【 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑑 ✧ rave & rev. 】ⁿˢᶠʷ

[reverie.]

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sing, little bird. Christina had always dreamed of becoming a famous singer, and she'd been working towards it since she was a little kid. Back then, her parents supported her enthusiasm and let her sing in choirs and take singing lessons, in hopes that she one day would get bored and start pursuing something else. But nothing could take this dream away from Christina, not even her parents when they refused to pay for her education. But even though Christina got a scholarship and graduated as one of the top students in her class, her graduation was only the beginning of her downfall. Now that she had to fend for herself, she was struggling to make ends meet. Working part time at a local bar barely covered the rent of her crappy apartment. And then there were food and other necessities. When singing at open mic nights and asking for gigs didn't pay the bills, she was desperate to earn some extra cash. After researching her possibilities, she ended up signing up to be an escort on what appeared to be an exclusive online service. She was assigned an alias━𝑹𝒐𝒔𝒆. And then she was given instructions. A time and a place, followed by how long the appointment would last. Sometimes she was also given specific instructions as to what to wear. The first three times had been easier than she'd expected. The gentlemen who had booked her had treated her like a princess, and she expected nothing less from the fourth. But what happens when Christina shows up at a motel just outside of town at 9 pm the next Friday, and her uncle opens the door? Will he tell her parents and risk ending her career before it has even started, or will he claim what he has already paid for. . . ​

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[reverie.]

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C H R I S T I N A J    O    R    D    A    N    -    K    I    N    G ​ Christina was running late, and this time, it wasn't entirely her fault—or maybe it was. While she was getting ready for her appointment, she'd posted a picture on Instagram, and the comments that kept coming in distracted her more than she was willing to admit. It was the first time she was wearing thigh highs, and she wanted to show them off; she felt cute. But constantly reading the comments to her post resulted in her having to jog to the pickup spot, and by the time she got out of the private cab fifteen minutes later, her heart was still pumping in her chest. It could just be nerves, but she doubted it. She'd already done this three times now, and it had exceeded all of her expectations. The men had been kind, gentle, and the sex had been ten times better than any she'd experienced with the guys her age. The agency had texted her the instructions: black lingerie, thigh highs, 2 hours, motel room nr. 16. It was easy money to make. She knew she only got a fraction of what the agency made from her services, but it was worth it. Receiving $300 after spending 2 hours moaning in pleasure and being treated like a princess was the easiest money she had ever made. A lot easier than getting tips from serving drunken men at the bar. Thanks to her weekly appointments, she was now able to stay ahead of the bills. She tried to convince herself that this was only a temporary solution; once she got a breakthrough with her singing career, she would quit. The sweater she'd been wearing in the picture she posted was still clinging to her body, the hem reaching mid-thigh, creating a small gap where her thighs were bare and visible. Underneath, she was wearing the most exclusive lingerie she owned. She'd bought it after her first appointment as a reward to herself, and she'd worn it to every appointment after. The only other thing she was carrying was a small purse with her wallet and phone. The agency had strict rules, so she knew the client would have condoms. Christina was both excited and nervous when she knocked on the door to room nr. 16, but nothing—absolutely nothing—could prepare her for what was about to happen. When the door opened a few seconds later, and her uncle's familiar face appeared in the doorway, her heart almost jumped out of her chest. What the fuck was he doing here? Trying to hide her shock with an apologetic smile. "Uncle James, hi!" Her voice was way too pitchy to sound natural. Holy shit. She needed to get out of this situation right fucking now. The agency must have given her the wrong room, and she needed to call them so she could get the correct one. She couldn't afford to lose this week's pay. "I'm so sorry," she said, fishing out her phone from her purse with a nervous giggle. "My friend must have given me the wrong room number." Making sure he couldn't see her screen from where he stood, she opened the message she'd received earlier that day just to double-check. Perhaps she'd been the one getting it wrong? Nope, it still said room nr. 16. Perhaps it was supposed to say 26? Christina looked up again, still trying to look unfazed by the fact that she'd just interrupted her uncle in. . . whatever it was he was doing at this motel. "I'm sorry. I'll uh—I'll get this sorted. Enjoy your evening!" She flicked her gaze to the room behind him, her cheeks blushing slightly as if she just realized that she might have interrupted him in the middle of an. . . act. But if she had, he was probably eager to get back to it. She had the agency on speed dial and was going to call them as soon as she got away from her uncle. ​

    

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[Rave]

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J A M E S K    I    N    G  ​ James sat at the edge of the motel bed, a low amber light washing over the worn floral pattern of the bedspread and the smooth amber of the scotch in his glass. Room sixteen. Nondescript, quiet, and discreet--just as it always was. The motel was cheap but clean, with curtains thick enough to swallow the outside world and a door that latched like a confession sealed shut. He'd arrived early, half an hour before the scheduled time, because he always did. Punctuality was one of the few courtesies he still honored. Melissa would be at her book club or Pilates or whatever it was she told him to fill the silence between them. The kind of married life where both partners knew not to ask too many questions. He swirled his drink absently, watching the ice dissolve in lazy arcs. The scotch was older than the girl he'd arranged to meet, and probably twice as expensive as the room. The absurdity wasn't lost on him, but he didn't laugh. He didn't feel much of anything anymore—at least, not outside places like this. This was his fourth time using the agency. Once every month. He'd told himself it would be once, and then never again. But nothing in his life made him feel the way this did. The girls were vibrant, discreet, eager. There were rules, limits, safety nets, and a transactional honesty he hadn't tasted in years. No one expected love or devotion. Just two hours, paid in advance, wrapped in silk and skin. Tonight was supposed to be no different. He'd changed clothes since arriving—nothing extravagant, but deliberate. A black button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearms, revealing the plethora of tattoos beneath. Slacks. A leather watch he wore out of habit, not sentiment. Clean, crisp, controlled. James had always been that. The reliable one. The one who kept his head. Even now, seated alone in a motel room waiting to fuck a stranger half his age, he managed to look respectable. Until the knock came. He stood, set the glass down, adjusted the cuff at his wrist. No urgency--he never let himself seem eager. He reached for the door, ready for another anonymous girl with painted lips and practiced eyes. What he got instead… was Christina. The door opened, and time fractured. At first, he didn't speak. Couldn't. His eyes met hers and for a moment he didn't understand what he was seeing. Christina Jordan-King. Twenty-four. All legs and soft edges, and a face he'd known for ages. His own brother's daughter, his very niece. The little girl who used to call him Uncle James and tug at his sleeve to show him her drawings. The one he'd bought birthday gifts for when her father forgot. The one who used to sing from the backseat of his car without shame. And now, standing in front of him with that same soft mouth parted in horror, wearing a sweater that did little to hide what was beneath. and thigh highs that he had requested his escort to wear. His stomach turned. Not with disgust--but something deeper. Something forbidden and sudden and entirely wrong, mixed with the shock rushing up his spine enough to form a pit in his stomach. "Uncle James, hi!"​ The words were all wrong. That laugh--nervous, girlish—stabbed through him like a warning bell. She was already reaching for her phone, babbling excuses. Friend. Wrong number. Sorry. And the lie came too easily, too smoothly, for someone caught off guard. His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the stretch of bare thigh below the sweater's hem. Black garters. No mistake. James closed the door behind her before she could retreat, arm shooting over her shoulder like a missile, the latch snapping like a verdict. He reached out. pinning her between him and the door, immediately dwarfing her, his shadow cast over this fawn caught in headlights. She was much smaller than him in size alone, since James stood at 6'3, and she couldn't have been more than a few inches past 5. Not roughly—but firmly, his hand closed around her wrist, fingers wrapping the delicate joint as if claiming proof. Her skin was warm. Alive. Too real. And as he pulled her gently but decisively back toward the bed, tossing her with such little effort he might as well have thrown a doll onto the mattress. "Christina." His voice was deep, cutting, accusatory. "You're not here because of a mistake." His eyes met hers, and the softness was gone from them. "This is your fucking appointment, isn't it." ​

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[reverie.]

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C H R I S T I N A J    O    R    D    A    N    -    K    I    N    G ​ Never in a million years had she expected her uncle to grab her—to stop her from escaping this awkward situation. He pushed her back against the wall, towering over her like a giant. Her sneakers didn't give her any extra inches, but she'd been feeling minuscule even with heels. He was too damn tall, too big. Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, but whether it was from fear or shock was hard to tell. What the fuck was he doing? Christina didn't know what to expect—a lecture perhaps, or a threat to call her parents—but she never thought it would be this. He threw her onto the bed, a faint sound escaping her lips as she landed sideways on it. It didn't hurt; the mattress was soft, but that didn't stop the panic from kicking in. She quickly pressed her thighs together. When he spoke her name, she flipped her head towards him. She'd heard him say her name a thousand times and yet. . . This was different, somehow. He'd scolded her before, he'd even yelled at her, but that tone—it was new. Terrifying, really. She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together while waiting impatiently for whatever he was about to say. His next words cut through her like knives. No. Her stomach turned. No, no, no, no. She froze, her gaze glued to his stern face. The uncle she thought she knew, the uncle who had raised her, was gone. She barely recognized him with that look on his face. She held her breath. He knew. He fucking knew. Knew what she was up to, knew what she'd been doing. And then it dawned on her. He was her fucking client. For a short moment, Christina said nothing—did nothing—but then she acted on autopilot. "What?" she said, trying to sound confused. But no one could fake this type of confusion, and yet Christina tried her very best. "What do you mean, appointment? No—" She shook her head, as if that would make her lie more believable. "I'm here to see a friend, that's all." They both knew that was bullshit, but she didn't dare to admit that to his face. Not even after he had caught her red-handed. It was obvious that he'd been waiting for her, that he had booked her. The thought made her sick. What were the odds? There was simply no way she could go through with this. She'd just have to tell the agency that they had to set up a new appointment tomorrow with someone else. She lifted her phone, smiling innocently. "He just texted me the wrong room." She sat up straight on the bed and was ready to get up and leave. There was no way she was starting an argument with him. "I'm sure you have things to do." He could have been fucking someone by now, but she ruined it for him. Not that she said that out loud. Fuck, this was awkward. They both knew why the other was there, but couldn't they just pretend it was a coincidence? If she called the agency now, she was certain that they could send another girl for him to fuck. Not that she understood why he would even need to pay to fuck someone. The last time she checked, he was still married. "He's probably waiting for me," she lied, praying that her uncle would play along and spare her from further embarrassment. All he had to do was let her leave, and they could both keep each other's secret. ​

    

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[Rave]

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J A M E S K    I    N    G  ​ James watched her like a predator stalking prey. A wolf that cornered the hare. He stood at the edge of the bed, towering, casting his shadow upon her and watching her flail for composure. Watching the lies build like scaffolding made of wet paper. Her voice trembled--brave on the surface, but hollow beneath. The more she spoke, the clearer it became: she wasn't denying it because it wasn't true. She was denying it because she still believed she had a way out. She fucking didn't. With one long stride, he closed the distance between them, his shadow falling over her like a verdict. Her phone was halfway to her ear again, her thumb hovering over the screen. "Give me that." He didn't wait for permission. James snatched the phone from her hand, not with a smack to her hand that was almost punishing, the practiced authority of a man used to being obeyed and making those who didn't pay. She had never seen this side of him, how could she? Since she could walk, she'd followed him like a puppy, never refusing a request from her beloved uncle. Only now was she getting to see the other side of his nature, one previously unimaginable to her. For him to show her. His thumb moved fast, too fast for her to intercept, and the screen lit up—recent calls. There it was. The agency's number, still active. His jaw clenched. "A friend, huh?" His voice was low now, molten, the threat buried beneath velvet. "Your friend's name is Platinum Lux. His mom pick out that name?" Her lips parted to speak again, venom laced with something darker within it. Something coveting. "And the room number? You think I wouldn't notice you're wearing exactly what I requested!?" His eyes raked over her, deliberate and slow. "Black lingerie peeking out beneath your clothes. Thigh highs." His voice dipped, heat edging every syllable. "I asked for that. I paid for that." He tossed the phone aside, hard enough that it landed on the carpet with a loud thud, smashing into pieces. He didn't look away from her. "You want me to pretend this is a coincidence?" He moved forward again. And if she backed up instinctively, he'd chase further. "That you didn't walk in here dressed to be fucked by a stranger for money?...that my niece is a fucking whore?" James pressed a hand to the mattress, then the other, caging her between his arms as he leaned over her, slow, rageful, immense. The bed dipped beneath his weight, her breath caught between them. His scent—cologne and scotch—wrapped around her like smoke. The expression on his face wasn't angry. It was worse. It was possessive. "Don't lie to me, Christina," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You wanted this. You wouldn't be here, dressed like this, walking into room sixteen unless you knew what you were fucking doing." His thigh pressed between hers—not fully,obscenely—just enough. Just enough to remind her that he wasn't her father. He wouldn't look away and neglect this. That something had shifted, irreversibly. "And now you're going to pretend you didn't mean to come to me?" His mouth hovered near her ear. Not touching. Not yet. "I booked you, Christina. I chose you. Based on what my type is...do you understand? Small, feminine...a brat I can break in." He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. "Tell me. Did you recognize my characteristics on the request? An older man? One that resembles your beloved uncle?" His hand reached forward suddenly, sharp and quick, to grab her by the jaw. She was so petite in comparison to him that her entire face practically fit in his hand. "Or did you just see the price and get wet?" ​

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[reverie.]

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C H R I S T I N A J    O    R    D    A    N    -    K    I    N    G ​ Shit hit the fan faster than she'd expected—and it hit hard. He snatched her phone from her fingers before she had a chance to react, and as he studied what was on her screen, her face grew pale. She was no longer laughing, no longer smiling. It was obvious that he wasn't going to let her off the hook. As his gaze wandered—no doubt taking in her petite body and her choice of clothes—she could feel the color return to her face. She quickly pulled the hem of her sweater further down her thighs, but it would only go thus far. She held his gaze, gathering up the courage to answer him. To say anything. "Well, obviously, I didn't know it was you." Her tone was sharp, but there was a slight tremor in her voice. If she had known that he was her client, she would have declined. She would have never shown up to this model if she had known. And just knowing now that he had paid for her to wear those thigh highs made her stomach turn—or maybe it was tingling. God, she'd felt so fucking cute wearing them. Now she didn't know what to feel. Did he even like them on her? Did it matter? She was afraid to answer that question. She flinched when he threw her phone away, eyes widening in shock as it shattered. He didn't even give her proper time to process the loss of her phone before he violated her personal space. She tried to scatter backward in bed, but her legs wouldn't allow it. Her uncle trapped her between his arms, forcing her to lean back on her elbows. "Yes," she gritted out, holding his gaze even though her cheeks heated with embarrassment. "A stranger—not you." It wasn't every day someone called her a whore, and she had never expected him to call her that. But he wasn't wrong, and perhaps that was why it stung. He was so close—too close. His face, his body; she could feel it all. His warmth, his breath, his fucking scent. And he smelled so fucking good too. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm not lying!" she hissed, obviously offended by his words. It sounded like he accused her of not knowing what she was doing, but it also sounded like he accused her of enjoying being a whore—and maybe a part of her did. The men that had fucked her had treated her like a princess and made her cum so hard she had started questioning her own fingers. When he pressed his thigh between hers, her gaze flickered down for just a moment. This time, there was no mistaking the tingling in her core. She met his gaze once more, her expression calm but her eyes glistening with what could only be a mixture of fear and anticipation. What exactly was he trying to accomplish? Did he want a full confession? Details of her previous encounters? Her lips parted, but she hadn't figured out what words to say, so he beat her to it—again. Christina held her breath. Her uncle's breath was warm against her ear, his words sending shivers down her spine. If he was trying to intimidate her, to make her fucking uncomfortable, he was succeeding. She didn't move, didn't breathe—she just listened. It was no longer her uncle who was talking. She recognized his voice, but his words. . . His words were alien to her. A brat he could break in. She started breathing again, rather heavily, but tried to conceal it. She didn't want him to know the effect he had on her, how terrified she was. What exactly did he mean by that? He wasn't actually planning to go through with this, was he? He answered the question for her shortly after, when he grabbed her jaw. A whimper escaped her lips, her eyes widening in terror and surprise. She had not recognized the characteristics, and if she was being honest, she would have never guessed it was her uncle. But then again, she would bet all of her money that he never saw her coming either. He hadn't booked her, not specifically at least. The agency must have thought they would be a good match—and maybe they would have been, if they weren't related. She inhaled through her nose, glaring up at him. Another escort might have tried to pull his fingers away, but Christina did no such thing. She pretended it didn't bother her in the slightest, when in reality, it did. "You didn't book me," she said through gritted teeth. "And if I'd known it was you, you know I wouldn't have been here." At least that was the truth. She had a feeling he wouldn't have been here either if he'd known she was the girl who would knock on his door, the girl he was paying to fuck. Ignoring his last question, she decided to shoot one back at him that would sting just as hard, if not harder. Their faces were almost touching, but she didn't budge. "Tell me," she started, using his own words against him. "Does Melissa know you're fucking young girls on the weekends?" This time, her voice did not falter. She looked him dead in the eye, expecting him to answer even though she already knew the truth. ​

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[Rave]

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J A M E S K    I    N    G  ​ James had always considered himself a man with boundaries. Quiet ones, unspoken, but firm—until now. The moment had hit him like a sucker punch the moment Christina walked into the room, hips swaying in those obscene thigh highs HE had asked for, her face hidden under a curtain of confident detachment. It had taken him a second—maybe two—to recognize her. And once he had, his body had gone cold. Then hot. Then cold again. Now it was far too late, with how she looked upon this bed, the bed he was meant to stain with cum and sweat. His hand still burned from where it had gripped her phone before tossing it across the room. It wasn't about the device; it was about the lie. The betrayal. Not hers, exactly—Christina hadn't meant to deceive him. That much he believed. No, the betrayal came from reality itself, from whatever cruel twist of fate had orchestrated this collision. She wasn't twelve anymore. Not the girl who used to splash in the pool while he grilled burgers and argued baseball stats with her dad. No, this version of her—this woman—was foreign and brazen, and infuriatingly magnetic. James loomed over her now, breath thick with frustration and something far darker. She was cornered, but unyielding, glaring up at him like she could stare him into submission. It almost worked. Almost made him forget about that one time in the car. Or all the other times she just happened to 'sit' in his lap watching T.V in a way that provoked...a rise. But then she brought up Melissa. His jaw twitched. Not a flinch, not a retreat—but something inside him flickered. The last time someone had said his wife's name like that—laced with venom and knowledge—it had been during an argument that ended with a slammed door and an empty bed. Melissa hadn't touched him in months. They didn't talk unless it was about bills or scheduling or who forgot to feed the damn cat. The only thing more dead than their sex life was the illusion that either of them cared. Still, hearing her name in this room, on Christina's lips of all people, felt like stepping on broken glass. James leaned in slightly, letting the tension stretch between them like a wire pulled taut. Her breath caught, her chin defiant in his grip. It hardened, immediately dropping from jaw to neck. In a second's notice, he choked her free of all breath, leaving whatever attempts of gasping air caught in her windpipe. He could see it all now: the flash of fear behind her fire, the mess of conflicting feelings tangled just beneath her words. She was bluffing. Partly. She hadn't meant to be here, but now that she was… she wasn't running. Not yet. His voice, when it came, was quieter. Lower. "Melissa doesn't ask questions she doesn't want answers to." He didn't break eye contact. "And you think this is about sex anymore? About getting off?" A faint scoff escaped him, almost a laugh. "You're not just some girl in a tight sweater who showed up to play pretend, Christina. You're my fucking niece. You're you." The confession sat there, half-formed, half-denied. James didn't fully understand what he meant by it yet, but it was too late to take the words back. Maybe he hadn't booked her. Maybe the agency had pulled some twisted cosmic prank. But he was looking at her now—really looking—and something inside him was shifting. Tectonic plates grinding against each other beneath the surface. "You should've never come here, Christina." He released her neck, a momentary hope that he was about to leave...but no, the phantom shape of her skin still etched into his fingers, and he wanted more. "But it's too late now." James didn't ask permission—didn't offer softness, didn't pretend this was something tender. His fingers curled under the hem of her sweater, and in one rough motion, he dragged it up over her body, baring her inch by inch like he was unwrapping a fucking secret he had no business seeing. The sweater snagged briefly at her arms before he yanked it free, tossing it aside without a glance. She was breathing hard now, her chest rising beneath a flimsy bra that did nothing to hide the stiff peaks of her nipples. He let his eyes drag over her slowly, deliberately, his jaw tight, breath heavier than before. "This is what I paid for, right?" he muttered, more to himself than her, his voice gravel-thick with something between fury and want. He didn't wait for an answer. One hand slid to the waistband of her skirt—if you could even call it that—thumb brushing hot against her skin before tugging it down with zero ceremony. "You came here to be fucked," he growled, eyes locked on hers as the fabric dropped past her knees. "So don't act surprised now that you're going to be." ​

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[reverie.]

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C H R I S T I N A J    O    R    D    A    N    -    K    I    N    G ​ Christina could see that she'd hit a nerve the moment she said Melissa's name, but that had been her intention. She wanted him to taste his own medicine. He'd called her a whore, but was he any better? Fucking girls half his age behind his wife's back? No. But she had expected him to yell at her, or to let go of her as if she were a disease. She did not expect him to choke her—at least not so abruptly. She let out a startled gasp as his fingers wrapped around her slender neck and squeezed, preventing any air from entering her lungs. Her eyes widened in panic, and in one swift motion, her hands wrapped around his wrist and forearm. She was not only attempting to pull herself free from his chokehold, but she was also holding herself up. If her back hit that mattress, there was no way she was getting back up. Not that she had any chance of escaping now, but if he pinned her to that bed. . . She was screwed. The fear in her eyes didn't cease while he gave his little speech. He was absolutely right, too—she was his fucking niece. She blinked up at him, white and black dots starting to cloud her vision. Her fingers were still wrapped around his arm, trying to make him loosen his grip, so she could breathe. When he eventually did, she was heaving for air, unable to say the words she'd been longing to say. A part of her thought this was it; that he was going to leave her be. That he was done lecturing her, done scaring her. But then she heard his next few words, and her blood ran cold. But it's too late now. Too late for what? She had a feeling she knew what he was referring to, but she hoped she was wrong—she had to be wrong. Turned out, she wasn't. It happened so fast. Within a couple of seconds, he'd stripped her out of her sweater, leaving her practically naked from the waist up. Her lace bra didn't really cover her small, perky breasts, so she tried to cover herself with her hands and arms, but they didn't really do her any favors either. And the worst part was that he'd seen her in a bikini so many times, and yet she'd never felt so exposed to him. She'd paraded around in her tiny bikini every summer, and never thought twice about it, but now that he was on top of her, she was suddenly very conscious about her body. About him seeing it. Christina had always been petite; she was short, slim, and had small curves in all the right places. She'd never had any issues showing off her body to anyone—until now. So, when he pulled at her tiny skirt, dragging it down her thighs, exposing her matching lace panties, she quickly tried to cover herself. She was breathing heavily, her body shivering from the cold air surrounding her—or perhaps it was with fear. "James, stop." She tried to sound confident, but her voice was hoarse. And no matter how much she tried to convince herself that she didn't want this, that this was wrong on so many levels, there was no mistaking the tingling feeling in her core. She squirmed underneath him, trying to cover herself up with her arms and hands, but with little success. The majority of her body was still very much on display. "Yes," she pressed out, "but not by you." She did not come there to be fucked by her uncle. And she wouldn't be either. There was no way he would go through with it; he was just trying to get under her skin to prove a fucking point. And if he thought she wouldn't see right through his little act, he was going to be disappointed. "Now, get the fuck off," she growled, pushing at his chest. "You've proved your point, okay? I know you're not going to fuck me—" She stared up at him with an expression that made it difficult to know if her next words were a warning or a fucking challenge. "You wouldn't dare." But a fucked up part of her hoped he would. And that same fucked up part was also the reason her panties were damp and not dry. If he so much as dipped a finger between her legs, he'd find out exactly how much her body enjoyed his touch—his dominance—and then she'd have nothing to back up her words.​

    

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[Rave]

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J A M E S K    I    N    G  ​ James didn't move when she pushed at his chest—he didn't flinch, didn't blink. He just stared down at her, watching the way her eyes flashed with defiance even while her body betrayed her in every fucking way it could. Her breathing was ragged, her skin flushed, and her nipples were hard against the thin lace of her bra. That voice of hers—rough, hoarse, trying to claw back control—lit something in him that was already burning too hot to extinguish. "You think I'm bluffing," he muttered, voice low and tight with restraint. His hands were planted on either side of her, caging her in, the mattress creaking beneath the tension of his weight. "You think this is just some performance? That I'm up here trying to scare you straight?" He leaned down until their faces were barely apart, his breath hot against her cheek. "No, sweetheart. I'm not here to teach you a fucking lesson. I'm here to finish what you started the second you walked into this room dressed like a goddamn fantasy." He reached down then, one hand sliding to her thigh—warm, trembling under his palm—and dragged it slowly up, nails grazing until he reached the edge of her soaked panties. He didn't even need to push them aside to feel it: the heat radiating from between her legs, the soft tremble of her muscles when his knuckles brushed too close. A bitter smirk curled at the edge of his mouth as he looked back up at her, eyes locked on hers with a wicked, knowing calm. "Don't lie to me. Your mouth says no, but your pussy's screaming yes." He pressed two fingers along the damp fabric, slow and deliberate, not yet invading—just teasing, testing. Her breath hitched, and his smirk deepened. "This isn't about whether I dare, Christina. It's about whether you'll stop pretending you don't want this as bad as I do." He paused there, letting the tension breathe between them for just a moment longer—long enough for her to squirm, for her eyes to flicker again between fear and something far more dangerous. Then he spoke again, voice like gravel dragging across her nerves. His fingers hooked into the band of her panties, dragging them down until they were halfway down her thighs. "You want to talk about what I wouldn't dare?" he murmured, voice low and cold, laced with something far too knowing. "You forget so easily, don't you? you little whore." He stared at her, eyes piercing daggers into her own. "Prom night." He let the words drip from his mouth like venom, slow and deliberate. "You wore that little red dress with the slit up your thigh—remember that? Your date got wasted. Your friends ditched you. And I was the one who picked you up." His hand slid up her bare cunt now, firmer now, soaked panties pushed aside by demanding fingers to allow him a complete exposition of her. His hand cupped her cunt, pussy lips pressed against his digits, clit rubbing up against the tips of them as if it was something he owned. As if her pussy was his property. "You sat in my car, crying, slurring your words—and then, somewhere between your daddy's house and mine, you dropped your head in my lap and wrapped your slutty little lips around your uncle's cock like it was the most natural fucking thing in the world." He knew the memory might be...hazy at best, for her, but he'd buried it for her sake. To not remind her of something that could potentially destroy their relationship, one so loving up until this moment."And please, don't act shocked. You sucked my cock, Christina. Your uncle's cock." His voice hardened. "Right there in the goddamn car, like you'd done it before. Like you wanted it. You don't get to pretend this is brand new. You started this a long time ago." He watched the war behind her eyes—what reaction she would have? Shock? Disgust? Would her cunt soak his fingers further?...he'd relish it either way, the sadistic satisfaction of a prey realization what kind of trap she was caught in. "Now here you are again," he growled, just as the fingers shifted from simply cupping, to now actively rubbing themselves in rough circular patterns along her pussy lips, forcibly masturbating her beneath his touch. "Dressed like a toy. Moaning under my grip. And you have the nerve to ask if I'd fucking dare?" He shook his head slowly, dark amusement twisting across his face. "You already know the fucking answer." ​

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[reverie.]

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C H R I S T I N A J    O    R    D    A    N    -    K    I    N    G ​ Christina did think he was bluffing. She didn't think he had it in him. Didn't think he would actually do it—touch her. Not there, not like that. She didn't move as his fingers found her bare thigh, nor when he dragged his nails up towards her panties—a place that should be off limits for him. Her cheeks burned under his stare, her breathing shallow against his face. She knew what he'd discover down there, knew that her panties were getting soaked. A part of her didn't even know why. Was it the tension between them, or was it simply the fact that her body longed to be touched? Whatever the reason, it didn't change the fact that she was aroused, and Christina was doing her very best at hiding it. She clenched her jaw, stifling a whimper when he pressed his fingers against her folds through the thin fabric. It sent a jolt of arousal through her core. She knew it shouldn't have, but it did. And she hated herself for feeling it; hated him for causing it. But her face looked unfazed by his touch—and his fucking smirk—but her eyes said it all. Pure terror reflected in them, combined with a good dose of embarrassment. Oh, he dared, all right. He dared too fucking much. If it wasn't for the evidence, Christina would have tried to convince him he was wrong. She could deny it all she wanted, but it wouldn't make her panties dry. It wouldn't stop her core from tingling or her cheeks from burning. She tried to convince herself that she didn't want this, but her body wanted it. While resisting the urge to buck her hips, she missed him hooking his fingers into the band of her panties. By the time realized what he was doing, her pussy was bare. She squirmed under him, attempting to cover herself with her small hands. But then he called her a whore again, and her eyes narrowed. Something in her stilled. "Fuck you," she spat. He was no better than her—a man whore. She didn't say that to his face though, because his next words caught her attention. What did he mean, prom night? And just when she thought it couldn't get worse, it did. The night she thought had been a dream. . . was real. And he'd never told her. Not once had he mentioned it. He had never given her any indication that something had happened that night, and Christina had been so drunk she couldn't remember straight. Not once had she expected that it could have been real, not when he hadn't treated her any differently. He pressed his hand against her cunt, and her hand instantly wrapped around his wrist as the other tried to block his path—without success. This time she struggled to resist the urge to buck her hips, to grind her pussy against her hand, making sure his fingers pressed against her folds—her clit. "I did not," she snapped, even though she knew it was a lie. They both knew. Christina wasn't only shocked to find out that it had actually happened, but she was also shocked to find out her uncle had let her do it. She was his fucking niece, he should have pushed her off the moment she made a move towards him. As she writhed on top of the mattress, she told herself it was an attempt to escape his touch, but in reality, she wanted more of it. Or at least her body wanted more. "You fucking let me," she gritted out, accusing him of being the badguy. "You let me suck your cock, because you wanted me to." She placed all the blame on him; it was all his fault. She may have started it, but he could have finished it. He could have stopped her. Her fingers loosened their grip around his arm, and she looked him dead in the eye. When she bucked her hips this time, there was no denying it. "And you fucking loved it." She rolled her hips again, grinding her pussy against his fingers while muffling her moans as if trying to convince him his touch did not affect her. But it did—it most certainly did. Her heart was still thumping in her chest, her cheeks were still flushed, and her core tingled with anticipation and arousal. But if he thought, even for a second, that he could win this little game, he was mistaken. Christina lifted her head off the mattress, raised it until her lips almost brushed against his. This was foolish of her; she knew that, but she didn't want him to know how much power he had over her. How scared she truly was—of him, of what he'd do, what he'd make her do. "Then show me," she challenged him, her voice steadier than it had ever been. She could already feel the regret sneaking up on her. "Show me what you dare." If he wanted to show her what he dared, she'd show him what she could handle.​

    

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[Rave]

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J A M E S K    I    N    G  ​ James hovered over her, his pulse hammering in his ears like war drums. Every inch of his body was alive—angry. Her scent, her flushed skin, the way her hips betrayed her with every twitch and grind—it all pressed in around him like heat inside a sealed room. She was venom underneath him, spitting curses through bitten lips and trembling hands, but the fight in her only made the predator in him more alert, more hungry. This wasn't just about sex anymore. It hadn't been from the moment she rolled her hips against his hand like it was a game she thought she could win. He wasn't just going to fuck her. He was going to unmake her. His gaze sharpened, dark and slow like a tide coming in. Those words, 'fuck you', spat so devilishly from her lips...how true they would become. He wanted to laugh—maybe he even did, a dry, humorless sound that barely made it past his throat. Her defiance was brave, even admirable in another context. But here? Here, pinned beneath him, wet and seething and exposed? It was a dare he intended to collect on. "You keep saying that," he murmured, brushing his knuckles down her side, "And your body seems to be eager for it, no?" Whether she was squirming or flinching, the line was too blurred to tell, but with every 'defiant' buck of her hips upwards that followed, pushing her slick cunt into his hand harder still, one thing remained true: she was wet, and her pussy was eagerly gushing for him, begging for more. "Or do you get so fucking wet when you're not a horny little slut?" Then she said it. Then show me. It was a match tossed on gasoline. He didn't hesitate. His free hand violently gripped itself into her hair, and he yanked her mouth to his, crushing their lips together in a kiss that wasn't a kiss at all—it was possession, aggression... a claim. The brush of lips earlier had subconsciously provoked this, and now his tongue invaded, rough and insistent, swallowing her muffled protest as his grip locked her in place. Teethbit down on her lower lip just enough to mark, to bruise soft flesh beneath his claim, pulling back only when her breath was starting to hitch like it might give out. Her lips were swollen now. Raw. Beautiful. She looked utterly breakable. "You want to pretend this is new?" His voice was a growl now, all rough edges and buried secrets. "You want to blame me for your pretty little prom night like it was all my fucking fault?" His fingers released themselves from rubbing her cunt, having incessantly kept up the grinds against her bucks this whole time. Now though, his hand was guided to his own pants, where they quickly unzipped to allow his cock, hardened and pulsating, to fall into his palm. "A familiar sight, is it, Christina?" He taunted again, forcefully bringing her thighs together with a push of his hips towards her. She was being positioned, set up, so that a single thrust forward of his hips that followed sent his cock pushing between closing thighs and grinding down against throbbing pussy lips beneath in lieu of his hand. "You fucking sucked my cock with tears on your cheeks and my name on your tongue," he whispered, slow and poisonous. "Crying about how a boy didn't want to fuck you. Begging me to tell you that you were worth fucking, that you were sexy, looking at me with those doe eyes and pleading that I fill you up with my cum." His hips began to buck back and forth, daring her to keep bucking her hips right back at him like she was doing already, as if she'd win. As if it would douse her arousal rather than ignite it. The very cock he spoke of was now humping itself into her, the crown parting her labia like the red sea with each uphill thrust, pushing down upon the clit before lowering again. A simulation, of her place beneath him. "I didn't stop because you were so goddamn eager. You unzipped me like you'd been waiting your whole life for that moment. You looked up at me from my lap with your lips wrapped around my cock like a little porn star, and you thanked me afterward. Remember that? You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, looked me dead in the eyes and said, 'Don't tell Daddy.'" He chuckled darkly, low in his throat, his hand now finding her jawline to grip, cruel and slow, pulling her lips back towards his own close enough that she'd feel his breath lingering upon her skin. "Should I, Christina? Hm? Should I call your mother and tell her what I found in my motel room? Should I tell her how her precious baby girl is earning her money?!" He yelled now, possessive, aggressive, putting her in her place. His body pressed down atop her own, molding against her perfect skin, fitting it against his own like a missing puzzle piece. It was fucking maddening how well they 'fit' together, how natural her body felt against his. Like it belonged against him, to be ruined beneath, or sat above like a throne. "So help me God," He proclaimed, just as his lips smashed against her own again in another aggressive kiss to accompany the now constant dry-humping grinds descending upon her. The last of his words whispered amid the forceful embrace of lips. "I will put you in your fucking place tonight." ​

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[reverie.]

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C H R I S T I N A J    O    R    D    A    N    -    K    I    N    G ​ Christina didn't think he would dare that much. She didn't want to like it, but she did. The way his fingers masterfully rubbed her folds—her fucking clit—felt so fucking good, she struggled to keep her moans in check. She shouldn't even have been so wet, but there was just something about this situation, about being trapped on the bed, touched without her consent, that made her body go off script. At this point, she couldn't stop her hips from moving even if she'd wanted to. But that was the whole problem. Christina didn't want to. She wanted more. He'd set her body on fire, and he kept pouring gasoline on it. The arousal was burning her up from the inside out, and he didn't even seem to notice—or maybe he did, but chose to use it to his advantage. A gasp escaped her lips as he yanked her by the hair to force her lips to his. It was not a kiss, it was something else. Her uncle took ownership of her mouth, denying her the air her lungs sorely needed. She tried to pull back, tried to end the invasion, but it only resulted in panic. When he finally pulled back, allowing her to breathe again, she was heaving for air under him. Her lips were sore, swollen, and probably redder than they were when she had arrived. He was fucking unbelievable, trying to blame the incident in the car on her. "I was drunk!" she yelled, as if that was a good excuse. Obviously, a part of her had wanted to suck him. . . Why else would she throw herself in his lap? Even now, when she was sober, a part of her wanted him—wanted him to bury his cock so deep she could feel it in the depths of her stomach. But then there was this other part of her—the part with a brain—that knew how fucked up this was. But when she felt his fingers disappearing from her pussy, she couldn't stop the wave of disappointment from washing over her. She found herself grinding against thin air. But then she heard a zipper being pulled down, and her eyes darted down between them, widening. She might have a vast memory of giving him a blowjob, but she could not remember that his cock had been so big and intimidating. Without a doubt, bigger than her previous clients. He forced her thighs together, and before she knew it—before she had a chance to prepare—he shoved his cock between her legs, rubbing his length along her swollen folds. Nothing could stop the sweet sound from slipping past her lips. Christina couldn't stop herself from grinding against him, even though a voice in her head was screaming at her. Her pussy throbbed with anticipation, and while one part of her wanted him to stop, the other part wanted him to sink it into her. She was too busy grinding, feeling, and moaning to listen to his words. His voice was just background noise. She was brought back to reality when he grabbed her jaw. Wide eyes filled with terror and pure lust looked up at him. He was heavy on top of her, and his cock continued to send shockwaves of arousal through her core everytime it brushed against her clit. She whimpered against his lips when he kissed her again—and this time, she didn't try to end it prematurely. But as soon as it ended, Christina was back to her bratty, usual self. She knew he would never call her mom, or her dad. His own reputation was at stake, his own marriage—not that it seemed to be worth saving, but she was sure he'd prefer to uphold appearances. Her arms made their way under his and around his waist, and she dug her fingertips into his back. Her expression was stern as she whispered, "What are you waiting for, Uncle James?" It was a challenge and a dare, yes, but it was also a request. Christina wanted to feel his cock inside of her, wanted to feel the stretch. And the only way she'd get him to do it without begging him was if he egged him on, tricking him into thinking she didn't want it. "Don't you want to find out how tight I am? I bet it feels sooo much better than Melissa's." She knew she'd crossed a line with that one, but she needed him to believe she didn't want this—she even tried to convince herself she didn't. The only way she could win this game was to piss him off so bad that she either got her will or he'd get up and leave—which he should. In fact, they should both leave. . . Before they did something they could not undo. ​

    

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[Rave]

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J A M E S K    I    N    G  ​ James wasn't sure when the last thread of restraint snapped. Maybe it was when she whimpered into his mouth, finally giving into the kiss like she'd been starved for it. Maybe it was the way she looked up at him after—lips red and slick, breath shallow, like she didn't know whether to fear him or fucking beg for more. Or maybe it was the words. What are you waiting for, Uncle James?​ She said it like a dare, but it landed in his chest like a challenge dipped in gasoline. He could've backed off. That was the moment. One breath, one second, and he could've found reason again. But instead, her nails sunk into his back with a challenging grip that bordered on her own form of possessiveness. She was a brat through and fucking through, refusing to break and admit when she'd been bent, a mix of challenge in words and eager, desperate surrender from her body. Her uncle pushed forward—faster now—his cock dragging through her soaked pussy folds as if splitting her valley in two, the heat of her cunt wrapping around him like a velvet noose. It was messy, and wet. Evidence of their lust leaking down his groin and hers, staining his pants, the sheets beneath, their very skin. The friction between her thighs was unbearable. Her slickness coated him instantly, warm and obscene, and every time he pulled back and thrust forward again, the head of his cock practically threatened a full invasion, a second away...a single shift downwards away, from skewering her in full. From sending every inch of her uncle's cock pillaging into her very core. The image sent a shiver up his spine. "There she is-- speaking your fucking truth you little whore." he growled, quickly losing composure, and if she had any experience with men, she'd know that above her was a sight of a man quickly approaching eruption. "You think you're so fucking--agh...ah--!..fuck-...clever." He was breathing harder, his grip on her jaw and hips tightening as he shoved himself forward again—and again and again and again, until every inch of his cock was soaked her in wet arousal. "But you're not in-fucking-control." Another thrust. Her hands dug into his back, fingernails dragging down his skin. He leaned close, lips at her ear. "I'm not just going to fuck you, baby neice. I'm going to ruin you." Suddenly, the pressure was too much to handle. The gaskets broke loose, and he felt the oncoming flood threaten. t was like the coil inside him snapped all at once. James instantly jerked forward with a raw, guttural sound pulled from somewhere deeper than lust—somewhere primal. He didn't ease off, didn't slow down. Instead, he shoved his cock between the squeeze valley of her breasts instead, and further up until his cock head roughly pressed down against her partly-open lips. And then finally—her uncle came, harder than any time he'd cum since the last time she had her lips wrapped around his cock. "Oh fuck!-- fuc--...take...what you...deserve!" Thick, hot ropes painted her lips first, an immediate spill. Then her cheeks, trailing messily up toward her jaw. The wet and thick projectiles fired onto her eyes, her nose, her hair. One after the other, coating her in white. Whatever missed or remained would spill down onto her neckline like a goddamn claim. It was filthy. Indulgent. His. He watched it all happen—watched how he smeared her with his release, how every pump dyed her in creamy ivory, leaving her completely marked, filthy, and claimed. For a moment, the world slowed, as James did when the final ropes of cum released. What remained was a steady trickle, a leaking tap, that dripped remnants onto her face and lips. James hovered there, panting, a hand suddenly rushing forward to grip her jaw, holding her face like he needed to memorize it in that exact state: ruined, breathless, flushed, and utterly fucking silent. "Now isn't that a pretty sight." He taunted, cock still throbbing against her lips in ominous threat that it wasn't quite finished with her yet. "And I told you not to bring up my wife's fucking name." He scowled at her again, his free hand grabbing the base of his cock and using that grip to drag it across her face, smearing the cum upon it into her very fucking skin. "But you know what, Christina?" He withdrew his cock then, leaning back again to settle more tightly between her legs, the hand upon her jaw releasing so that his thumb could touch at her lower lip in delicate contrast to the filth from before. "At least she fucking swallows." ​

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