The days flow seamlessly, uneventful and predictable, a hallmark of the perfect life I've sculpted. My routine anchors me—exercise at dawn, weights gliding in rhythm at the gym; study sessions, notes pristine and color-coded; time with family and friends, laughter spilling over candlelit dinners—all meticulously scheduled, a flawless dance I direct. As February dawns and the new semester beckons, my world holds no surprises, just the steady pulse of excellence I've crafted, every step as expected. The early morning air bites gently, a crisp edge softening as the sun climbs. I stride down the gravel path weaving through Melbourne University's South Lawn, pebbles crunching underfoot, a familiar cadence. Chirping birds serenade me—magpies and lorikeets flitting above—while sunlight filters through towering elms, casting dappled gold across dewy grass, still cool from the night's embrace. The campus hums, a sea of students surging—backpacks swinging, chatter buzzing—rushing to classes. I glide through, poised, my path clear to the medical building. Its heavy glass doors, framed in sleek steel, stand open, a silent welcome from peers ahead of me. Inside, I climb the polished corridor, walls lined with framed research posters, the air tinged with antiseptic and promise. I enter the compact, steeply tiered lecture theatre—seventy seats, dark grey upholstery sleek and modern, over half filled, a familiar chaos of whispers and rustling bags. I veer right, avoiding the back—too distant for me. I crave the front, the pulse of learning. Descending the steps, the magnificent whiteboard sharpens into view, a detailed brachial plexus sketch sprawling across it, nerves branching like art. Just close enough—two rows from the front, far right—the massive screen overhead glows, primed. Our professor's ready; hematology's the focus today. I check the time: 8:10, five minutes to go. Thudding footsteps echo, paired with the jangle of a keychain overloaded with mystery keys—our professor, unmistakable. The strong, rich scent of his coffee, lid off, wafts through, steam rising from the cup as he strides into view. I'm unshaken, not a flicker of nerves. I mastered this last year, revised it over break, and now tackle next year's material in my spare hours—between assignments, revisions, gym, and dinners. That's the cost of being number one in Australia's fiercest medical course, and I pay it with ease, my lavish life a perfect frame. I settle into my seat, the lecture theatre's dark grey upholstery cool beneath me, the room buzzing with eager third-years. Professor Wesley Palmer commands the space, his tall, lean frame leaning against the podium, overhead lights casting shadows that deepen the rugged lines of his salt-and-pepper beard, wild and unkempt. His gravelly voice, coarse yet captivating, scratches an itch in my brain as he outlines the course: "Third-years, your practicals begin this semester—a hands-on plunge into medicine." He brushes a messy lock of hair aside, his piercing grey eyes scanning us, a flicker of care beneath his rigid stare. "Today, a special guest assists this lecture," he rasps, "hand-selecting twenty of you for practicals at The Royal Melbourne Hospital. He needs no introduction—a model of excellence, the youngest ever to direct a hospital, a summa cum laude graduate of this very school. Class, welcome Dr. Noah Taylor!" The room erupts, cheers echoing off the tiered walls. My dad's legend looms large—his groundbreaking papers, penned in his tireless 20-year career, fill our texts, elevating Australia's medical stage. If anyone's perfection overshadows mine, it's his, a vast, brilliant shadow. He rises from a chair on the left, his tailored navy suit crisp, dark blonde hair silver-flecked and flawless. I missed him there, my focus elsewhere. As he nears the podium, his chiseled presence poised, my brain stumbles. Two rows from the front, far left, sits her—the woman haunting my thoughts since that Pilates class. My mind races back: her slender frame stretching, long black hair swaying, warm brown eyes glinting. Heat flushes my cheeks, my pulse a wild drum. Professor Palmer's words blur, a distant hum, as I fight to look away. Don't stare, Sophie. My eyes rebel, locked on her, a pull I can't name. My whole life, I've claimed every desire, but this—new, fierce—shakes me. Dad's voice, sweet as when I was a girl, snaps me back: "Sophie? You there?" "Huh?" My head jolts toward him, his blue eyes—my mirror—warm with encouragement. "As our top student, you've prepared a speech to kick off the semester, yes?" Wesley adds. Of course, I have—memorized, flawless, a reward for last year's brilliant assignments. I shoot up, heart pounding, the world tilting. How can one presence unravel me? I stumble to the podium, clumsy for the first time, my poise slipping. Dr. Palmer leans in, his rough beard bristling, concern in his gaze: "Are you okay?" "Great," I mutter, turning to the cohort. I steady myself, reciting my speech—thanking Professor Palmer, his brilliant mind a quiet guide for us, and Dad, his tireless genius a beacon, director of Melbourne's finest hospital, still chasing feats at 47. Words flow with grace, my voice firm, avoiding her. I scan faces, smiles blooming at my encouragement, but my body betrays me—head turning left, eyes snagging on hers, warm and piercing. I wrench my neck right, eyes lingering, then refocus, concluding to soft applause. Dad's proud smile glows; Professor Palmer nods approval, his calloused hand gesturing me back. Heart racing, I return, glancing at her—her blank yet bright look meets mine. My grin, wide and foolish, burns as I feel her stare, a hot tingle on my skin. I look away, lost in a rush I've never known. The morning drifts by in a haze, two lectures down, one to go, their content a blur. I perch on the right, she on the left, our eyes locking, sneaking glances through both classes—her allure a quiet storm, shattering my focus with ease. Confusion swirls, a tide I can't tame. Midday, before my final lecture, I meet Priya and Lina, our schedules aligning. Their chatter hums— "So, ready for pathology?" Priya teases— but it slips past, my mind snagged on her. "What's got you so spaced, Soph?" Lina asks, her voice gentle. I falter, dodging. "Dad was in my lecture earlier—threw me off." Lina chuckles, a strained edge beneath. "I'd die if my father showed up here!" Her eyes flicker with pain, always striving for his nod. I stroke her back softly. "He'd be proud, Lina—Melbourne Uni's finest software engineering star." Her pure, honest smile blooms. Priya squeezes her hand, grinning, "Yeah, you've got this, girl!" Then, "Soph, need a boost? Adderall'll wire you sharp." She dangles the pill, eyes glinting. "No, thanks," I murmur, "suit yourself," Priya shrugs, popping it back in her bag. I've never tried it, not scared to, but I crave this feeling—her pull—raw and new. "Lighten up, we've got classes to ace!" Priya laughs, steering us toward lighter talk. My mind drifts, her image burning—those eyes, that spark. I steel myself for the final lecture. "No more glances, Sophie," I mutter under my breath. "Focus. Pull it together. This distraction ends now." I enter Pathology 101 early, a test of will, striding right, two rows from the front, far right. I sink into the seat, breathing deep, like a diver bracing for the plunge, readying for war against myself. My spine tingles, a shiver to my tailbone—a warning, the air shifting. Eyes closed, I feel her stare, inviting, piercing. I know she's here. I peek, and there—right in front of me, inches away—her brown eyes blaze, sparking a heat deep within, pink lips curved, smooth skin glowing, glossy black hair framing her flawless face, no makeup, just raw beauty. "Emily," she says, her voice a soft lilt. "No, Sophie," I blurt, wincing as she giggles, cute and bright. "I know who you are—quite the speech this morning! I'm Emily." Her accent—thick, American, maybe Canadian—dances, foreign and bold. My cheeks burn, thoughts a jumble. "Of course you're Emily, because I'm not," I stammer, laughing to hide my mess. She giggles harder, unfazed. I shake my head, extend my hand. Her delicate fingers grip mine firmly, warm and sure. "Nice to see you up close," she smiles, teasing, "You'd be great in a staring contest!" So bold—after two classes of stolen looks, I'm crumbling, she's steady. I'm dying inside, nerves alight. "Sorry," I mumble, "it's just… a new face. Haven't seen you around. Are you new here?" My words trip, pauses betraying me. "I am new," she replies, "but it's not the first time we've seen each other. Sucks I'm not more memorable." She pouts, lips playful, cute, my heart racing. "The Pilates class!" I blurt, voice spiking with excitement, desperate to prove I recall her. Too eager? I sink back, cheeks flaming. "Ahh, so you do remember me," she says, head tilting, a smile creeping over us both. "That's good, 'cause I remember you too." Her eyes hold mine, warm, daring. "You mind me sitting here? You sit alone, so do I. Or prefer to stare from a distance? I can go back." She teases, a cheeky grin lighting her face. My nerves melt, body easing. "Stay," I breathe, one word all I need, my world tilting, unguarded and alive.The last class of the day unravels me, my will crumbling as I sit to Emily's left in the curved lecture theatre, her tight black top hugging her slender frame, a silhouette that steals my breath. When she turns to the front, I'm behind her, sneaking glances at the seductive curve of her neck, her glossy black hair cascading down. Does she feel my stare? She avoids my gaze, almost teasing, letting my wandering eyes linger. Her sleek fingers, slim and delicate, dance over her pen, tap her laptop—bones like sensual ridges, sparking wild thoughts, my mind diving deep, blaming her grace, not me. Class ending looms, a terror gripping me. Now or never. She approached me first; now I'll be brave. I get what I want—her. Leaning forward, heart pounding, I stammer, "Uh, after class, I—I need to speak with the professor, w-wait for me, okay?". "Okay," Emily replies, her voice a bold, warm lilt, her brown eyes twinkling. I slump back, giddy, a sprint's rush in my chest. The lesson fades, and I shuffle to Professor Palmer, a quick chat about clinical placement. "April's my pick, sir—uh, for the hospital slot," I mumble, perks of Dad's pull at The Royal Melbourne. He nods, and I bolt back, eager, to where Emily sits, elegant, eyes glued to her phone. She lowers it, a warm smile blooming. "What's up, champ?" she quips, head tilting, quirky and sure. Um, c-come with me!" I blurt, grinning too wide, hand thrust out clumsily. She takes it, firm and warm, grabbing her bag as we rush from the building, the air buzzing with campus life. "So, you gonna tell me where we're going?" Emily teases, halting our aimless stride, hands on hips. "My mom said no stranger's cars, so no kidnapping me, okay?" Her grin's cheeky, eyes dancing."W-well, you're new, right? M-maybe, uh, you need someone to—to show you around?" I fumble, gesturing wildly to the sprawling grounds, cheeks hot. "I did the school's orientation last month, so I'm set," she fires back, smirking, "Try again, hotshot." She sees through me, bold and playful."I-I want to, um, hang out with you!" I squeak, stern but shaky, sincerity tripping over nerves. "Hungry?" I mutter, shrinking, embarrassed. "Starving!" Emily beams, her tone welcoming, a confident spark. "Lead on, mystery girl!" Our smiles clash, bright and messy, and I tug her, stuttering, "I-I know a place!" We head to my favorite café, tucked away, a hidden gem thriving without a website, the city streets alive around us."Great, 'cause I haven't the slightest clue what's out here!" Emily laughs, skipping a step, quirky and bold. Inside, wooden tables glow under soft lights, coffee's rich scent wrapping us. Classes ended before 3 p.m., yet hours slip away, time a thief as we trade tales—her humble folks, a construction worker and grocery clerk; my dad's stunning role at the hospital. "Your father was here today? Wild!" she exclaims, eyes wide, witty awe shining. Her journey—solo, on a full-ride scholarship from the University of Wisconsin to study medicine—marks her an academic marvel. I gush, "You're amazing, I mean, your work, uh, it's—wow!" My clumsy awe spills, no rivalry, just admiration.Her gentle eyes bridge our worlds, years of distance melting in this short, vivid burst. I've never clicked like this—beyond Priya and Lina—my life so apart, yet she's a tether, relatable, warm. "Guess we're both overachievers, huh?" she quips, nudging me, bold and bright. "M-maybe, I-I think so!" I stumble, heart soaring, our bond forging fast, a lifetime caught up in one afternoon. The café hums, tucked in a quiet Melbourne laneway, its exposed brick walls aglow with fairy lights, mismatched wooden tables cradling steaming lattes. Outside, trams rattle past, their bells clanging softly, while pedestrians weave through the evening buzz, streetlights casting a warm amber haze. Emily pulls out her phone, the screen's glow catching her warm brown eyes. "Wow, 8 p.m. already?" she muses, a quirky lilt in her voice. My heart dips—she's about to leave."G-gimme that," I stammer, reaching for her phone, fingers brushing hers, a spark jolting me. She hands it over, giggling. "Getting all bossy now?" I fumble, typing my name, brain scrambling for something cute. Sophie? Lame. I freeze, then just save it—Sophie. Emily snatches it back, smirking. "Lemme spice it up." Her fingers dance, and she spins the phone: Sophie Voyeur. "Really?" I groan, glaring, my cheeks hot. She cackles, head thrown back, the café's coffee scent swirling around us. "It's perfect! You're, like, a professional starer!". "Ugh, not the vibe I wanted," I mutter, slumping, but her laugh's infectious, echoing off the café's chalkboard menu, scribbled with specials. "Fine, my turn!" she chirps, snagging my phone from my hands, her touch bold and quick. "Careful, I might get revenge," I tease, voice wobbly. Her eyes glint, cheeky. "Oh, I'm shaking!" She types, then flips it back—Emily 💗. Simple, warm, a pink heart glowing. My breath catches, mood lifting, the sting of "Voyeur" fading. "That's… sweet," I mumble, grinning like an idiot. "Yeah, I'm a softie," she winks, leaning closer, her glossy hair brushing the table's edge. We burst into laughter, the café's clinking cups and soft jazz fading as our eyes lock, a shared spark. "You're trouble, you know that?" I say, bolder now, my voice catching. "And you love it," Emily quips, tossing her hair, bold and bright. The laneway outside pulses—buskers strum guitars, chatter spills from nearby bars—but here, it's just us, time slipping away. She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder, the fairy lights catching her silhouette. "Gotta bounce, Voyeur," she teases, stepping toward the glass door, its bell jingling. My heart lurches. "W-wait!" I blurt, clumsy, following her out. The cool evening air hits, scented with roasted chestnuts from a nearby cart. We pause under a streetlamp, its glow haloing her face, pink lips curved in a half-smile. "Today was… fun," I mumble, kicking a cobblestone, shy again. "Yeah, you're not half bad," she replies, eyes dancing. "See you tomorrow?". "Y-yeah," I nod, heart racing as she turns, her sneakers scuffing the laneway's stones. I pull my phone, fingers flying, texting as her figure retreats, black hair swaying. Sit next to me tomorrow, okay? Desperate, raw. Her reply pings instantly, no glance back: Sure, but I get to be behind you this time 😉. My pulse flutters—she knows my stolen glances. I watch her vanish into the crowd, tram lights flickering, a warm ache settling in my chest, the city alive around me. Exhausted, I slip into my Pixie Perch, the penthouse glowing under Melbourne's skyline, city lights twinkling through floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch across my bedroom, velvet drapes pooling like wine. I drop my bag by the sleek oak door, ready for tomorrow's grab, and breeze past my king-sized bed, silk sheets shimmering, toward my ensuite—a private spa. Marble floors gleam, warmed by underfloor heating, a sunken bath on the right brimming with steaming water, its edge lined with jasmine-scented candles flickering gold. A glass shower, vast enough for ten, looms in the back left, steam curling against its walls. Heated stone benches hug the left, my vanity spans the back, a mirrored altar of serums and creams, the air thick with eucalyptus mist from the humming steamer. Fuck, no face masks. I scramble for my phone, the girls' group chat buzzing like always—never solo texts, just our trio's pulse. Face mask, anyone? Need one ASAP! I fire off. Lina's quick: Self-care night? I'm in! Priya's hooked: Got the goods, heading to you now, babe! My girls never fail. I grab three plush towels from the cedar closet, their lavender scent soothing, and crank the steamer higher, mist swirling. Priya bursts in, a loud "Your queen's here!" echoing off my high ceilings, her designer toiletry bag—Gucci, gold-zipped—dangling. Lina follows, bounding down the spiral staircase, her own Louis Vuitton bag swinging, just as luxe. Glee bubbles in me at their laughter. I fling open the ensuite door, steam enveloping us, a sultry embrace. "Why the pamper night, Soph?" Lina asks, her blonde hair catching the candlelight, eyes curious. "Got a hot event?" They know me too well—romance never crosses their minds. My sly smirk betrays me. "Fuck off!" Priya gasps, her sleek black hair swaying in a high pony, her hazel eyes wide. "She's into somebody!" I can't hide it—Emily's spell glows on my face. I shrug, sarcastic, but joy spills, a squeal escaping: "You got me. I think I'm in love!" The girls shriek, steam swirling as we bounce, the bath ready, its surface rippling invitingly. Priya slinks closer, her sheer crop top—crimson, clinging—hinting at her lacy black bra, her curves a tease. "Spill, now!" she demands, hands gliding around my waist, tugging my silk blouse off, its buttons slipping free, baring my skin to the warm mist. My pulse races—act natural, Soph, this is routine—but Emily's secret burns, my sexuality a hidden flame. I mask my flush, reaching for Priya's top, peeling it over her head, her full breasts bouncing free, barely contained by lace, a marvel that stops my breath. Lina, in a tight white tank and yoga pants, slides her hands into my trousers, nails grazing my hips as she tugs them down, revealing my satin panties, a whisper of exposure. Priya's fingers find my bra clasp, unhooking it with a flick, my breasts spilling out, the air a caress. Four hands dance over me, a dizzying heat, temptation roaring—stay cool. I pivot, unhooking Priya's bra, her heavy curves swaying, nipples peeking through steam. Turning to Lina, I kneel, pulling her yoga pants down, her legs bare, smooth, her plump lips a shadow beneath sheer lace panties, my mouth watering. I rise fast, peeling off her sports bra, her slender frame glowing, free. They grab our phones, tug me to the bath, and we sink into clear, hot water, bubbles kissing our skin, bodies close, slick and warm. Relaxing, their eyes beg for gossip. "Okay, dish!" Priya leans in, water lapping her chest. "What happened today?" I spill—morning class, sneaky glances, eye-locks melting me, lunch a blur, their bold move in the third lecture—skipping that it's a she, no name dropped. "They sound hot!" Lina gushes, her hand on my thigh, warm under water. "When's the next move?" Priya smirks, "Better be bold, Soph, you're glowing!" Their joy clings like honey, bodies pressed close, serums and oils slicking our skin, face masks cooling as we unwind, debriefing, laughter echoing off marble. A chime cuts through—my phone, on the bath's edge. "It's your lover!" Priya teases, splashing me. We lunge, giggling, a lapse in judgment. What if it's Emily? Would it out me? I unlock it, heart pounding, and freeze. A photo loads, meant for my eyes alone—Emily, full-frontal, a towel gripped in her teeth, draping just over her nipples, their edges peeking, taunting. Its length teases, halting at her thighs, veiling the treasure below, her smooth skin glistening, curves a siren's call. The message: Missed staring, Voyeur? Here's a treat. Goodnight x. My heart sinks—Priya and Lina peer over, reading. "Okay, what are we sending back?" Priya erupts, unfazed, her grin wicked. Lina nods, eager, "Cute selfie, tons of cleavage, let's match her vibe!" My jaw drops, warmth flooding me—their acceptance a quiet hug, no need to name it. "Dibs on boob duty!" Priya laughs, splashing, Lina's snickers bouncing off the glass shower. I raise my phone, camera up, and Priya's hands slide over my chest, lifting my breasts, pressing them together, her touch bold, unashamed. I snap the shot, water droplets gleaming on my skin, checking it's just me in frame. Lina grabs the phone, typing fast. "Here," she says, showing me: Now I'm thinking of you in my bath—steamy, huh? Goodnight! 😘 Naughty, not needy, perfect. I hit send, heart soaring, their casual love filling me. This—texting a crush with my girls, a first—ignites me, my secret safe, my world alight. My penthouse bedroom glows, city lights seeping through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a neon haze over the silk sheets of my king-sized bed, a velvet chaise in the corner draped in moonlight. The air hums with jasmine from the ensuite's lingering steam, marble floors cool beneath us. "I love you guys," I blurt, heart racing, needing to face it, even if they don't. They've acted like it's no big deal—my bisexuality a quiet spark—but they must wanna dig in."Just girls?" Priya's voice is a bold blade, slicing through our closeness, her hazel eyes glinting, naked curves gleaming, sweat beading on her crimson crop top now discarded. "Boys too!" I shoot back, voice cracking, my awkwardness bare. Lina snickers, blonde hair wild, her lithe body sprawled across mine, legs tangled, her bare pussy lips brushing my thigh, a wet tease. "So, what about us, Soph?" she purrs, arching, her shaved pussy winking, taunting me. We're all naked, fresh from the bath, sprawled on my bed, silk sheets slick under my back as they tower over me, their tits swaying, nipples hard as fucking diamonds. "W-what's the deal?" Priya piles on, her full, juicy rack bouncing, a smirk curling her lips. "We too ugly, bitch?" I flush, my pussy throbbing, their glistening bodies a porn-flick fantasy I'd kill to sear into my brain. "Stop teasing!" I plead, voice tight, my clit pulsing. "Now you know I'm bi, shouldn't you be, like, fucking careful?" Lina mocks, swinging her leg over me, ass up, her dripping holes—pink, slick, begging—inches from my face. "Teasing, huh? So we make your pussy wet?" She giggles, knowing I'm fucked, my eyes glued to her holes. Priya grabs Lina's ass, hard, yanking her cheek wide, spreading her tight asshole and glistening lips open for me, a brutal show. "Should we stop, slut?" Priya's tone shifts, serious, Lina's playful grin fading, her eyes daring me to crack. They burst out, cackling, my face a mix of terror and horny-as-hell thrill. Priya spanks Lina's ass cheek, a sharp crack echoing off the bedroom's mirrored walls, Lina yelping, "Fuck, Priya!" as she flips back, her dripping snatch mound grazing my thigh. "Sorry, hehe," Lina snickers, winking, while Priya's gaze drills me, waiting for me to fold. "I never dared cross that line," I confess, voice shaky, "you're too fucking special. I was scared you'd hate me." Priya's tone softens, humor lacing it, "Babe, I don't give a shit. Cop a feel anytime—my tits are yours!" She's dead serious, my lifelong friend, her naked body kneeling over me, her shaved pussy lips glistening in the neon glow. I smirk, hand sliding up her silky thigh, creeping toward her slick folds. Her eyes widen—shock, not anger—but I know she'd flip if I went there. I pull back, wrapping around her waist, winking. "Tease," I murmur, bold for once. Lina leans in, hugging me, her hot, bare tits pressing into mine, nipples grazing, sending my cunt into a fucking frenzy. "Must've been hard, Soph, so fucking lonely," she whispers, "but you're safe with us, always." Priya piles on, her toned arms pulling me close, her rack squishing against me, a sweaty, skin-on-skin jolt. "Fuck, two hot, naked bitches in my bed? I'm the luckiest girl alive," I laugh, voice raw. They snicker, yanking the silk sheets over us in a coordinated betrayal. "Assault!" Priya roars, her fit body pinning me down, thighs clamping mine, her wet pussy smearing heat on my hip. Lina straddles my legs, stopping my kicks, her curious fingers diving under my armpits, tickling my sides. I scream, laughing, nerves exploding as her nails rake my ribs, Priya's grip iron, her tits bouncing as she holds me. "Mercy, you cunts!" I gasp, writhing, their laughter a wild hymn, our bond sealed in this sweaty, vulgar chaos. Trapped in a sweaty, blissful cage of their naked bodies, I'm a fucking furnace on the silk sheets of my king-sized bed. Neon city lights bleed through the windows, painting our tangled curves in electric blue, velvet drapes pooling like molten sin. The mirrored ceiling flashes our slick limbs, jasmine and raw sex thick in the air, marble floors glinting beyond the plush rug cradling us. Priya's deep, sleeping breath blasts hot down my neck, her breath a filthy tease, her voluptuous tits smothering my bicep, their heavy, juicy weight swallowing my arm. Her bare thighs clamp my right hand, her dripping pussy lips grazing my wrist, a torturous pulse that's got my slit throbbing. Lina, sleeping, unaware, on my left, toys with my bare skin, her nails scraping my rock-hard nipples, the dip of my waist, my trembling inner thighs, setting my pussy on fire. My breaths come ragged, clit pulsing like a goddamn drum, as I look forward, i see emiliy, locking eyes with her, my face screaming, Fuck me into oblivion, please. A cruel dream. But one id never wish to wake from. She slinks in, lips brushing my ear, her jet black hair a wicked tickle against my cheek. "Chill, you horny slut," she hisses, voice a velvet blade, "I'm gonna make your body sing—just don't wake them." Her tongue flicks my earlobe, a jolt drenching my folds. "Didn't know you were into chicks," I rasp, heart slamming, awkwardness bare. She cuts me off, breath scalding. "I fuck girls, Soph—just craving some dirty-ass fun tonight. Swear it won't be weird, yeah?" "Fuck, okay," I nod, pinned between these goddamn goddesses, Priya's innocent curves a lush vice, my pussy screaming for release. Emilies fingers prowl, slutty and deliberate, grazing my tits, my ribs, the edge of my soaking mound—each touch a tease from hell. "No fucking noise, whore," she snarls, her dominance, a bossy tone I've expected, my imagination capturing her, thrilling my dripping core. She grabs my hand, shoving it against her slick, shaved cunt, her heat a pulse that fucks my brain raw. "Keep it still, you understand?" she growls, "twitch, and I stop your fun." I freeze, horny as fuck, hand locked, trembling against her dripping slit. "Good little slut," she purrs, her nails dragging lower, torturously slow, hovering where my pussy begs. I buck my hips, chasing her touch, and her hand snags my hair, yanking hard, a slow, brutal pull sending a shock through my spine. "Who the fuck said you could move, you that desperate?" she snaps, her dominance a goddamn aphrodisiac, adrenaline spiking my veins. A moan rips out, low and reckless, and her hand clamps my throat, perfect choke, her frail fingers a filthy paradox of power. My clit screams, trapped in Priya's sweaty, tit-heavy cuddle and Lina's savage grip. "Thought you could handle me, Soph?" she taunts, smirking, easing off slow, hoisting my hand above my head. Her tongue swirls my armpit, a dirty, sugary lick that's got me wetter than a fucking monsoon. "Spread your fucking legs, slut," she orders, voice a blade slicing the neon haze. I part them, my swollen, creamy pussy bared, spilling like a goddamn waterfall, the air a cruel tease on my heat. "Good fucking girl," she coos, her lips curling wickedly. Her fingers dive, slinking down, curling with intent toward my aching hole, teasing my folds. My clit's a beacon, dripping from her games, a reward for surviving her shit. Her touch is fast, merciless, spreading me with raw purpose, no warm-up, just brutal friction fucking my senses. I gasp, but her arm slams across my mouth, muffling my cry. I bite her skin, a sharp nip, guilt flashing in my eyes, but she doesn't flinch, her pace savage, ravaging my soul. "You like that, don't you, youre doing so well?" she whispers, eyes knifing mine, daring me to break. Priya shifts, rolling onto her back, freeing my hand, her juicy rack bouncing in the mirrored glow. I claw at Lina, yanking her close, our slick tits sliding, bodies locked like puzzle pieces in the neon haze. "Don't you fucking cum yet, whore," Emily snarls, her stare a challenge, like she wants to fight me. "Yes," I choke, tears pricking, fighting the tsunami, silent, still. "You're my good slut, aren't you?" she teases, her voice dripping venom and honey. She slinks lower, ignoring my panicked glance at Priya—not for shame, but her closeness, her sleeping pussy still grazing my thigh. My thighs splay wider, craving, but nothing preps me for her finger circling my tight asshole, a filthy, electric spark, her breath scorching my skin. "Fuck, Emily," I whimper, barely audible, my cunt pulsing harder. Euphoria fucking explodes as her tongue darts, not on my pussy but there, swirling with devilish precision, a sinful dance that's got me seeing stars. Our eyes lock—her pitch black hair a curtain, her grin pure evil, terrifyingly hot. I mouth, "I'm cumming," frantic, mute, my face a desperate plea. Her eyes flare, and she goes feral, fingers ruthless, a finger more tha teasing my ass, penetrating deeply, her lips claiming my mound, tongue hitting my clit like a goddamn bullseye. "Cum for me now sophie" she comanded, her free hand mauling my tits, a final fuse. My world shatters, orgasm ripping through like a fucking nuke, chest seizing, breath choked till I blur, teetering on blackout, bound by her filthy commands. Ecstasy drowns me, my pussy a shrine of obliterated desires, expectations fucked to hell. My vision fades, a glorious blackout, her whisper haunting: "Good fucking girl." I pass out, my core a temple of raw, depraved bliss, the penthouse a witness to our sinful,fleeting dance. Sophie jolted awake, her pulse racing through the fog of sleep, the searing memory of Emily's touch in the dream—vivid, electric, and unyielding—clinging to her mind like a secret she couldn't shake.
