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The Velvet Stage

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Ava Hawkes stood outside The Velvet Room at 9:47 PM on a Tuesday in March, staring at the neon sign that bathed the cracked sidewalk in pink light. The silhouette of a woman's arching body flickered above the door, one leg extended, back curved in a pose of pure seduction. Rain had started falling, light and cold, soaking through her cheap jacket. She was forty-two years old. A journalist. Or she had been, until the newspaper folded three months ago and took her career with it. Twenty years of investigative reporting, of breaking stories, of mattering, all gone in a single afternoon meeting where they'd handed her a severance check that wouldn't even cover two months of rent. Ava didn't look like a stripper. She knew this with painful, humiliating certainty as she caught her reflection in the tinted glass door. Her body was what her ex-husband had called "athletic" when he was being generous, and "built like a twelve-year-old boy" when he was drunk a...
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Watching Miss White

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Steam rolled over the glass shower door, blurring the outline of Angela’s voluptuous body until she pulled the curtain aside, exposing herself, skin slick and luminous in the low light. Water traced over her breasts, those massive, high-set domes bouncing subtly as she tilted her head back, raven hair plastered to her shoulders. The bathroom door cracked open with the softest whisper, just enough for her “innocent” watcher to drink in the forbidden spectacle. Angela already knew she was being watched; she had seen the dilated pupils in the mirror’s reflection, heard the muffled breath on the other side. She let the voyeur stare while she lathered soap between her hands and massaged it over her nipples, letting them pebble before she turned off the water, grabbing a thick towel, wrapping it lazily around her waist, leaving her tits freely swaying for the final performance. She stepped out of the shower and caught the little peeper with a single cold stare. “You really thought you could ...
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Bounce.EXE

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    The email looked harmless enough. "Free Workout App! Get the body you deserve!" You clicked the download link without thinking, installing the program that promised "revolutionary results." The first bounce was an accident. You dropped your phone and bent to pick it up, your ass jiggling slightly in your yoga pants, and suddenly you felt it, a surge of pleasure so intense you gasped, your pussy clenching as a mini-orgasm rippled through you. What the fuck? You tested it. Jumped once. The bounce of your tits sent another wave of ecstasy crashing through your body, making your knees weak. Again. Harder. Each jiggle, each bounce of flesh triggered more pleasure, building exponentially. Within an hour you were addicted, jumping and bouncing frantically in your apartment, tits heaving, ass clapping, cumming over and over as your body became a pleasure factory. But the virus wasn't done. Each orgasm made you bouncier, tits swelling larger and softer, ass inflat...
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Brain Drain

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The humiliation still burned like acid in your chest three months later, every word Thompson had spoken etched into your memory with surgical precision. "I need someone intellectually stimulating, not just..." His dismissive glance at your breasts, the way his lips curled with disgust. "You're beautiful, don't get me wrong, but I need more than a pretty face and a nice rack." Standing in your grandmother's attic, sorting through dusty boxes and papers, you let the rage fuel your focus. The old woman had tried to warn you about the bloodline gift before she died. "Power always comes with a price, little witch", but she'd also made sure you knew how to use it. Thompson didn't know what ran in your family. Didn't know that your great-grandmother had made the Salem witch trials look like amateur hour, or that your bloodline carried magic that could reshape reality itself with the right components and sufficient motivation. And watching ...
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