YOURS AFTER MIDNIGHT, MR GRANT.
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Sending a sheer lingerie photo to my ruthless billionaire boss was a complete accident, but him locking his office door, pressing his massive, rock-hard erection against my stomach, and telling me to strip was a threat.
I was drowning in debt, and in a moment of weak empowerment, I snapped a photo of my swollen breasts spilling out of a crimson lace bra, the delicate thong barely hiding my wet, aching pussy. My thumb slipped. The explicit picture went straight to Alexander Grant.
I expected to be fired. Instead, he locked the heavy oak doors of his private office.
He didn't yell. He just trapped me against the wall, his thick thigh shoving aggressively between my legs, rubbing the rough fabric of his suit directly against my dripping center. I let out a pathetic, wet moan as his large hand wrapped around my throat.
"I will pay off every single cent of your debt," his deep voice vibrated against my lips, his thumb brushing my racing pulse. "But in exchange, you will be my exclusive plaything. Your body, your wetness, your tight little cunt—all mine."
I wanted to scream, but my body was completely betraying me. He handed me a velvet box containing the exact same crimson lingerie and ordered me to put it on. When I stepped out of his private bathroom, the lace hugging my hypersensitive nipples, his dark eyes flared with unhinged lust.
He didn't even take off his suit. He just ripped the lace panties down my thighs, shoved two thick fingers deep into my soaking wet vagina, and pumped me hard until I screamed his name.
I signed the contract with my legs still shaking and his musky scent buried deep inside me. But what happens when the monster who bought your body decides he wants to own your soul too?
I was drowning in debt, and in a moment of weak empowerment, I snapped a photo of my swollen breasts spilling out of a crimson lace bra, the delicate thong barely hiding my wet, aching pussy. My thumb slipped. The explicit picture went straight to Alexander Grant.
I expected to be fired. Instead, he locked the heavy oak doors of his private office.
He didn't yell. He just trapped me against the wall, his thick thigh shoving aggressively between my legs, rubbing the rough fabric of his suit directly against my dripping center. I let out a pathetic, wet moan as his large hand wrapped around my throat.
"I will pay off every single cent of your debt," his deep voice vibrated against my lips, his thumb brushing my racing pulse. "But in exchange, you will be my exclusive plaything. Your body, your wetness, your tight little cunt—all mine."
I wanted to scream, but my body was completely betraying me. He handed me a velvet box containing the exact same crimson lingerie and ordered me to put it on. When I stepped out of his private bathroom, the lace hugging my hypersensitive nipples, his dark eyes flared with unhinged lust.
He didn't even take off his suit. He just ripped the lace panties down my thighs, shoved two thick fingers deep into my soaking wet vagina, and pumped me hard until I screamed his name.
I signed the contract with my legs still shaking and his musky scent buried deep inside me. But what happens when the monster who bought your body decides he wants to own your soul too?

















































