the tenth time.
That’s when she bumped into him. A solid, warm impact against his side, accompanied by a spill of vodka-cranberry that splashed cold across his wrist.
“Shit, sorry!”
Her voice cut through the noise, bright and sharp. He looked down. She was looking up. Her eyes were a startling shade of amber under the neon wash, framed by thick lashes. Her lips were a glossy, perfect pink. She wore a dress that seemed more a suggestion than an article of clothing, black and clinging to every dramatic curve.
“It’s fine,” Matt mumbled, his eyes darting away from the deep plunge of her neckline. He could feel his ears burning.
“No, it’s not. Let me make it up to you.” Her smile was a promise. Before he could utter a protest, her hand was around his, her fingers cool and sure. “Buy me a new drink. And then I’ll buy you one.”
“I, uh…” he stammered.
She just laughed, a sound that was somehow both warm and wicked, and pulled him toward the bar. She moved with a swaying confidence he could never fathom. Her name was Mia, she told him, shouting over the music. He told her his. She leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear, smelling of citrus and alcohol. “You don’t look like you belong here, Matt.”
“I don’t,” he confessed, the words torn from him by the sheer force of her proximity.
“Good,” she purred. “Makes you more interesting.”
The next hour passed in a blur of shouted conversation and her attentive gaze. She asked about his work, her thigh brushing his under the small bar table. Every accidental touch sent a jolt through him. He was painfully aware of his own body, of the growing, traitorous tightness in his jeans. She was everything he wasn’t: bold, openly sensual, completely at ease.
Her hand landed on his knee, then slid inward. “You’re tense,” she said, her eyes dropping meaningfully. “Want to… cool off somewhere quieter?”
He knew what it meant. Panic, cold and slick, coiled in his gut alongside a dark, thrilling heat. He opened his mouth to say no, to fabricate an excuse, but she was already standing, tugging him off his stool. Her grip was insistent. She led him, weaving through the crowd, past the dance floor, down a dim corridor where the music was a duller throb.
She pushed open a heavy door marked with a silhouette of a high heel. A single, flickering bulb lit the tiled room. It was empty.
Before the door swung shut, she spun him, pushing his back against it with a soft thud. The sudden quiet was dizzying. Her hands slid up his chest.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” she whispered, her lips a centimeter from his. “Those eyes. And this,” her hand pressed flat against his stomach, sliding down, “this shy-guy act is fucking hot.”
“Mia, I…” His breath hitched as her fingers found the buckle of his belt.
“Shhh. Let me.”
Her fingers worked with deft urgency. The clink of his belt opening was obscenely loud in the small room. His mind was a riot of fear and desire. He should stop this. He didn’t know how.
His jeans and boxers were pushed down his hips in one rough motion. The cool air hit his heated skin. Then her warm, soft hand closed around him.
She gasped, a sharp, genuine intake of breath. Her eyes, which had been half-lidded with lust, flew wide open. “Holy fuck.”
Matt squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation washing over him. He knew. He’d heard the whispers, seen the stunned looks in locker rooms. It was a freakish burden.
But her voice held no mockery. It was pure, awed reverence. “My god, Matt. Look at this. Look at it.”
He forced his eyes open. She was kneeling now, her amber gaze locked on his fully erect cock. She looked at it like an archaeologist discovering a priceless artifact. Her fingers traced the thick vein along the underside, her touch feather-light and worshipful.
“It’s… it’s fucking majestic,” she breathed. A slow, slutty smile spread across her face. “I need to taste it. I need to feel this in my throat.”
She didn’t wait for permission. Her tongue, hot and wet, licked a broad, flat stripe from his base to his tip. Matt’s head slammed back against the door with a groan, his hands fisting at his sides.
“That’s it,” she murmured, before taking the head into her mouth.
Her mouth was an inferno of slick, velvety heat. She moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to his core. Her tongue swirled, her lips tightened, and she began to slide down, taking him deeper. Her hands cupped and fondled his heavy balls.
She pulled off with a wet pop, gasping for air. Strings of saliva connected her lips to his glistening tip. “You fill me up so good,” she panted, her pupils blown wide. “I’m gonna make you cum all over this pretty face. I want it. Give it to me.”
Her slutty demeanor had fully taken over, any pretense gone, replaced by a raw, greedy hunger. She dove back down, taking him deeper this time, her throat relaxing to accommodate his girth. The sight was obscene and beautiful: her glossy lips stretched around his thickness, her mascara-smudged eyes looking up at him with utter devotion. She began to bob her head, her moans constant, her hands sliding up to grip his hips, pulling him deeper into her wet, sucking mouth.
The sensations were too much—the intense pressure, the wet heat, the visual of a goddess like Mia on her knees for him. The coil in his lower abdomen tightened violently. A warning shout died in his throat, coming out as a strangled whimper.
“Yeah, baby, I feel you getting harder,” she slurred, pulling off just to lick and kiss the shaft. “Cum for me. Paint me.”
Her words were the final trigger. With a choked cry, his body seized. The orgasm ripped through him, a torrent of pent-up, virginal release. Thick, hot ropes shot across her face, striping her cheek, catching in her eyelashes, landing on her parted lips and tongue.
She didn’t flinch. She held her pose, eyes closed, a beatific, filthy smile on her face as he spent himself on her. She even stuck out her tongue to catch the last few drops.
As the last shudder left him, reality crashed down. The cold tiles. The flickering light. The sticky wetness on his softening dick. The stunning woman kneeling before him, his cum glazing her like some debauched masterpiece.
Horror flooded in, icy and complete.
“Oh, god,” he breathed, his voice ragged. He fumbled desperately, pulling his jeans up over his hips, his fingers clumsy and shaking. The zipper felt impossibly loud.
Mia blinked, her blissful expression shifting to confusion. “Hey… where are you going?” She wiped a finger through the mess on her cheek and sucked it clean, as if to entice him back.
“I can’t… I can’t do this,” Matt stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt exposed, vulnerable, a specimen under glass.
“Bullshit. You just did. And it was perfect.” She started to rise, reaching for him.
In a panic, he fumbled for the door handle. As he did, he heard the distinct click-whirr of a smartphone camera. He turned, wide-eyed.
Mia was lowering her phone, a sly, possessive smile on her glistening face. She’d taken a picture. Of him, flustered and half-dressed, with her kneeling, cum-covered, in the foreground.
“A souvenir,” she said, her voice low and promising. “So you don’t forget where you belong. I’ll find you again, Matt. A guy with a god like this doesn’t get to hide.”
Pure, unadulterated terror propelled him. He yanked the door open and fled, shouldering past a startled woman in the hallway, the thump of music swallowing him as he burst back into the chaos of the club. He didn’t stop, weaving through the dancing bodies, a desperate animal seeking the cool, open air of the night. He shoved the main doors open and stumbled into the parking lot, gulping down breaths, the image of her satisfied, knowing smile—and the camera flash—burned into his mind. He was already gone, swallowed by the dark, before she even finished wiping her face.
The heavy door sighed shut, muffling the club's pulse to a dull thump. Mia stayed on her knees for another second, the chill of the tiles seeping through her fishnets. She touched her cheek, her fingers coming away slick. She brought them to her lips, her tongue darting out to taste.
A slow, genuine smile spread across her face. Fuck, that was good. Salty, bitter, musky—perfect. Real. Not like the washed-out, tasteless shit she got from the performers she usually hired.
She scooped another thick, cooling string from her jawline, sucking her fingers clean with a lewd pop. The flavor bloomed on her tongue, a dark anchor in the spinning, vodka-fuzzed world. She wanted more. Needed more. That shock in his piercing blue eyes, the way his body had trembled, the sheer, impossible size of him… it was the most authentic, uncontrollable fuck she’d had in years, and he hadn’t even been inside her.
Pushing herself up, she caught her reflection in the smudged mirror. A mess. A beautiful, used mess. His cum streaked through her foundation, glistened in her eyebrow ring. She grinned at herself, a predator pleased with the hunt. She pulled out her phone, not to check the blurry photo she’d snapped of his panicked face, but to see the time. The night was still young, and her body was a live wire, buzzing with unsatisfied need.
An hour later, she was in a downtown condo with a finance bro named Trevor. He had strong jawlines and weak hands. He’d been bragging about his BMW all the way here.
Now, he was naked on top of her, rutting with the rhythmic enthusiasm of a metronome. The condo was all gray tones and generic art, smelling of lemony cleaner and his expensive cologne.
“You like that, baby?” Trevor grunted, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration.
Mia stared at the ceiling, one hand absently scratching his back. “Yeah. Sure.”
She felt nothing. Less than nothing. Every thrust was a hollow echo. His dick—perfectly average, neatly trimmed—felt like a lukewarm tap running inside her. She closed her eyes, trying to summon the memory of the club bathroom. The weight of Matt in her hand, the full, stretching ache of her mouth, the primal groan he’d made as he came. The taste.
Trevor’s breathing hitched. “I’m gonna… you ready?”
Her eyes snapped open. No. She was bored. She was empty. This was a waste of her time.
“Get off,” she said, her voice flat.
He didn’t stop, his rhythm faltering. “Wh-what?”
“I said get off me. Now.” She pushed against his chest, her enhanced nails digging in.
“What the hell, Mia? I’m almost—”
“And I’m almost asleep. Get. The fuck. Off.”
Shocked, he rolled away, his erection already flagging. “What’s your problem?”
“You are.” She swung her legs off the bed, not bothering to cover herself. She stalked naked to the bathroom, his bewildered protests following her. She splashed water on her face, the sterile city water washing away nothing she cared about. She looked at herself again. Clean. Boring.
She walked back out, picking her dress up from the floor. Trevor was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking offended. “You can’t just kick a guy out mid-sex.”
“Watch me.” She stepped into the dress, shimmying it up over her hips. “Put your pants on. I’ve got things to do.”
“What things?” he scoffed, but he was reaching for his boxers.
Mia smiled, a real one this time, sharp and full of intent. “I’ve got a god to find.”
She left him sputtering, dialing an Uber as the elevator descended. In the back of the Prius, she opened the blurry photo on her phone. Matt’s wide, panicked eyes, his tousled hair, the doorframe behind him. It was shit for content, but it was a clue. She zoomed in. Behind him, past the edge of the bathroom door, was a sliver of the club’s main area—a distinctive neon cocktail sign, a certain style of wall sconce.
She knew that club. She knew every club in this city. And a guy that painfully shy, that fucking monumental, wouldn’t be hard to find. He’d be a local legend in the right circles. A whispered myth.
Her tongue traced her lips, chasing the phantom, salty-bitter taste. Her body ached, a deep, possessive throb. She needed more than his cum on her face.
She needed that magnificent, terrifying cock splitting her open, filling the hollow ache this pretty-boy finance tool had only magnified. She needed to hear him break, to feel him lose control inside her.
The Uber pulled up to her building. She got out, her heels clicking with purpose on the pavement. The hunt was officially on.
The hunt was officially on.
Matt’s hands shook on the steering wheel, the streetlights blurring into yellow streaks. He could still smell her perfume mixed with the bleach-stink of the club bathroom. He could still feel the wet heat of her mouth. He tasted bile.
His house was a dark silhouette at the end of a quiet, tree-lined street. A sanctuary. He killed the engine and sat in the silence, waiting for his pulse to stop hammering against his throat. He’d fled like a coward. She had a picture. What was she going to do with it? Laugh with her friends? Post it somewhere? The thought made his skin prickle with a cold sweat.
He shoved the car door open and trudged up the walkway, his body aching with a weird, hollow exhaustion. He fumbled with his keys, the metallic scrape too loud in the still night.
The door swung inward before he could turn the lock.
Light from the hallway spilled out, framing Lisa. His oldest stepsister. She was already in her pajamas—soft, gray cotton shorts and a worn band t-shirt. Her blonde hair was piled in a messy bun, strands falling around her concerned face.
“Matt? Jesus, you look like hell.” Her voice was sleep-rough, but her eyes were sharp, scanning him.
Before he could muster a greeting, she moved. She pulled him inside, the door closing with a definitive click, and wrapped him in a tight hug. She was shorter than him, her head tucking under his chin. She smelled like vanilla lotion and home.
Then she was kissing his face—quick, frantic little pecks on his cheek, his jaw, his forehead. “Where were you? Your phone was off. I was getting worried.” She pulled back, her hands framing his face, forcing him to look at her. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing, Lis. Just a… bad night.” He tried to shrug her off, to step around her toward the kitchen, but she held firm.
“Bullshit. You’re white as a sheet. You’re trembling.” Her thumbs stroked his cheeks. “Did someone try something? Did you get in a fight?” Her gaze dropped to his clothes, looking for tears, for blood.
A fight he could handle. This was worse. This was humiliating.
“No fight,” he muttered, his eyes dropping to the floor. The words felt like gravel in his mouth. “I met someone. At the club.”
Lisa went very still. “Okay.”
“And she… we went to the bathroom.” He couldn’t look at her. The confession spilled out in a low, pained rush. “She went down on me. And I came. All over her face. And then I just… ran. I panicked and I ran. And she took a picture.”
The silence in the hallway was absolute. He could hear the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.
Lisa’s hands slowly fell from his face. He finally chanced a glance up. Her expression was unreadable for a second, a storm moving behind her pale blue eyes. Then it settled into something tight, something fiercely protective, but underneath it, something else flickered—a hot, sharp twist in her gut that had nothing to do with sisterly concern.
Her mouth. The thought was instant, unwelcome, and violently vivid. It was some random slut’s mouth on his cock. Not mine. She got to taste him, feel him. She got that.
The jealousy was a physical cramp. She swallowed it down, coating it with anger.
“She took a picture?” Lisa’s voice was dangerously calm. “That’s fucking predatory, Matt. That’s not okay.” She stepped closer again, her concern a mantle she pulled back on. “You didn’t want it?”
“I… I don’t know. I did, and then I didn’t. It was too much. She was too much.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I just want to go to bed. I’m wiped.”
“Stay here tonight,” she said, the command soft but absolute. “You shouldn’t be alone after that.”
“Lisa…”
“I’m not asking.” She softened it with a small smile, pushing him gently toward the living room. “Go sit. I’ll make you tea. You’re staying.”
He was too drained to argue. He sank onto the large sectional couch, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He listened to her move in the kitchen, the familiar clink of a mug, the click of the kettle. The normalcy of it was an anchor.
When she returned, she sat close, their thighs touching. She didn’t mention the girl again. She talked about her day, about a project at her graphic design job, about nothing important. The sound of her voice slowly sanded down the jagged edges of his panic.
An hour later, the tea was gone. The digital clock on the cable box read 2:47 AM.
“I’m going up,” Matt said, standing. “You can have the guest room. Sheets are clean.”
Lisa stood too, biting her bottom lip. “Matt… can I sleep with you? Like old times? I just… I don’t want you lying up there alone in the dark thinking about it.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide and imploring. “No funny stuff. Just sleep. I promise.”
He was too tired to see the calculation in her gaze, the longing masquerading as comfort. He nodded, too exhausted to form words.
“Great!” she chirped, a little too brightly. “I’ll just go change. I have stuff in the guest room.”
He trudged upstairs to his bedroom, a spacious room dominated by a large bed and shelves full of tech manuals and old martial arts trophies he kept turned away. He changed into soft, loose pyjama pants and a t-shirt, brushing his teeth mechanically, trying to scrub the memory of the night from his skin.
When he came out of the ensuite, Lisa was already in his bed.
She hadn’t changed into pajamas. She wore a slip of black lace. It was blatantly, undeniably lingerie—strappy, barely-there cups that pushed her breasts up, a sheer mesh waist, straps cutting across her hips. The dim light from his bedside lamp played over the curves of her body, shadows pooling in the hollows.
She saw him freeze in the doorway. “It’s just what I sleep in,” she said, her voice a low murmur. She pulled the duvet up to her waist, a feeble attempt at modesty. “Come on. I’m getting cold.”
He stood rigid for another second, then gave in. What was the point? The night had already been a disaster. This was just Lisa. Weird, overprotective, sometimes-too-affectionate Lisa. He clicked off the lamp and climbed into bed, keeping to his side, his back to her.
The mattress dipped. He felt her warmth as she shifted closer. Then her body was pressing against his back. She arranged his arm around her waist, his hand splayed on her stomach. The lace was flimsy, whisper-thin. He could feel the heat of her skin, the softness of her belly beneath it.
“There,” she sighed, wriggling back until her body spooned perfectly against his. “Better.”
It was both familiar and agonizingly strange. They’d shared beds as kids during thunderstorms, after nightmares. This was different. Her scent was different here, in his dark room—deeper, less vanilla, more of her. The lace scraped gently against his forearm.
And then he felt it, or she made sure he felt it. As she settled, she pressed her hips back against him. His soft, flaccid cock, still impressively large even at rest, was nestled against the cleft of her ass, separated only by the thin layer of his pyjama pants and her flimsy lace.
She let out a tiny, contented sigh that wasn’t entirely about comfort.
Matt lay rigid, eyes wide open in the dark. He was hyper-aware of every point of contact: her head tucked under his chin, her breasts pushed against his arm, the fierce heat where their bodies joined. He willed himself to think of nothing, to be empty.
Lisa had no such intention. She focused on the heavy, soft weight of him against her. It was a thick, warm presence, a promise of what could be. She imagined it hardening, imagined rolling over and guiding it inside her, filling the empty, jealous ache that had taken root hours ago. She wished it was deep inside her right now, stretching her, claiming her, wiping the memory of that other woman’s mouth clean.
But she had promised. Just sleep. So she lay perfectly still, pretending to drift off, each slow breath an exercise in frustrated longing. She held his hand against her stomach, and eventually, the genuine exhaustion from his traumatic night overcame Matt’s tension. His breathing evened out, deepened.
Lisa listened to him sleep, a bittersweet victory. She had him here, in her arms. But he was asleep, and the magnificent weight against her was still soft. She closed her own eyes, a single, treacherous tear escaping to soak into his pillowcase, as the night held its breath around them.