“Don’t worry, I got you, sis,” Sadie whispered, her thumb worrying the edge of the laminated badge resting in her lap. Livy Taylor. The name printed bold above a photo that looked like her—technically, exactly her—but wasn’t. Her twin sister smiled in the picture, their shared fiery red hair catching the light, her head tilted in a way that promised secrets, a brazen spark Sadie had never been able to fake. 

The black SUV limo idled against the tarmac’s heat, the thick reek of jet fuel bleeding through the vents. Out the tinted window, Sadie watched the private jet taxi closer, its sleek body cutting the haze of the humid New York air. Her thighs stuck to the leather seats; her heart hammered in wild, anxious bursts, rattling against the cage of her ribs like it could beat a hole straight through her chest. 

She hadn’t traded places with Livy since elementary school, when the biggest risk was detention or a stern phone call home. Back then it was easy. Fun. An inside joke shared under covers late at night, whispering about what they'd gotten away with. This was different. This was everything. 

Livy was here to greet Savage Ghost and his crew. Only she wasn’t. She was lying pale and feverish under hospital sheets, mumbling nonsense, viral meningitis shredding her body faster than Sadie could even comprehend. The image burned at the edges of Sadie’s mind, cold and desperate and helpless. 

She could still see Livy’s work phone blinking on the hospital nightstand, message after message piling up with ruthless efficiency. She’d picked it up without thinking, without permission, and seen everything. 

Savage Ghost’s arrival. His crew. His label. His empire-in-the-making. 

The project Livy had been talking about for months, her voice bright and fierce with hope. The project she said could change everything. If I nail this, it changes my whole life, Livy had whispered, clinging to her wine glass like a lifeline, her eyes too bright, her smile too fragile. 

Sadie had listened. Had memorized every word of that hope. And now she sat here, sick with it, her stomach hollowing out beneath the heavy beat of her heart, because Livy couldn’t fight for it herself. 

Luckily, Sadie used to be a talent liaison, too. Back when she was fresh out of college, still finding her footing, she had worked the same job—before law school had called her back to something safer, something secure. So she had pored over Livy’s emails, the contracts, the schedules, the frantic, meticulous notes her sister had poured her whole heart into. She had studied it all, memorized it, tucked it inside herself like armor. She knew enough. Enough to bluff. Enough to survive.  

No one could tell the twins apart unless they tried. 

And no one here was going to try. 

It was reckless. Stupid. Maybe insane. 

But letting Livy’s shot at everything she wanted crumble while she lay helpless, her dreams leaking out of her with every beep of the hospital monitors— 

Sadie couldn’t do it. 

Wouldn’t. 

So she smoothed the hem of her white business suit with shaking fingers, tightened her grip on the badge, and stepped out—into the thick heat, into the raucous shouts of men she didn’t know, into Livy’s dream...or what she could save of it. 

The crew was already descending the stairs. 

Six men, broad and heavy, swaggering down like they owned the night. Black hoodies, sagging jeans, gold chains gleaming under the dying light, sneakers scuffing casually on metal steps. They moved with the lazy aggression of men who had nothing to prove—thick arms covered in tattoos, muscles pressing against fabric, each one carrying the weight of the streets with them like a crown. 

It was a living wall of noise and presence. 

And at the center of it, unmissable even among giants—Savage Ghost. 

Taller. Broader. Slower in his step, like gravity bowed to him. His white shirt clung to the planes of his chest, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the sprawl of ink up his forearms. His head was shaved close, his beard dark and cut with sharp lines. He didn’t shout, didn’t jostle—he didn’t need to. The men peeled around him like he was the sun, and they were planets stuck in his orbit. 

Sadie felt her breath tighten. 

There was something about him that made the skin on her arms prickle, made the space around her seem smaller, hotter. 

The man radiated danger, charisma, sex—all without a word. 

Her hand flexed uselessly around the badge as they crew approached.

Their attention shifted the moment they saw her. 

Eyes tracked her immediately, sliding up her legs, pausing at the curve of her hips, the swell of her tits, the nervous tightness of her mouth. One of them nudged another. She caught the low whistle, the chuckle that wasn’t even trying to hide its meaning. 

It made her want to shrink, to fold herself into nothing. But she forced herself steady—chin high, shoulders back, stride firm. She had been through this before, enough to remember how it felt to walk into a room and be seen as nothing but an accessory. 

She stopped a few feet away from them, heels clicking to a halt on the concrete, and tightened her expression into something clean, crisp, professional—while her heart pounded loud enough she was sure they could hear it. 

“Welcome to New York,” she said, voice even, practiced. “I’m Livy Taylor, your liaison while you’re here. Transport’s ready if you’ll follow me.” 

She turned, leading them toward the black SUV limo, letting their noise drift behind her like trailing smoke. The second she reached the passenger side door, she reached for the handle, eager to get inside up front, away from their stares, into a compartment with a little air. 

But before her fingers could grip the handle, a hand touched her lower back. 

It wasn’t firm. Wasn’t rough. But it was deliberate. 

She stiffened. 

“You ridin’ in the back with us,” came the low voice, just over her shoulder. 

She turned, pulse stuttering. 

Savage Ghost stood beside her now—tall enough to tower, built in a way that made her feel like she took up no space at all. His tone wasn’t unfriendly. But it wasn’t optional, either. 

“Need to go over some things,” he added, voice a little quieter. “Schedules, venues, backstage setup. Gotta get a read on how you work.” 

His hand lingered for half a second, then dropped. 

Sadie blinked once, lips parting, brain scrambling for a reply. Something about boundaries. Something about logistics. But then she remembered the stack of notes on Livy’s phone, the frantic emails, the calendar alerts marked with stars and exclamation points. 

If I nail this… everything changes. 

She swallowed it all back and nodded. 

Then turned from the passenger seat and followed him into the back. 

She choose the farthest edge of the leather wraparound seating like it was the last open seat on a crowded bus. Her white business suit glared back at her from every polished surface, a beacon of formality surrounded by designer hoodies and basketball shorts and diamond glints catching low light. She looked like she should be in a courtroom, not a weed-reeking limo—and some small, dizzy part of her thought that maybe one day, when law school was over, she might be. Representing men like them. Negotiating deals. Defending reputations. She didn’t belong back here. She knew it. They probably knew it. And they didn’t seem to mind one bit. 

She looked down at her lap, at her pale hands primly knotted together, and the thought popped up in her brain like a devil wearing pearls: I’m in the back of an SUV limo with six Black men. 

Her stomach did a somersault of guilt and she immediately shook her head. No. African-American? No! I don’t see color. They’re just...men. That’s all they are. Just men. As if internally correcting herself would erase the accidental thought. Race didn’t matter. Except it had popped up anyway, like some flustered part of her brain had hit panic and blurted the obvious in all caps. And now that part of her was hyperaware—of the tattoos, the weight of their stares, the low timbre of their voices, the way they took up space. 

It was all so casual for them. 

For her, it was like showing up to gym class in a wedding dress. 

She winced internally. God, get it together. 

And then Savage Ghost moved. 

She felt it in the seat before she saw it—his weight settling, his frame shifting toward her, slow and quiet and massive. He didn’t press into her space, not really. But his nearness alone changed the air. He had that kind of presence, like he could steal all the oxygen from a room and you’d thank him for it. 

“Alright, shawty,” he said, voice molasses-thick and warm, southern roots curling around every syllable. “Tell me how this gonna go.” 

She turned her head slowly. His gaze was level, expectant, unreadable. He wasn’t leaning in. He wasn’t even trying. But he might as well have had her pinned against the seat by just existing. 

Sadie swallowed. Her throat was dry. She felt her voice climb up the wrong way and had to clear it gently. 

“We’re heading to the trailer setup first,” she said, grateful for muscle memory from rehearsing this exact sentence in the mirror. “The team’s prepping everything per spec, exactly as requested in the contract. You and your crew will have exclusive access, catering, full privacy. Everything’s been arranged.” 

He stared for a second longer than was polite. 

Then he smiled. 

“Everything?” he said, low and a little amused. 

Something flickered in her chest, and she couldn’t name it. His tone wasn’t biting. Not overtly flirtatious. Just... subtle. Lazy. Like he didn’t need to mean it to make her wonder. 

“I... yes.” She managed a nod. “Everything that’s been promised.” 

His smile widened, not sharp, not smug—just knowing. “Can’t wait,” he said, leaning back into the seat like the conversation was over. 

His arms stretched wide along the top of the seatback, one thick forearm briefly brushing behind her shoulders, not quite touching, but near enough that she felt his warmth against her neck. He looked forward again, saying nothing else. 

Sadie sat stiffly, hands pressed together so tight her knuckles ached, trying very hard not to think about how much space there suddenly wasn’t. 

When Sadie next stepped out of the SUV, she trailed the unmistakable stink of weed and testosterone, feeling it sink into the threads of her suit like it was trying to claim her. She guided the crew across the lot, heels clicking against concrete, flanked by six men whose size and swagger made her feel like she was escorting an entire starting lineup into battle. 

She’d been introduced to each of them during the ride—names rapid-fired between jokes and clouds of smoke—and she’d done her best to memorize their faces, though they all shared one glaring similarity: big. Each one in their own way. 

Rico was wide, thick with muscle, dreads pulled back tight, beard full and gold-toothed grin constant—like he was always in on the joke first. 

Jerome looked like he’d walked off a magazine cover—tall, lanky-cut, with high cheekbones, diamond nose stud, and designer shades that hadn’t come off once. 

DeShaun was the heaviest—part muscle, part mass, built like a bouncer who broke rules more than enforced them, with a deep belly laugh and a gut he patted like a badge. 

Andre moved quiet and lean, eyes sharp, posture straight, no wasted words, every gesture deliberate. 

Tavion was the pretty one—baby face, thick arms, voice full of southern charm and trouble, calling her “ma’am” like he wanted to see how far that got him. 

They followed her into the trailer, one by one, the air changing behind her with their entrance. She stood near the wall, nerves tight as piano wire while they looked around. 

The space was perfect. Cooler humming, fridge stocked, big TV, darkened windows, soft lights, snacks laid out, bottle of Hennessy unopened, and a silver tin gleaming with pre-rolled joints. All by the book. All just like Livy had said it needed to be. 

“Damn,” someone muttered. “She really did it.” 

Someone else cracked the bottle. One flopped onto a chair. Rico gave the weed an approving nod and chuckled low. 

Relief spilled into Sadie’s chest like warm water. Thank God. 

Then she heard his voice. 

“C’mere,” Savage Ghost said, already spread comfortably in the center of the couch, legs apart, arms relaxed across the top. 

He looked at her. Still unreadable. Still calm. 

“Sit down.” 

Not loud. Not pushy. Just final. 

She froze—just for a moment—then stepped forward. 

Nervously, Sadie sat beside him, her knees angling together, hands folded tight on top like she was trying to keep her composure from spilling out across the couch. The leather was warm from his body, and the moment she sank into it, she felt just how close he was—his thigh thick and solid beside hers, his scent still clinging to the smoke and spice of the SUV. She didn’t dare look at him. 

Savage Ghost tilted his head, looking her over with slow appraisal. Not crude. But not soft, either. 

“You really are everything you promised you’d be,” he said, voice low, brushing over her like silk with something jagged underneath. “Handlin’ everything. Smooth. Clean. Professional.” 

Then he leaned in—slow, casual—and his hip pressed into hers. She felt the contact through her skirt like a handprint burned into her skin. 

“Let’s talk about that job,” he murmured. “Tour coordinator for my new label.” 

Her heart fluttered, spiked with surprise and hope. She turned toward him just slightly, nerves tingling in her fingertips. This was what Livy wanted. What she’d dreamt of. Maybe—just maybe—Sadie could make it happen for her. 

“It’ll change your life,” he said, still watching her, the corner of his mouth curling like he already knew how the rest of the story would go. “Shit like that? In a new label? You do it right… who knows how high you rise.” 

Her lips parted. “Yes! Of course I’m still interested,” she said, a little too fast, too eager. 

His hand moved without warning. 

Onto her thigh. 

Skin contact. His thumb stroked just once, slow and firm on the pale skin above her knee, and she jumped inside her skin even though she didn’t move an inch. 

“I like this little mask you wear,” he said, almost fondly, eyes dropping to her mouth and then back up again. “This clean little professional act.” 

His voice dipped lower. 

“But when I come back from talkin’ to the stage manager?” A pause. His thumb slid another inch higher. “I’m rippin’ that mask off. Gonna see that dirty little slut underneath. The one beggin’ in my DMs.” 

Then he stood, easy and fluid, turning without another word, walking toward the trailer door. 

Sadie sat frozen. 

The door clicked shut with a soft finality, but inside Sadie it sounded like a slammed gate—one locking her in, the other locking any escape out. Her ears rang. A high-pitched, sterile buzz that drowned everything else, like the world had gone underwater. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe right, and her thighs still burned where his hand had touched her. Her stomach flipped, iced over, twisted in on itself. What did he mean? The DMs? 

Her heart punched against her ribs. Her hand moved without her brain—digging into her purse, fumbling, grabbing Livy’s phone like it might spit answers fast enough to stop her from shaking. 

She unlocked the screen. Opened Instagram. 

Her fingers moved too fast. Wrong. She had to slow down just to type. @savageghostofficial—there it was. Already open. Already there. 

Her thumb hovered. 

She tapped the DM thread. 

And the air left her lungs. 

The first message at the top was from Livy—no, not Livy anymore. Not in that voice. Not in that tone. It was shameless, wild, completely unrecognizable. 

“I can’t wait to get stretched open by that fat cock, daddy. I swear I’ll let your whole crew use me if you tell me to.” 

Sadie blinked. Her breath stuttered. She tried to scroll, but her thumb slipped. The screen stuttered. She forced it down, message by message, each one uglier, filthier than the last. Voice notes. Thirst traps. Livy describing acts Sadie didn’t even know had names. Promises, invitations, photos. 

Then— 

The image. 

It hit like a punch. 

A picture. Taken in the dark, phone camera angled low, grainy, wet, massive. The size of it made her vision tilt. It didn’t look real. It looked like something from a medical textbook or a porno meant to humiliate. Long, veined, erect, hard enough it looked savage. 

Her hand started to tremble. 

She didn’t want to scroll down. She had to scroll down. 

Underneath, a message from Livy: 

“God yes. You’re going to destroy me with that monster, aren’t you? Just like I want. Just like I need. I want your cum all over my face while the rest of your crew makes me scream.” 

Sadie froze. 

She read it again. And in a sickening rush, she knew— 

It didn’t matter who had made the promises. 

It didn’t matter who had begged for them. 

She was the one here now. She was Livy.  

She became aware of it in a flash, like someone flipping a switch in a dark room—they were all watching her. Not casually. Not with the lazy disregard of men lounging in a space built for comfort. No, their gazes had changed. Fixed. Focused. She caught it in the corners of their eyes, in the way their laughter had thinned, in the stillness creeping in around the edges of the room. They were undressing her—every inch of her—through the same filter that had devoured those messages. 

They thought she was her. They thought she’d asked for this. 

She felt the sickness crawl up her throat, thick and sour. Her feet moved before she even decided to move them, jerking her upright with a stumble and a rush of blood to her ears. She strode toward the door with trembling urgency, unsure what she was going to do once she passed through it—but needing out, needing away. 

And then it opened. 

He was there. 

Savage Ghost filled the frame like a wall, his massive frame backlit by the fading evening light. His eyes caught hers and—God help her—his grin widened, smooth and slow, spreading across his face like he was delighted to catch her mid-escape. 

“Where you goin’, ma?” he said, voice wrapped in warmth and mischief. “We ain’t done yet.” 

She froze. 

He stepped inside, gently—gently—guiding her backward with one arm slung over her shoulders, easing her like a shepherd moving livestock back into the pen. His body heat pressed into her side, his scent all smoke and sweat and skin, dizzying. He guided her to the couch like it was already decided. 

“So,” he said, settling in beside her again, voice smooth and playful. “'Bout that job.” 

Her legs felt rubbery. Her hands were ice. But her heart—still pounding from panic—stuttered at the next words that came out of his mouth. 

“I’m thinkin’ a salary startin’ somewhere around two-fifty. Maybe more, dependin’ on…performance.” 

She blinked. 

Even through the ringing in her ears, even through the horror still crawling across her skin, that number hit her like a slap. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. That was life changing. That was rent paid years in advance. That was wiping Livy's student loans off the map. 

And still he spoke, his tone shifting low, thick. 

“Now I know you can handle the business side. You sharp, you got your shit tight. But see…” His hand moved, sliding lower across her arm, the pressure growing. “Now I gotta know you keep your promises. That you can handle the personal needs of your clients too.” 

Then he reached down, took her hand—her small, cold, shaking hand—and brought it to his crotch. 

The heat was instant. 

The size, even through his sweats, was unmistakable. 

“Now, show me you deserve that job,” he said, rough and certain, the weight of the future pressing between them. 

She remained frozen, every muscle in her body gone tight and useless, her hand limp in his grip but still pressing into the sheer heat beneath his sweats. She could feel it—thick, full, pulsing—a steady, heavy throb that made her stomach drop and twist with every beat. Her breath stuck in her throat, her mouth dry, her thoughts shrieking behind her eyes. 

I'm not Livy! 

I'm just her sister! 

I’m not the girl in the DMs! 

She wanted to scream it. To shove him back, bolt for the door, vanish into the night and never return. But her voice was gone. Her legs wouldn’t move. And those eyes—his eyes—held her in place like the force of gravity. Was that what it was? Or was it the command in them, that pull of power and presence that had probably overwhelmed a thousand women before her? That told them resistance wasn’t necessary—maybe not even wanted. 

And then, while her brain still flailed uselessly, he leaned in. 

His lips found hers in one smooth, assured motion, and her body didn’t react fast enough to stop him. It was a claiming kiss—not frantic, not rough, but possessive, the kind that didn’t ask. 

And then she felt it. 

A groan. 

Low, deep, satisfied—from him. 

Her hand had clenched around him without her realizing. Just a reflex. Fingers tightening instinctively at the shock, the closeness, the sheer surreal weight of the moment. 

He pulled back just slightly, lips brushing hers as he exhaled, a breath thick with amusement. 

“Damn,” he said, grinning. “You a real good tease, huh? Keepin’ up this whole good girl thing. But I know what you want.” 

His hand moved. 

To his waistband. 

One tug, practiced and slow. 

And then he was free. 

It sprang up with the force of something unleashed, something that had no business being confined. One moment it was hidden, the next it was there—rising like a beast uncoiled, thick and veined and dark, so heavy it bobbed once with its own defiant gravity, slapping lightly against the plane of his abs with a quiet, obscene thud. The sheer size of it defied logic—long enough to make her breath stop and girthy enough that her fingers would need teamwork just to circle it. 

Sadie’s vision tunneled. Her stomach dropped and soared all at once. Her knees went weak where she sat. Oh God. She almost fainted—no, actually almost blacked out, her head tipping, chest seizing up like it forgot how to breathe. But then the heat hit her. 

Flooding, radiant heat—boiling up from inside her, traitorous and thick—radiating through her limbs, a fever so hot it kept her pinned in her body, no matter how much her mind begged to escape. She couldn’t bring herself to even think about the source of it. Couldn’t name it. But her eyes…her eyes were locked. 

They dragged along the length of it—tracing the thick base, the rise of every pulsating vein, the obscene curve toward the swollen tip. It was artless and brutal and mesmerizing. Her lips parted, and she swallowed—hard—without realizing she had. 

“It’s even bigger in person, ain’t it?” he chuckled, deep and smug, his voice rolling over her skin like velvet soaked in smoke. “Thought the pics were a joke, huh?” 

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. 

“Go ‘head, baby,” he said, coaxing, fingers brushing her wrist. “Don’t be shy. Feel the weight of it.” 

Before she could even stop herself, her hand moved—drawn by magnetism or madness—and wrapped around it. 

Her body defied her mind. Somewhere deep inside, the real Sadie—her—was screaming, thrashing behind the glass wall of her own skull, clawing to get out. This isn’t me. This isn’t what I do. Whatever Livy said, whatever Livy wanted—it isn’t me. But her fingers were still wrapped around him, the skin impossibly hot, the veins bold beneath her touch, and her hand drifted higher, slowly, instinctively, unable to meet in full around the thickness of him. 

The sheer impossibility of it—it should have repulsed her. Scared her. Instead it held her, captivated her, the fear threading through her limbs only making it worse. Bigger than anything she’d ever seen. Bigger than anything she’d imagined. Her chest tightened, her thighs pressed together, and she hated the heat blooming between them. Hated how it made her heart flutter in a way that wasn’t just panic. 

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a rich, low hum in her ear. “Be that filthy lil' slut you I know you are.” 

She flinched as his hand slid into her hair—then tightened, not yanking, not dragging her, just holding. Claiming. His fingers wrapped in the strands at the back of her scalp, a firm possessive grip that pinned her between tension and obedience. 

Her cheeks burned. Her eyes flicked sideways and saw them—all of them—lounging, leaning forward, watching. No hiding it now. Tavion's eyes wide with grin-slick anticipation, Rico biting his knuckle like he couldn't believe it. DeShaun chuckling under his breath. They were all ogling. Drinking her in. 

And then she felt it—him—his grip holding her steady as her head moved down. 

She felt pulled. Guided. Bent. 

But when her lips closed around him—wet and warm and trembling—she realized, with a sick drop of clarity, that he hadn’t moved at all. 

His hand hadn’t tugged her, hadn’t forced. 

The only pressure had come from inside herself. 

And now his taste filled her mouth. 

It flamed the heat inside her. Not the timid flutter of arousal she barely let herself acknowledge in quiet moments, but a wicked, brutally gripping inferno that sank its teeth in and refused to let go. It coiled through her stomach, her thighs, her chest—licking at the edges of her cornered mind, devouring every last protest still trying to rise up and scream. She was dizzy from it, awash in it, drowning. 

“That’s it,” he muttered above her, voice thick with pleasure. 

And then she realized—her tongue was moving. Tracing the edges of him. Following the shape, the heat, the salt. The underside. The ridge. Automatically, unconsciously, like her body had bypassed the brakes. 

But for a heartbeat, her mind snapped back into control, cutting through the fog, sharp and wild with panic. 

No! This isn’t me! 

Her lips began to loosen, breath trembling, mouth rising, mind clawing its way up through the drowning heat— 

I’m not Livy—! 

But then his hand tightened, finally pressed down, and her world narrowed to the slow, deliberate stretch of her mouth around him, wider, wider—an obscene, impossible fit. And her mind was defeated. The girth forced her mouth open in a raw, aching stretch, the pressure mounting, impossible to contain. She struggled to take more. Her breath stopped, her cheeks flushed scarlet, and the sheer strain of accommodating him nearly broke her—but the burn only deepened. 

The heat was everywhere now. In her face. Her chest. Between her legs. It hurt in the sweetest way—an ache of need, of hunger, as the thought lodged now sharp and clear in her skull:

God, I want this inside me. 

Then it hit her throat. 

Her body reacted instantly—gagging, throat tightening, every muscle seizing in panic—but his hand pulled her off, a swift withdrawal slick with saliva and heat, her lips parting wetly as she gasped for air. 

He held her there. 

Her head cradled in his palm, held aloft like something precious. Or claimed. 

His eyes bore into her, deep, relentless, down into a part of her she hadn’t known was there—dragging it up from whatever quiet pit it had been hiding in her whole life. That buried place where fear and craving twisted together until they were the same thing. His face was all dominance, all command, his mouth set in that knowing curve that said he already owned her, that he was just giving her the courtesy of realizing it herself. 

Her hand was still on him. 

Still stroking. 

Mindlessly. 

Heat pumping under her palm, slickness gathering on her fingers as she moved over him like she was hypnotized. 

“You want this cock?” he asked, low and rough, the question slicing straight into the ache blooming between her legs. 

Her thighs pressed together, uselessly, hopelessly. The throb there spoke for her, shoving past the last defenses, stripping away the lies she told herself. 

“Yes,” she breathed, voice cracking with the truth, eyes wide with the force of admitting it aloud. 

A slow, predatory grin split his face. 

“Stand up,” he ordered, sharp, commanding, like snapping a leash. “Wanna get a good look at you.” 

She rose to her feet before her mind caught up to her body, trembling slightly, standing before him as he remained sprawled on the couch, lazy and powerful and watching her with those devouring eyes that made her want to shrink and reveal herself all at once. 

“Give me a spin, shawty,” he said, gesturing lazily with one hand. 

Her cheeks burned but her body obeyed—slowly, stiffly, she turned, pivoting awkwardly at first, then more fluidly as she felt the weight of the other gazes in the room. She caught them out of the corner of her eye—Rico licking his lips, DeShaun openly adjusting his jeans, Tavion grinning wide and feral. All their eyes pinned on her, feasting on her, making the heat inside her knot tighter, darker. 

She faced Savage again. 

He leaned back deeper into the couch, spreading his knees wide, making room for her in a way that made her stomach flip. 

“Now,” he said, voice heavy with expectation, “don’t be shy. Lose them clothes.” 

His tone cracked like a whip across her nerves.

Her fingers moved under the spell—first the jacket, slipping off her shoulders to pool silently at her feet, then her blouse, fingers fumbling at the buttons until it fluttered open and dropped. Her bra was next, trembling hands working the clasp until it fell away and her breasts spilled free, stiff with cold and tension—and something else hotter. 

Whistles and low encouragements filled the room. 

"God damn," someone muttered. 

“Shit, look at them titties.” 

Sadie’s cheeks went crimson—but it wasn’t only shame anymore. Something deeper bloomed inside her, fed by the heat of their approval, by the way the air itself seemed to tighten the longer she stood exposed. 

Her skirt fell with a whisper. 

Then her panties, inching down trembling thighs, past knees that threatened to give out. 

And she stood there. 

Utterly naked. 

The cool air licked at her skin but the heat of their stares burned hotter. 

Savage rose to his feet.

He towered over her now, a living wall of muscle and dominance, the broad swell of his chest in front of her, the gleam of hunger in his eyes no longer masked at all.

He reached out, took her hair in his fist again, wrapping it tight until her scalp tingled—then let his other hand drop possessively to her tits, claiming one in his palm, fingers squeezing slow and full. She gasped at the contact, her spine pulling taut, the heat flooding back sharp and shameful through her belly.

She was trembling now.

From nerves, from fear, from want.

“You feel that shakin’?” he said, voice filthy with satisfaction. “That’s your body beggin’ already.”

His hand slid from her breast, tracing down over her stomach, fingers spreading, sliding lower—until they pressed between her thighs. She whimpered, body flinching, hips twitching, and then his fingers stroked once, slow and deliberate, before pressing inward—deep, claiming, slow enough to make her feel every inch.

Her chin dipped from the jolt of sensation, breath snagging in her throat. And beneath her, she saw it—his thick, stiff cock standing hard, nearly brushing her skin even with a foot of space between them, the sheer size of it making heat claw up her chest, blooming fast.

Then he tugged her hair just enough to tilt her face up toward his.

“So let me hear it,” he growled. “Beg for what you want.”

She glanced down once, lips parting, tongue sliding out slow and instinctive across the bottom one.

"Please," she gasped, voice a desperate whisper, a rush of shame and aching need bursting loose. "Please—I want that cock!"

The next second, she was weightless—a helpless, disoriented jolt that tore a shriek from her throat and sent her crashing down onto the couch. Her back struck the cushions with a soft whuff, the air knocked from her lungs, her hair a wild red curtain over her eyes. She barely had time to suck in a ragged breath before two massive hands clamped around her thighs and dragged her, rough and fast, pulling her hips to the very edge of the seat like a doll being yanked into position. 

And then— 

CRACK. 

Something slammed against her stomach with bruising weight. 

A hot, meaty slap that echoed in the trailer's tight space like a gunshot, leaving her body jolted, burning where the impact landed. 

She clawed her hair from her face, blinking up through the spinning haze, and froze—her breath snagging in her throat, her body locking rigid as terror and awe warred inside her. 

It was him. 

It was his cock. 

Monstrous. 
Beastly. 
Savage. 

Laid across her bare stomach like a python, thick and heavy and wrong in its sheer magnitude. It sprawled past her navel, the broad, veiny shaft throbbing against her skin with its own raw, primal life. The head flared dark and glistening, the veins along the length so prominent they looked carved into stone. 

She couldn’t move. Could barely think. She just lay there, heart hammering against her ribs, feeling every terrifying inch of him radiating heat into her skin like a brand. 

A bottle came flying through the air—someone hooting, someone laughing—but it might as well have been from another universe. Savage Ghost caught it lazily, like he had all the time in the world, cracked the cap, and with no ceremony at all, tilted it over himself. 

Lubricant spilled out in thick, glistening ropes, pooling and cascading down the length of him as he rubbed and coated every ridge, every brutal contour. It ran down his shaft in slow, obscene rivers, making him gleam under the overhead lights like something sculpted from molten bronze. 

Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he let it drop— 

WHUMP— 

Right back onto her stomach, a second, heavier slap that made her flesh quiver, her breath hitch, her mind reel. 

It lay there, massive and glistening, daring her to comprehend it. Waiting for her to understand what was coming. 

No wait was long enough before he drew back and pushed. 

The pressure of it—the stretch—was nothing she could’ve prepared for, nothing she could’ve dreamed in her most shameless fantasies. He pushed into her inch by deliberate inch, and her body reeled around it, struggling to take him, to keep him. It wasn’t just fullness—it was an assailing, a breathtaking impossibility that made her gasp out loud, head pressing back into the sofa as her hips lifted and her spine arched on instinct, thighs trembling, every nerve ending lighting up like a struck match. 

It was like he was filling her beyond her—pushing into spaces untouched, nerves unused, pressure blooming behind her navel and down through her trembling thighs. Her body tried to fight it, but there was pleasure inside the struggle—dark, molten, electric. The ache sharpened to a craving. Her breath quit. Her toes curled. Her hands flew to his stomach—hard, hot, slick with sweat—and her fingers trembled against the carved ridges of his abs, skittering like she meant to stop him. 

But she didn’t. 

She couldn’t. 

Because the pain was already turning. Melting. Shifting into a wave that crested through her body, deeper and hotter with every pulse of him buried inside. 

Then he pulled back. 

A slow retreat that dragged along every sensitive inch inside her, her breath leaving like he’d stolen it from her lungs. And then— 

He pushed in again. 

A second breach, deeper, smoother, building heat against heat until her body stopped resisting entirely and began begging. 

She cried out—soft and raw, back arching, her mouth slack with disbelief as he began to move, hips rolling, heavy and controlled. The sound of him inside her—wet, thick, real—filled the room in soft slaps and stifled gasps. 

His eyes stayed locked on hers, intense, dominant, owning. 

“You like that, don't you?” he murmured, voice rough, proud, breath heating her cheek. “Yea, you love this fat fuckin’ dick inside you, huh?” 

Her mouth moved before her mind. 

“Yes—yes—I love it.” 

He grinned, dark and wild, hips snapping just a little harder. 

“You that cock-lovin’ slut, now?” he asked, voice pure filth, testing the filth in her. 

She nodded, broken with need, hands gripping his arms now. “Yes—God—yes—I am—” 

Because she’d be anything, do anything, to keep the friction going, her body a livewire under him, desperate and slick. He set a steady rhythm, each thrust pushing her higher, harder, her breath shattering in little sobs of pleasure as his fingers curled around her neck—not choking, just holding, a possessive anchor that pinned her to the couch while the rest of her writhed uncontrollably. 

Minutes were lost while the pressure inside her was rising fast, coiling tight, a molten knot at the center of her being, building quicker than she’d ever felt in her life, faster and fiercer, her hips chasing him every time he drew back, small noises spilling from her throat—yes, please, more—! 

And then. 

Gone. 

The sudden emptiness was devastating. 

Savage pulled out with a cruel ease, leaving her gasping, clutching at air, her body clenching uselessly around nothing. She cried out—a broken, needy sound—and blinked up through the haze just in time to see him turn, a lazy grin curling his mouth. 

“Aight, Dre,” he said, voice rough with command, “come get you some of this tight lil’ pussy.” 

Her eyes snapped to the side. 

The ache inside her sharpened, went white-hot and raw, as she saw them—all of them—now stripped from the waist down, thick shafts standing high and eager, glistening with lube, utterly obscene. 

Sadie had never felt anything like it before—nothing even close. The emptiness was a yawning pit, hollowing her out until she could hardly stay still. Her hips rolled on their own, grinding against the empty air, her thighs trembling with the desperate instinct to take, to pull, to be filled. 

For the first time in her life, it didn’t matter by who.

Later—when all this was memory and ache—Sadie would remember this moment clearer than any other. 

How sharp it was. How honest. 

How it proved, without a doubt: 

She was a black cock slut. 

And she was treated like a slut. 

Andre reached her, a dark blur of muscle and hunger, hauling her off the couch in a single, brutal motion. Her feet barely touched the floor before he spun her around, his thick bicep hooking tight around her neck, pinning her upright with an effortless, merciless grip. And then he slid her down onto him, a stiff, thick intrusion that made her whole body jolt. 

He was already moving before she could gasp. 

Already taking. 

Her toes barely scraped the floor, struggling for balance as his hips slapped into her, again and again, each impact lifting her a little higher on the tips of her feet. She was caught, suspended between the steel of his arm and the collision of hips, her body reduced to a trembling plaything, moans breaking from her lips, then shrieks ripped raw from her chest. 

Then he buried himself deep with a final shove, leaned down so close she could feel his breath burning her ear. 

“God, you ‘lil whore,” he growled, thick voice dripping into her bones. “You gonna take all these cock, aren’t ya?” 

She shrieked her answer, raw, desperate, shameless. 

“Yes! Fuck yes!” 

With a grunt of satisfaction, Andre ripped free of her and delivered a punishing spank across her ass that sent her stumbling forward, half-falling into the ring of waiting men. 

Hands caught her immediately—rough, greedy, binding. She was spun again, faced back toward Andre—but everything else blurred. She didn’t know who had claimed her. She didn’t care. She wouldn't have remembered his name anyway. It didn’t matter. 

Nothing mattered. 

Only this mattered. 

Stuffed again, thick and possessive, and hands wrapped in her hair—both fists, clenched tight, dragging her back to meet each intense thrust. He held her there, locked, every pump of his hips forcing ragged gasps and cries from her throat, the burn on her scalp igniting something filthy in her chest. 

She begged. 

She didn’t even know what for anymore. 

Just words pouring out, broken and vile, unfiltered, raw—begging to be taken, begging to be owned, begging to be ruined. 

And they did. 

One after another. 

She was passed like a prize to each man standing, a sacred ritual of possession—thrust into, bent over, gasping and wrecked, her body trembling, shoved from one cock to the next. Each collision stripped more of her breath, more of her name, until she wasn't Sadie anymore, nor even Livy--just a white pinball bouncing helplessly between walls of black muscle and blacker hunger, in a machine she never wanted to escape. 

Each one took her to the edge. Just barely. 

And then let her fall back into the fire, thrown stumbling forward, knees weak, thighs slick, breath ragged from the endless carousel of flesh and flame—until Savage Ghost’s arms caught her like they always would, like gravity reasserting its claim. 

He pulled her down on top of him, the circle of men parting like a sea, making room as Savage laid back into the couch, casual, kingly, dragging her straddling across his hips. 

But she didn’t need his guidance anymore. 

Her body raced ahead of thought, frantic and hungry, as she seized the slick, thick column of him, guiding it with shaking hands, lining it up—and then sliding down, filling herself inch by greedy inch. She moaned, head thrown back, hands braced on the hard planes of his chest as she ground her hips down onto him like a maniac, frantic to fit, to own the fullness. 

Then another cock was at her mouth, pressing insistent against her lips, and she opened blindly, hungrily, swallowing the second intrusion with a whimper. 

Then her hands were grabbed, wrists pulled upward, stretched, and two more cocks filled them—hot, pulsing, slick from lube and need. 

She was a machine now. 

A machine for pleasure. 

Mouth stuffed, hands pumping, pussy stretched tight and grinding, lost in a whirl of flesh and heat and the brutal rhythm of men claiming her, feeding her mouth and hands, fueling the growing inferno inside her. 

She chased it—needed it—the pressure boiling in her gut, higher, hotter, unstoppable. 

Then Savage’s hands clamped hard around her hips—and he began to thrust. 

Cock fell from her mouth, slipping free with a wet slap against her chin, but there was no time to mourn its absence—because Savage Ghost’s hips were pistoning up into her, faster, harder, the air torn from her lungs, her body shuddering under the onslaught. The air vanished from her lungs. Her spine bowed. Her body shook, barely holding itself upright under the onslaught.

And then it hit.

The orgasm tore through her like lightning striking bone—blinding, brutal, cataclysmic. Her shriek cracked open the silence, raw and high, her whole body locking, then breaking, then clenching again. Her mind shattered on impact. Her vision went white at the edges, a ring of light exploding behind her eyes as every muscle seized, every nerve howled, and then collapsed. She sagged into him, weightless, trembling, completely undone.

Savage Ghost bucked her off roughly, letting her tumble back down to the floor, her limbs boneless, her breath shattered. 

She barely had time to gasp before his hand snatched her hair, yanking her up onto her knees. 

Sadie’s eyes struggled to focus, fluttering open just in time to see Savage’s cock looming before her—and then the first thick, hot rope splattered across her face, shocking in its weight, its heat. She gasped, shuddering as another shot hit her cheek, another across her lips, each thick and heavy, dripping down her flushed, wrecked skin. 

He released her hair—but another hand seized her immediately, holding her face up, tilted perfectly for the next man’s offering. 

Another burst—hot, sticky—coating her throat and collarbone. 

Then another man replaced him, pushing in close, aiming his pleasure across her jawline, her chest. 

Then another. 

One after another, they took their turn with her, a filthy, relentless procession, each claiming a piece of her, marking her skin, marking her place. 

Until she was kneeling, trembling, utterly dripping in it, baptized in their lust as the men laughed, dapped each other up, pulling their pants back on, tucking away their spent cocks with lazy satisfaction. 

One by one, they dressed again, their job done. 

And then Savage Ghost was back in front of her, towering above her ruined, glistening form, looking down at her with something between amusement and pride. 

"Welcome to the label," he said, voice dripping with satisfaction. "Believe me, we ain't gonna waste your talents." 

The words barely registered through the thick, numbing haze. The job. It swirled up in her mind now, a ghost of the ambition that had brought her here—Livy’s dreams, the assignment, the chance. 

Savage adjusted his belt and grinned wider. “We got a show to do. You wait right here, you lil' slut. You gonna be our after show.” 

The crew began to file out, hooting, laughing, leaving her kneeling, sticky, exposed in the aftermath. 

But just as Savage reached the door, she found her voice—small, breaking, but desperate. 

"Wait!" she cried out, the sound cracking in the heavy air. 

He turned, eyebrows raised, the door half open. 

She hesitated, every nerve on fire from shame and impulse. 

"I... I have a sister...Sadie," she said, the words tumbling out unplanned, raw. "If you hire me... I want her to have a job too." 

Savage’s grin widened slowly as he sauntered back toward her, cocking his head. 

He crouched a little, closer to eye level. 

"She a slut like you?" 

For a moment, everything— Livy’s face, Sadie’s real name, law school, real life—crashed back into her. 

But she breathed through it. 

And she smiled. 

"Sluttier," she said.

(To be continued? Could be the start of something I’ve never written—something hot and…familial. Give me a heat check.)