Cassie.
I don’t know if it’s wrong to feel this way, but my body’s become its own universe, heat pooling between my thighs, growing hotter every damn day.
Alone in my room, I can’t stop—fingers slipping into my p***y, thrusting deeper, harder, chasing that edge. I pinch my n*****s raw, twisting until they ache, f*****g myself frantic with my hand, but it’s never enough.
I’m 18; I shouldn’t be this desperate, this filthy. My brain screams it’s wrong, but my body betrays every moral, craving skin, touch, him.
Ever since Dad assigned Dante as my bodyguard, it’s worsened. I bought vibrators, dildos in every size—thick, veined, buzzing monsters—but they’re hollow substitutes.
My p***y aches for Dante’s c**k, wants to swallow him whole, feel him stretch and ruin me instead of cold silico
