FANGASM TALES

​ Kelly’s world was splitting at the seams. But the cash piled up fast.    Over $10,000 stashed in a shoebox under the bed, but the thrill Mark chased was wearing her out. He still got off on it, jerking off to her stories, fucking her raw after every job, but she felt the grind now: the sore thighs, the bruises from rough hands, the hollow aches behind her ribs.  Victor’s offer gnawed at her. He’d called again, upping the price to $1000 for a night at his penthouse downtown. Mark didn’t know about this one.    She’d lied and said her mom picked her up and was driving her home for a family emergency . The lie sat bitter on her tongue, but Victor’s pull was stronger than her guilt. She stood in front of their cracked mirror, zipping up a tight red dress that hugged her curves, no bra, no panties—just the way Victor had asked. Her hair fell in loose waves, lipstick bold against her pale skin. The burner phone buzzed. It was Victor:    “Car’s outside. Bla...

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​ Kelly’s encounter with Victor lingered in her mind like for days. His words—“You deserve better than this place”—echoed through the grime of their apartment, the peeling paint, the stained carpet and the mounds of dirty dishes and laundry. She hadn’t told Mark about it yet. He’d come home that night, reeking of antiseptic and coffee, and fucked her senseless while she told him all about her Victor eating her out and the size of his cock splitting her open. Mark had loved it, jerking off to the details before pinning her down and adding his own load to the mess. But Victor’s offer, vague as it was, stuck with her. It was the first time a client had seen her as more than a wet hole. The bookings kept coming. Mark had set up a burner phone for “business,” and it buzzed constantly.    Young freshman from campus, local businessmen, even a cop once who swore he’d keep it quiet.  Kelly’s rates climbed as her reputation grew: $500 for an hour, $800 for something kinkier. They’d...