Luna Belle Fernandez POVAfter the incident at May’s party, I became more isolated. The girls in my class are as rich and entitled as kids in our school can be, but none of them has a bodyguard. The lie I told, that my dad hired Rudolph to protect me, puts me in a different bracket. My classmates are more guarded around me. Some are jealous.I still meet them for brunch at the mall or sports events on weekends, but there’s a gap between us. No one is going to invite someone to a party if she has to drag a bodyguard along. They don’t want what happens at these parties to get back to their parents. They’re doing what many other kids of their age are doing, experimenting with booze and cigarettes and sometimes the occasional drug. A lot of heavy petting is also involved, which is why a bodyguard who throws the hottest boy at the party in the pool for chatting a girl up is unwelcome. That, and our community is conservative. These things aren’t supposed to happen. As far as the adults are

Luna Belle Fernandez POVGrateful to finally locate a seat, I sink into one of the transparent plastic chairs arranged around a Perspex table. The backrest is curved, and the seat is low. Getting up without flashing my underwear in the process will be difficult. The modern design of the furniture favors aesthetics instead of comfort. Now more than ever, I regret wearing a thong, but the dress is so tight that panty lines would’ve been visible.Robinson slides with considerably less difficulty onto the chair next to me. A waitress removes the reserved card on the table and asks what we’d like to drink. I open my mouth to say ginger ale, but Bart orders champagne and sparkling water.Celeste walks to the balustrade and leans over, swaying her ass to the beat of the music. Bart goes to stand at her back, caging her between his arms with his palms planted on the rail. Unable to shake my unease, I look around, assessing the faces on the floor below before searching the bridge next to the D

Luna Belle Fernandez POVHe closes his hand so hard around my neck that my vision goes blurry. His face is a fuzzy picture behind a veil of fog as he dips his fingers under the elastic of my thong and tugs. A rip tears through the space. The thong slides down my thighs and brushes my ankles. My sight fades around the edges as I feel him between my legs, a hot, hard, velvet fist that wedges between my folds. We’re both slick. When he brushes the tip over my clit, pleasure hits my core.“You’re such a slut, Luna,” he says, his words coming to me through a gushing noise in my ears.As if to validate the statement, I curl my fingers around the lapels of his jacket, instinctively holding on. He taps my clit two, three times with the head of his cock, a light reprimand. A sweet punishment. “But you’re my slut.”Proving the point, he tears into me.I think I may pass out, and not from a lack of air. The way it hurts is excruciating. My lips part, but no sound escapes. It’s the worst torture,

Leonardo Sebastian Franco's POVGetting up from the bed, I go to the bathroom and light the decorative candle. The light is softer and kinder. I leave it on the nightstand and flick off the overhead lights. The wax smells like vanilla. It’s romantic. She’ll sleep better like this.I pick up the ring and study it in the gentle light of the flame. The emblem is fitting. It suits our family and what we stand for. The gold is twenty-four carats, the purest you can buy. Its melting point isn’t as high as iron’s. Gold is a soft metal. It needs to reach two hundred and sixty degrees Celsius to inflict a third-degree burn that will leave a permanent scar. The temperature in the center of the flame is one thousand four hundred degrees. I hold the head just long enough over the flame, still burning my fingers.The band of the ring scorches my fingertips when I kneel between Luna's legs. Carefully, I press the flat side that’s glowing red on the mound of her pussy, just above her slit. Ten secon

Leonardo Franco POVJust before twelve, we exit the lobby. Bart, his wife, and Robinson, that pretty boy with the soft, white, piano hands whom Luna Belle calls her best friend, are outside. Bart and Robinson are loading bags into the trunk of Bart’s BMW. Bart’s wife, Celeste, looks the worst for wear with a pair of oversized sunglasses shielding her eyes. She’s sitting on a bench next to the entrance, her face whiter than porcelain, sipping green slush that must be some miracle hangover remedy in a takeout cup.At the sight of her family, Luna Belle stops dead. She takes three wide steps to the side, putting a stretch of space between us. Celeste spots her first. She gives a weak wave and makes a puking face.The action catches the men’s attention. Bart and Robinson look up simultaneously. When they notice me, they are still. Bart’s expression gives nothing away. Neither does his relaxed stance. Robin fists his hands and takes a step forward, but Bart stops him with an outstretched ar