Good Morning, My Good Girl
The morning light was thin and golden, filtering through the half-drawn curtains in slow, lazy strips that painted her bare skin in warm bands.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Welcome, lover of words and wicked desires.
THE BREEDING CONTRACT
Part One: The Proposal
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Who’s My Good Girl
I climbed through her window the way I always used to when we were still pretending this was only friendship. The night air clung to my skin, humid and close, carrying the faint smell of cut grass from the yard below and the sharper bite of the metal window frame under my palms. I swung one leg over the sill, then the other, and lowered myself into the room as quietly as I could. The carpet muffled the soft thud of my boots. Inside, the air was warmer, thicker. It smelled like her shampoo—something clean and vaguely sweet, like citrus and rain—and underneath that the faint vanilla-wax scent of the candle she always kept burning while she studied. Soft yellow light from the desk lamp cut a cone across the dark, leaving the rest of the room in deep shadow. The bed was unmade. A pile of clothes sat in the chair by the closet. Everything looked lived-in and private, the kind of space you only get to see when someone trusts you enough to leave the window unlocked.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
A Night of Rain
The rain had been falling since late afternoon, a steady silver curtain against the tall windows of the apartment. By the time evening settled the light inside had turned low and honey-colored, the kind that softened every edge and made skin look warmer than it already was. Priya stood in the doorway of the bedroom barefoot, wearing only one of his white shirts. The fabric was thin from years of washing, slightly translucent where it clung to the damp places left from her shower. The sleeves swallowed her hands. The hem brushed the middle of her thighs. Her long black hair was still wet, heavy strands sticking lightly to her neck and shoulders, the ends curling against the soft upper curve of her breasts.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
OURS TO KEEP
She'd been dating Mark for six months. Six months of gentle mornings and lazy Sundays. Six months of sweet texts and vanilla sex. Six months of being loved softly, carefully, like she was something precious that might shatter if handled too roughly. He was perfect. Kind. Attentive. Everything she'd ever wanted in a boyfriend. And yet. There was something missing. Something she couldn't quite name, couldn't quite articulate, but felt in the quiet moments when he was asleep beside her and she was staring at the ceiling, wondering why she felt so... restless. She'd never told him. How could she? He was perfect. The problem had to be her. It always was. Or so she'd thought. "You trust me, right?" Mark's voice was soft in the darkness of the car, his hand warm on her thigh as he drove through the winding streets toward the city's outskirts. The radio played low, some indie station she'd never heard of, and the streetlights cast golden pools across his handsome face. "Of course I trust you," she said, frowning slightly. "Why would you even ask that?" He glanced at her, a strange expression flickering across his features. Nerves? Excitement? Something in between. "Because I need you to trust me tonight," he said slowly. "More than you've ever trusted anyone." Her heart stuttered. "Mark, what are you talking about? Where are we going?" "To meet someone." He squeezed her thigh gently. "Someone important to me." "A friend?" "The best friend." He smiled, but there was something else there too — something she couldn't quite read. "His name is David. We've known each other since we were kids. He's... he's the only person in the world who knows everything about me. Everything." She felt a prickle of unease. "Is something wrong? Are you... are you sick? Is that why you're being so mysterious?" Mark laughed — a genuine, warm laugh that eased some of her anxiety. "No, baby. Nothing like that. I'm not sick. I'm not dying. I just..." He paused, pulling the car into a driveway of a modern, sleek apartment building. "I need to show you something. And I need you to keep an open mind. Can you do that for me?" She nodded slowly. "I can try." "Good girl." The apartment was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, the lights glittering like scattered diamonds. The furniture was modern and masculine — dark leather, chrome accents, abstract art on the walls. A massive bookshelf dominated one wall, filled with everything from classic literature to obscure philosophy texts. And in the center of it all, standing by the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand, was David. He was taller than Mark — at least six-three — with broader shoulders and a more rugged, weathered face. Where Mark was golden and soft, David was dark and sharp. Dark hair, dark eyes, a day's worth of stubble on a jaw that could cut glass. He wore a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his chest and dark jeans that hugged his thighs, and he looked like someone who'd been carved from stone and then left out in the rain to harden. "David." Mark stepped forward, his hand still wrapped around hers. "This is her. This is Emma." David's eyes swept over her — slow, deliberate, taking in every inch of her body from her nervous eyes to her trembling hands to her slightly parted lips. She felt exposed under that gaze, stripped bare, like he could see right through her clothes and into the restless, aching heart she'd been hiding for so long. "Emma." His voice was deep, rough, like gravel and honey. "I've heard so much about you." "All good things, I hope," she managed, her voice coming out breathier than she'd intended. "All the best things." He set down his whiskey and crossed to them, stopping just a foot away. "Mark says you're special. That you're different from anyone he's ever dated. That you make him feel things he's never felt before." She blushed. "That's... that's very kind of him to say." "It's not kindness." David's hand came up, and before she could react, his fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face. "It's truth. I can see it in your eyes. You're special, Emma. And I think you've been hiding that specialness for a very long time." Her breath caught. "I don't—" "Shh." He stepped closer, and suddenly Mark was behind her, his hands settling on her waist, his chest warm against her back. "We're not here to interrogate you. We're here to show you something." Mark's lips brushed her ear. "We're here to show you what you've been missing." She should have been terrified. Trapped between two men she barely knew, in an apartment she'd never visited, with no way out. Every self-defense instinct she'd ever learned screamed at her to run, to fight, to escape. But she wasn't terrified. She was aroused. Her body was on fire — Mark's hands on her waist, David's body so close she could feel his heat, the way they both looked at her like she was the most precious thing they'd ever seen. Her nipples hardened against the thin fabric of her dress, and she felt a rush of wetness between her thighs that made her gasp. "Look at you," David murmured, his eyes darkening. "So responsive. So perfect. I bet you're soaking through your panties right now, aren't you, sweetheart?" She couldn't lie. "Yes." "Fuck." Mark's hands tightened on her waist. "That's so hot. You have no idea how long I've wanted to share this with you. How long I've wanted to share you." "Share me?" Her voice came out thin, reedy. "What do you mean, share me?" David's lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. "I mean that Mark and I have been best friends for twenty-five years. We've shared everything. Secrets. Dreams. Fears." His hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her face toward his. "And I've wanted to share you since the first time he described you." Mark's lips traced down her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to her sensitive skin. "I told him about you. About how beautiful you are. How smart. How kind. How... hungry." "I'm not hungry," she protested weakly. "Oh, baby." David's thumb stroked her lower lip. "I think you are. I think you're starving. I think you've been starving for so long you've forgotten what it feels like to be full." "We can help with that." Mark's hands slid up her sides, grazing the underside of her breasts. "If you want us to. If you trust us." She looked between them — David's dark, intense eyes, Mark's soft, adoring gaze. Two men. So different, yet so clearly connected. And she was caught in the middle of them, trembling and wet and wanting. "I don't know what I want," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. David leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "Then let us show you. Let us take you apart. Let us put you back together the way you were always meant to be." "Just say the word, Emma." Mark's hands were under her dress now, his fingers ghosting along her thighs. "Just say yes, and we'll make you feel things you've never felt before." She closed her eyes. And she said yes. The kiss started slow. David's mouth claimed hers first — hot, demanding, possessive. His tongue slid against hers, tasting her, devouring her, and she melted into him, her hands fisting in his shirt. He kissed like he was claiming her, like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment, and she responded with equal hunger, giving herself over to the sensation. Mark's lips found her neck. He kissed along her throat, soft and reverent, his tongue tracing patterns on her skin while his hands worked the zipper of her dress. The fabric fell away, pooling at her feet, and she stood there in nothing but her thin lace bra and matching panties, trembling between them. "Beautiful," David murmured against her lips. "So fucking beautiful." Mark's mouth found her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her breasts above her bra. His hands cupped her hips, pulling her back against him, and she felt the hardness of his cock through his jeans pressing against the curve of her ass. At the same time, David's hands came up to cup her breasts through the lace, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were hard and aching. She moaned into his mouth, arching into his touch, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue fucking her mouth with a rhythm that made her dizzy. Their hands were everywhere. Four hands exploring every inch of her body. Mark's fingers digging into her hips, pulling her back against his growing erection. David's thumbs stroking her nipples through the lace, tugging and teasing until she was whimpering. One of Mark's hands slid around to her stomach, then lower, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her panties. "You're so wet," he groaned against her neck. "So fucking wet for us." She was. She was drenched, her panties soaked through, her thighs slick with her own arousal. She'd never been this wet in her life. David pulled back from the kiss just long enough to push her bra down, baring her breasts to the cool air. His mouth descended immediately, his lips closing around one nipple while his hand squeezed the other, and she cried out, her back arching. At the same time, Mark's fingers found her clit. She was spread open for them — David's mouth on her breast, Mark's fingers circling her aching clit, his other hand gripping her hip to hold her steady. She was lost in sensation, drowning in it, and she hadn't even been touched where she needed it most. "Please," she begged, not even knowing what she was begging for. "Please, I need—" "We know what you need." Mark's fingers slid lower, dipping into her slick heat, and she moaned as he pushed one finger inside her. "We know exactly what you need." "Fuck." David's voice was rough against her breast. "So tight. I can't wait to feel you around my cock." Mark added a second finger, stretching her, pumping slowly, deliberately. She was so wet she could hear it — the obscene squelch of his fingers moving in and out of her, mixing with her moans and their ragged breathing. "Look at her," David murmured, pulling back to watch. "Look at how perfectly she takes your fingers." "I know." Mark's voice was thick with desire. "She's so perfect, David. So fucking perfect." Their eyes met over her shoulder, and something passed between them — a silent communication, a shared understanding. Without a word, Mark pulled his fingers out of her, and she whimpered at the loss. But then David was lifting her, carrying her across the room, and Mark was following, and she was being laid down on a massive bed with silk sheets and a dozen pillows. "Spread your legs for us, sweetheart." David's voice was low, commanding, and she obeyed without hesitation, spreading her thighs wide on the bed. Mark climbed onto the bed beside her, his hands stroking her sides, while David knelt between her legs, looking at her like she was a feast he was about to devour. "I'm going to taste you now," he said, his voice rough with need. "I'm going to lick every drop of your sweet cunt, and you're going to watch me do it. You're going to watch your boyfriend's best friend eat your pussy like you're the last woman on earth." She whimpered, her hips bucking involuntarily toward his face. "David," Mark murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "I want to watch. I want to see her fall apart for you." She couldn't form words. Couldn't think. All she could do was feel as David's hands spread her thighs wider, his hot breath ghosting over her soaked folds. "Look at me," he commanded, and she did. "Watch me taste you for the first time." His tongue slid through her folds in one long, slow stroke. She screamed. His mouth was on her, devouring her, his tongue plunging deep inside her pussy while his thumb circled her clit. He was relentless — hungry, worshipful, absolutely savage. He ate her out like he'd been starving for a century, and she was sobbing, writhing, her hands fisting in the sheets. At the same time, Mark's lips found her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. He kissed down her chest, taking one nipple into his mouth while his hand squeezed the other. His tongue flicked over her hard peak, teeth grazing lightly, and she bucked against David's tongue, her orgasm building fast. "Don't cum yet," David growled against her pussy. "Not until we tell you." "Please—" she sobbed. "Please, David, please—" "I said not yet." His fingers replaced his tongue, two thick digits sliding inside her, curling against her G-spot. His thumb pressed against her clit, and she felt herself teetering on the edge, her entire body trembling. "Mark." David's voice was strained. "Get the toy."
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Mine to Destroy
You were already halfway through the second glass of wine when he saw you.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
What the Mirror Knows
I drag her across the room by the hair, fingers locked so tight at the roots that every step yanks her scalp hard enough to send sharp sparks of pain down the back of her neck. The pull is relentless, forcing her to stumble after me on bare feet that slap softly against the floor. Her pulse races already, a frantic hammering in her throat and wrists. Goosebumps rise along her arms. She can feel the heat of my body close behind her, the scent of skin and arousal thick in the air between us. The tall mirror waits—floor-to-ceiling, cold and perfect, reflecting the entire bedroom in merciless clarity. I plant her in front of it and shove her down by the hair until her knees hit the floor with a dull, heavy sound. The impact travels up her thighs. She winces, breath hitching.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
For the Nights Ahead
They had two weeks.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
What's Underneath
We weren’t close. Not really. A handful of messages scattered across weeks, nothing that stuck to the ribs or left a mark. Still, when her profile picture loaded—soft afternoon light catching the curve of her cheek, that half-smile that looked like it belonged to someone who didn’t know how dangerous it could be—I typed the first true thing that rose without permission.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
KNEEL FOR ME
The city sprawled beneath her floor-to-ceiling windows like a glittering kingdom of glass and steel — and she ruled every inch of it. At thirty-five, Victoria Chen had built an empire from nothing, turning a small tech startup into a Fortune 500 company in less than a decade. She was ruthless, brilliant, and notoriously unshakeable. Men twice her age and three times her experience had crumbled under her gaze in boardrooms across the world.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Dream of Us
The dream pulled me into that quiet kitchen again, the air warm and heavy with the scent of midnight—something sweet and faintly floral, jasmine maybe, drifting in from the open window where the curtains stirred in a lazy breeze. Moonlight spilled across the marble island in a pale silver flood, pooling in the valleys of the stone’s veins and casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to breathe with the stillness of the house. Alisha leaned against the counter, her silhouette a study in contrast against the cool white marble—wearing only that deep red lace bra and panties, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin, the delicate scalloped edges biting gently into the soft flesh of her hips and the full swell of her breasts. The lace was dark, almost black in the shadows, but where the moonlight caught it, it bloomed into a rich, bloody crimson that made my mouth go dry. Her hair was loose, tumbling over one shoulder in dark waves, and her skin gleamed with a faint sheen of moisture, as if she’d just stepped out of the shower—or as if the heat of the night had settled on her like a second skin. Her eyes found mine the moment I stepped in, soft at first, almost hesitant, the way they always were at the beginning—before the hunger took over, before the resistance crumbled and there was nothing left but the desperate, consuming need that had been building between us for months.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
TIED AND TEASED
I woke to the soft creak of rope being pulled through metal rings.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Edge of Her Surrender
She was already trembling when the ropes first touched her skin. He worked with deliberate, unhurried precision, the thick hemp rough against the delicate insides of her wrists as he crossed them behind her back and began the knots. Each loop tightened with a soft, fibrous rasp that made the fine hairs along her arms rise in a spreading wave of goosebumps that raced all the way to her shoulders. The pressure built slowly, blood pulsing hot against the bindings until her fingertips tingled and a dull, insistent ache settled into the joints of her shoulders and the soft flesh just below the bones of her wrists. She could feel every individual fiber of the rope biting deeper with each small adjustment of his hands, the texture coarse and unyielding, scraping lightly whenever she shifted even a fraction. Her pulse raced in her throat, a frantic drumbeat she was certain he could see fluttering under the thin skin. He moved down to her ankles next, forcing them together with the same coarse rope, the knots sitting just above the bone so that any attempt to shift her weight made the fibers dig harder into soft flesh. Her balance became precarious; she stood on the balls of her feet, knees slightly bent, the muscles in her calves already beginning to burn with the effort of staying upright. The room was warm, the air thick with the faint scent of wood polish and the sharper, cleaner smell of the vibrator he had left waiting on the low table. Its soft, continuous buzz was a low threat that vibrated through the floorboards into the soles of her feet, a constant reminder of what was coming. Sweat had already begun to gather at the small of her back, a thin film that made the air feel heavier against her skin.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
The Lady In White
The amber light of the bar was a warm, syrupy thing, clinging to the edges of glasses and the shoulders of the patrons like honey that had been left to pool and thicken in the golden glow of the low-hanging pendant lamps. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and old wood and the faint, sweet perfume of a woman who had passed through hours ago and left only the ghost of herself behind. I was nursing a whiskey, the ice long since melted, the liquid now a tepid amber that matched the light and did nothing to quench the slow, steady burn that had been building in my chest all evening. The glass was cool against my palm, the condensation leaving a damp ring on the polished mahogany of the bar, and I watched the way the liquid swirled with each small movement of my hand, a tiny whirlpool of amber and shadow.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Masked in the Dirt
The woods behind the old quarry always smelled different on Halloween—wet leaves rotting into black mulch that squelched under every step, woodsmoke curling thin and acrid from distant bonfires somewhere beyond the tree line, the metallic bite of cold October air that scraped the back of the throat, and underneath it all something animal and sharp, like damp earth after a hard rain mixed with the faint, lingering musk of sex that already seemed to cling to the bark and the low branches. Mara pulled the black lace half-mask tighter across her eyes. The delicate, intricate fabric—fine black lace worked into a pattern of curling vines and tiny roses—framed her high cheekbones and the full, soft mouth she had painted a deep blood-red earlier that night with a lipstick that tasted faintly of wax and cherries. The mask left her lower face bare while covering the upper half from forehead to just below the eyes, the lace soft against her skin yet prickling slightly where the edges met the sensitive area near her temples. At twenty-eight she still had the long, strong legs of the distance runner she used to be, the kind of legs that could carry her for miles without tiring, but the rest of her had softened into deliberate, heavy curves: full breasts that strained against the thin black sweater she wore, the fabric already pulling taut across the soft weight of them, a narrow waist that flared into wide hips and a plump, heart-shaped ass that filled out her dark jeans in a way that made the denim stretch and crease. Dark hair spilled down her back in thick, heavy waves that caught the last of the moonlight and smelled faintly of the vanilla shampoo she had used that afternoon. She had told herself she was only going for the party at the clearing. Everyone wore masks. That was the rule. No names, no phones, no real faces until midnight. The invitation had been anonymous, left under her windshield wiper three nights ago: Come as someone else. Leave as someone new. Follow the orange ribbons.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
From Whisper to Devour
My hand finds your waist like it already knows the shape of you—hot palm sliding under the hem of your shirt with deliberate care, fingers spreading wide over soft, fever-warm skin. I feel the faint tremor that runs through you at the contact. My fingertips trace the shallow dip above your hip once, twice, mapping the exact place where your body softens, before settling into a grip that is firm without being cruel, the quiet weight of possession. I draw you in slowly, unhurried, until the hard, heavy length of my cock presses flush against you through our clothes—thick, pulsing, already leaking heat that seeps through the fabric. I don’t grind. I simply hold you there, letting the pressure speak for itself, while my thumb draws slow, lazy circles against your bare side, feeling the way your skin warms under every pass.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Good Girl in the Garage
The storm had turned the world outside the garage into a blurry watercolour of neon and shadow. Rain hammered against the corrugated metal roof of the shop, a relentless, drumming symphony that drowned out all other sound. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of oil, grease, and the faint, sweet scent of the cheap coffee that had been brewing since morning.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Not You. Me.
She stared at the poll on her phone, thumb hovering over the options. The screen glowed against the dim light of the living room, casting a pale blue wash across her face and the soft curve of her lower lip, catching in the faint sheen of moisture there and turning the small space between her parted lips into a darker shadow. Her pulse was already racing, a hard, insistent thudding in her throat that made the thin skin there jump with every beat, visible if anyone had been looking closely enough, a tiny rhythmic flutter just above the hollow. She could feel the heat climbing up her neck in slow waves, flushing the delicate skin just under her jaw and spreading across her collarbones until the tops of her breasts felt warm under the thin fabric of her shirt, the warmth pooling and spreading until even the undersides of her arms prickled. The air in the room felt thicker than it should have, charged with the low murmur of the television and the heavier knowledge of what the messages had already done to her body over the course of the day. Her boyfriend was in the next room, laughing at something on the TV, the sound of his easy, oblivious amusement carrying through the open doorway in short, bright bursts that somehow made the quiet inside her chest feel louder. Completely unaware. The messages from him had been coming all day — possessive, filthy, impossible to ignore. Each one had left a residual ache between her legs, a low, constant throb that had kept her shifting in her seat for hours, the soft cotton of her shorts growing damp against her skin until the fabric clung in a way that made every small movement feel deliberate and exposed. She could feel the way the wetness had spread, the coolness of the soaked material against her when she stayed still too long, the way it warmed again the moment she pressed her thighs together, the slight sticky pull of the fabric when she shifted.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Hands on the Trunk
The highway stretched out before them, a black ribbon unwinding through a landscape of golden plains and distant, purple mountains. The car, a vintage convertible, hummed a steady, hypnotic tune. Leo had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, his jaw set in a comfortable, contented line. The wind whipped through his dark hair, and the sun felt warm on his arms. Every strand of that dark hair lifted and fell against his temples in restless waves; a fine sheen of sweat already gathered at the nape of his neck where the leather headrest pressed. His pulse beat slow and steady in the thick vein along the side of his throat, visible each time the muscles of his jaw flexed with the small, unconscious movements of driving. The sun’s heat soaked into the skin of his forearms, turning the fine dark hairs there golden, while the wind carried the dry, sweet scent of the plains—dust and sun-baked grass and the faint metallic tang of the car’s engine. His knuckles rested easy on the wheel, the tendons in the back of his hand standing out in sharp relief whenever he adjusted his grip.
Mr.__.Nerdieee
Spit and Rope
The van door slammed shut and the world went black.
Mr.__.Nerdieee