Six-Nine Dripping Fantasies
**WARNING: VERY EXPLICIT 21+**
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My name doesn't matter. My filthy urges do. I came home from work. The bedroom door was half open. My husband was there, pounding into some woman on our bed, his c**k slamming in and out, deep and rough.
I should have screamed. Instead my p**sy clenched hard. I stood frozen, watching every thrust. My hand slipped under my skirt on its own. Fingers circled my cl*t as he f**ked her right in front of me.
He glanced over. "You like watching my c**k stretch her?" I rubbed faster.
"Don't stop," I whispered. Then I came shaking, eyes locked on him pounding her.
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69 Dripping Fantasies is sixty-nine raw taboo stories. Wives catching husbands cheating and getting soaked instead of angry. Step-family secrets whispered in quiet. Glory holes that fill fast. Honeymoon wife swaps sparked by one dumb dare. Older rich men taking total control. Professors crossing every forbidden line. Husband's best friends sneaking in. Strangers who follow, then f**k hard. Group nights in dark clubs. Cucks cleaning up every last drop.
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I'm on my knees. One thick c**k buried deep in my throat, making me gag. The woman behind me squeezes my t*ts until it hurts so good. Her tongue between my ass, teasing, no c**k has filled my p**sy or a*s yet. But I'm trembling, dripping, seconds from squirting everywhere. Two massive black c**ks wait their turn, and her presence makes it filthier... hotter.
I never knew I craved this so badly.
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No soft romance. Just dirty yeses where no should be. Sixty-nine stories. Sixty-nine surrenders. Read if you're brave. These pages might leave you wet, jealous, horny... or secretly think of your own filthy fantasies when nobody's watching. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
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Chapter 2
I don't know what got into me, but I came. Even knowing the sinful thoughts I had about her husband, I still did.
Millie had sent me the address, and the party was surprisingly empty. Just Millie, her husband, and a man she said was her husband's friend. Right now we were seated at the dining table having dinner.
"Oh stop," Millie said playfully as her husband's friend tried to feed her with his spoon. I noticed the two were very close, and yeah, the only thing keeping me busy was thoughts of my shitty life, minimum-wage bullshit, how alone I was.
Everything was going okay. My method of not thinking about the BBC of a married man was actually working... up until I felt a hand on my leg. I nearly jumped. When I looked up, Lucan was staring right at me. He winked. I quickly turned to his wife, but she seemed occupied with his friend.
Lucan's hand didn't leave my leg. Instead it slowly dragged up my thigh. I was wearing a long skirt with a matching top, I chose long for a specific reason, but he didn't seem to mind now, and weirdly his touch felt good. Too good.
For a second I closed my eyes as my heart started racing. His hand circled higher, fingers brushing the edge of my panties under the tablecloth.
The table hid everything, but the danger of his wife being two feet away made my clit throb harder than it should have. Then it clicked his wife was literally sitting with us. I stood up fast and excused myself, saying I was headed to the bathroom, the one she'd shown me earlier.
Inside, I went straight for the sink and splashed cold water on my face, hoping to wake up from the lust. But the door opened. The person I was both afraid and dying to see stepped in.
"It's occupied, hehe..." I said nervously.
He just looked at me, closed the door behind him, and locked it. I almost moved, but he strode toward me, staring like I was a little kitten he was about to devour. My pussy clenched so hard I almost came again right there.
"I know you feel it too," he said, now standing right in front of me. He brought one hand up and rested it on the side of my face. I tried not to look in his eyes, so I looked down, and there it was. His trousers were bricked up, the thick outline straining against the fabric. I couldn't look away. I could literally see the shape of it through there, heavy and ready. My heart stopped. "You can touch it."
"I..." I wanted to. So I did. I dropped to my knees and felt it through the cloth first, hot, thick, pulsing under my palm. Then, needing to see it for real, I quickly undid his zip and pulled it out. I literally gasped.
It was beautiful. Made my tits ache and go rock-hard instantly. The musky dick smell hit me like a drug. That little visible slit on the tip was already glistening. The pale blue veins stood out even more now, thick and angry as it throbbed in my hand. My heart stopped again.
"Take it," he whispered. I didn't hesitate. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and took the tip first. The salty pre-cum taste exploded on my tongue and made me go crazy.
I pushed forward, forcing as much as I could until it hit the back of my throat. I gagged hard. "Ohh," he groaned, reaching for my head. He guided me, fucking my mouth slow at first, then deeper. It was too huge, my jaw ached, spit ran down my chin, dripping onto my tits as I coughed and sputtered around it.
"Oh my god," I gasped, pulling off for air, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his cock. "It's so big."
"And it will all go in you," he said, voice low and sure. My pussy clenched so hard it hurt. He told me to stand. I did. He looked me up and down. "Little white slut." I wasn't even offended, for this cock I'd be anything. "I love fucking white women," he said, eyes stripping me bare.
Then, without warning, he yanked me closer. I thought it was a kiss, but instead he growled, "Open your mouth." I did. I stuck my tongue out. He spat right on it, thick and warm. I swallowed fast. That filthy act turned me on so much my thighs were slick.
He ripped my top open, and went straight for my boobs, sucking one nipple hard while his big hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my head spin. I moaned loud, legs quivering, pressure building fast in my core.
"Ahh." I bit my bottom lip, not able to take it. My whole body was shaking.
"Now tell me," he said against my boob, teeth grazing the nipple, "where do you want me to fuck you?"
I almost screamed 'Right here' because I just wanted him to ram it in and fill me up. But he pulled back, leaving me panting and desperate, my ripped top hanging off me, skirt and panties still on.
"Why not make this even hotter?" he said. I was still lost in the after-feel of his tongue and teeth on my tits. "Why don't I fuck you on my matrimonial bed?"
"That would be... hot," I admitted. Just the thought of him pounding me on the bed he shared with his wife, on their sheets, surrounded by her smell, made me shamelessly wetter.
The wrongness, the taboo of it, had me ready to squirt right there on the bathroom floor. My mind flashed to her perfume on the pillows, her lipstick on the headboard, and how I was about to ruin it all with her husband's cock buried balls-deep in me.
I thought he was joking, until he lifted me up. We were a mess: me topless but still in my skirt, him no trousers but shirt still on. He threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing and carried me upstairs to their bedroom. While he climbed the steps, I stared down at his back, broad, toned, muscles flexing under his shirt, and it made him even sexier.
We reached the bedroom. He threw me onto the bed. The mattress smelled like both of them, her lotion, his sweat, their sex. Instead of grossing me out, it made my pussy throb harder. I yanked my panties down fast, legs spread, waiting.
"You'll never forget this day," he whispered, unbuttoning his shirt slow, eyes locked on my bare tits and dripping cunt.
He was right. I didn't even want to forget this day. Looking at him, huge black cock bobbing, thick and veiny, ready to wreck me, I was sure this was about to be the best fuck of my life.
But just as I finished that thought, the door opened. Millie stepped in.
I jumped off the bed, scrambling to cover my boobs with my arms, heart slamming. "I swear it's not what it looks like," I blurted the universal lie.
Damn.
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8.6
I was the untouchable Mafia Queen, but my reign ended in the blood-soaked depths of a damp dungeon.
My half-sister, Kelsey, drove a rusted, sharpened spoon into my chest, screaming about the unfairness of fate.
In my past life, my father sold me to the ruthless Don Dante Blackwell as collateral to pay off his debts.
To survive, I took a black-market fertility drug, birthed his heir, and clawed my way to the throne through sheer ruthlessness.
But in the mafia world, a pregnant woman isn't a queen; she's a walking target.
I survived countless bombings and poisonings, only to be betrayed and slaughtered by my own family.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand. I had sacrificed everything to secure our survival in the empire. Why did my blood and tears only earn me a rusted spoon to the heart?
Opening my eyes again, I am seventeen, sitting in my father's drawing room.
Two black velvet boxes sit on the mahogany table.
Kelsey greedily snatches the box containing the fertility drug, her eyes gleaming with feverish triumph.
"I'll take this one, Papa."
She thinks she is stealing my golden ticket to the crown, completely unaware that she just chose a death sentence.
I lower my gaze, letting my eyelashes mask the cold, lethal amusement pooling in my eyes as I take the remaining box.
Inside is the detailed psychological profile of the Don's dead fiancée.
This time, I won't be a breeding mare fighting off assassins. I will dissect the devil himself.
7.4
I thought my life was over when my sister died, leaving me to raise her two babies in a world that wanted to swallow us whole. Then I made the mistake of a lifetime: I left a bold, humiliating voicemail for the one man I should have feared most.
Anton Oryolov.
The ruthless king of the Oryolov Bratva. A billionaire monster who rules the city with ice in his veins and blood on his hands.
I expected him to fire me. I expected him to destroy me. Instead, he gave me a choice that felt like a death sentence: sign a contract and become his.
The rules were simple. I belong to him. I live in his shadows. In exchange, he protects the children. But as the doors of his mansion locked behind me, I realized the "forced proximity" wasn't just a business arrangement. It was a cage.
He thinks he can use me as a pawn in his dark mafia games. He thinks the children are just leverage to keep me in line. But he's starting to look at me with a hunger that isn't in the contract, and I'm seeing a man beneath the monster that I never expected to find.
In the Cruel Paradise of the Bratva, loyalty is a lie and love is a weakness. Our deal is signed in ink, but it's going to end in blood.
He owns my signature. He owns my safety. Now, he wants my soul.
8.5
"And that is the reason why I said those words. I like your fear, not because it is a normal thing. I love it because deep down you are a monster like me, schiava. You fear me on a primal level, you can feel my power and dominance, and you know you aren't the strongest here. So you don't fear Renzo Valentino the human, you fear the monster that lurks inside."
My life changed the night of my birthday. What started as a funny dare ended with blood and having a price on my head.
I thought Renzo was the hero who saved me that night, but he was the devil who owned me forever.
I, Misha Yakov, princess of the Russian mafia became Renzo Valentino's slave.
He broke me, tortured me, and molded me into something new, something I hated and craved at the same time.
I, Misha Yakov became my master's pet.
8.5
"You don't get to hurt me and then make me responsible for how guilty you feel about it."
"Friends don't stand next to you, learn everything about you, and then use it to get close to the one person they know matters."
Aria thought she knew two things for certain: she was going to graduate with her best friend, Iris, by her side, and she was in love with her boyfriend, Liam.
One kiss changed everything. But as the secrets of their "before" come to light, Aria realizes the betrayal didn't start at a party or in a moment of weakness. It started weeks ago, in the conversations she wasn't part of and the moments she wasn't invited to.
Now, Aria has to decide if she can find herself again in the wreckage of the people she trusted most-or if some bridges are meant to be burned
7.8
Elena Voss was sold like a debt receipt.
Her greedy aunt and uncle handed her over to Damien Blackthorn-New York's untouchable billionaire tech mogul by day, ruthless Mafia Don and Alpha of the Blackthorn Pack by night-to settle a family debt they never asked her to pay.
The moment their eyes met in that rain-soaked alley, the fated mate bond ignited like wildfire. For one reckless night, he claimed her body and soul, whispering "mine" against her skin while the Moon Goddess sealed their destiny.
Then came the betrayal.
On their first anniversary, he paraded his pureblood fiancée through their penthouse, let her kneel for him in the study while Elena watched from the shadows, and divorced her in front of the entire pack.
"Wolfless trash," he snarled. "You were never more than payment."
Heart in pieces and two tiny heartbeats growing inside her, Elena fled. She vanished into Seattle's gray drizzle, changed her name, cut her hair, and built a quiet life as a single mother. She swore the Blackthorn name would never touch her twins-Leo and Luna, the secret heirs he didn't even know existed.
Five years later, the children's first uncontrolled shifts rip through their small apartment like lightning. The only place that can teach them control and keep them hidden from rival packs is back in New York-back under Damien's shadow.
The Alpha Don who once threw her away is now obsessed.
The fated bond never died; it only waited. He feels her every laugh, every tear, every protective growl she gives their children. He'll burn his empire, his alliances, and his pride to drag her back.
But Elena isn't the broken girl he discarded anymore.
She's a mother with claws.
A luna who learned to bite.
And this time, if he wants her forgiveness, he'll have to beg on his knees.
Pregnancy. Divorce. Secret babies. Billionaire alpha. Mafia power plays. Revenge that burns slow and sweet.
Some bonds can't be broken.
Some rejections come with claws.
And some second chances are paid for in blood.
8.1
I'd lived as a mafia queen, ruling with quiet strength, only to discover my entire life was a lie. My husband, Dante, secretly divorced me three years ago, then married our timid nanny. I wasn't just betrayed; I was a dead ex-wife walking, a ghost in my own home.
A mafia daughter, I expected routine at Rossi's law firm. But Rossi, pale and sweating, handed me an envelope: Dante's divorce judgment, signed three years ago, and his marriage certificate to Gia, our nanny.
Truth slammed me: Gia poisoned me for years, causing infertility, making her bastard son the sole heir. Hidden, I watched her force Dante, the Underboss, to kneel, drink hallucinogenic tea, and profess devotion. She smirked.
This was calculated murder: my existence, my legacy. Rage burned, but clarity struck: disappear, or vanish into the Long Island Sound.
From a hidden phone, I called Luca, the underworld's elite cleaner. "I need a top-tier scrub. Target is myself," I commanded. "Get me out of this hell. I'd rather die than be his taxidermy specimen."