New to this story? Check out:

Alice's eyes flew open, wide and wild. The command registered, and I saw the war inside her: the lifetime of modesty and control fighting against the raw, thrilling desire to be completely dominated. To be seen.

Desire won. It wasn't even close.

A shudder wracked her body. A tiny, broken sob escaped her lips. But her eyes, glistening with tears of pure, unadulterated pleasure, stayed locked on mine.

"Good girl," I purred.

Then I lowered my head and went to work. I plunged my tongue deep into her, tasting the sweet, musky flavor of her arousal. She was clean, with a sharp, salty tang that was utterly addictive. I licked up and down her slit, parting her folds, learning the shape and texture of her. Her hips began to buck against my mouth, a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm.

I hooked my thumbs on her hip bones, holding her still, anchoring her to the island while I feasted on her. I found her clit again, that perfect, hard pearl, and I circled it with my tongue, fas…

Read more

The call came on a Tuesday, which is usually my most boring day of the week. It was Mr. Chen, one of my regulars. He's old money, the kind of guy who drinks PBR like it's an ironic joke but tips in crisp hundred-dollar bills.

"Hey," he said, his voice crackling a little over the phone. "I have a private event. High-stakes. Need someone discreet who can pour a good drink and keep their mouth shut."

"That's my entire job description, Mr. Chen."

"Five thousand for the night. Cash. Penthouse in the Pearl. You in?"

Five fucking grand?! I didn't even hesitate. Five grand could be a plane ticket somewhere warm with lots left over.

"I'm in," I said. "Send me the address."

The penthouse was exactly what you'd expect. All glass and steel, with a view that made the whole of Portland look like a tiny, sparkling circuit board. The air smelled of expensive leather, faint cigar smoke, and that clean, sterile scent of money that's never been touched by human hands. I spent the first hour setting up my bar: a long slab of black marble in the corner of the massive living room. I polished glasses until they squeaked, lined up bottles of whiskey that cost more than a car, and made sure the ice was crystal clear.

The players started arriving around nine. Six of them, all men in tailored suits or expensive casual wear, all carrying the same quiet, predatory tension. They nodded at me, placed their orders, and then ignored me, which was perfect. My job was to be a ghost who refilled glasses.

Then *they* walked in.

They were a unit. You could feel it instantly. He was Bryan, a man in his forties with a face that was completely unreadable, like it was carved from stone. He wore a simple, dark grey suit, no tie. His hands were clean, short-nailed, and they moved with an unnerving precision as he sat down and unstacked his chips. He didn't look at me, didn't look at anyone. His focus was a laser beam pointed at the green felt of the custom poker table in the center of the room.

She was Ashleigh. His wife, I found out later. She was maybe a few years older than him, sharp and electric. She wore a black dress that was simple but cut perfectly, and her smile was a weapon. It didn't reach her eyes, which were busy scanning everything – the other players, the layout of the room, me. She didn't play. She stood just behind his left shoulder, a silent partner, her hand resting lightly on his chair.

For the next two hours, I served drinks and watched. It's the bartender's curse. You can't not watch. You see everything. The guy in seat two, a tech bro with a stupidly expensive watch, kept fiddling with his collar when he was bluffing. The rich-looking guy in seat five had a vein that pulsed in his temple when he had a monster hand. It was fascinating.

But I mostly watched Bryan and Ashleigh. He played with a terrifying stillness. No tells, no emotion. Just a calm, relentless focus. She was his spotter, I realized. Her eyes darted from player to player, and every so often, she'd lean down and whisper something in his ear, too low for anyone to hear. They were a team, a perfectly calibrated machine.

I also watched the man in seat four. He was a loud, beefy guy in a blazer who liked to talk. And he had a tell so obvious it was almost funny. When he had a good hand, a real winner, he'd order a Johnnie Walker Blue. When he was bluffing or on a weak hand, he'd switch to the house bourbon. It was like he was announcing his intentions to the whole room, but nobody else seemed to notice. Or maybe they did, which is why he was ordering more bourbons than Blues.

Around midnight, Ashleigh called for a fifteen-minute break. The men stood up, stretched, and moved to the balcony to smoke or make calls. I stayed behind my bar, wiping down the counter. Ashleigh didn't go outside. Instead, she walked right over to me, her heels making soft clicking sounds on the polished concrete floor.

She leaned against the bar, her smile finally touching her eyes. It made her look even more dangerous. "You see things, don't you?" she said. Her voice was low, like smoke.

I just kept wiping the counter. "It's my job to see if someone's glass is empty."

"Bullshit," she said, but it was friendly. Bryan walked up and stood beside her, his presence a silent weight. He still hadn't said a word to me all night. Ashleigh pulled a small, mirrored coaster from her clutch, along with a tiny vial. With a flick of her wrist, she laid out a perfect, thin white line on the mirror.

She slid it across the bar to me. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was a test. The coke, the question, all of it.

"Tell me what you see," she said, her eyes locked on mine. "The man in seat four."

I looked from the line of coke to her sharp, intelligent face, then to Bryan's calm, waiting expression. This wasn't just a weird game, it was an invitation into their world. The high-stakes tension, the smell of whiskey, the low hum of the city outside. It all swirled together, pulling me in. I took a bill from my tip jar, rolled it up, bent over the bar, and sniffed the line. It was a clean, chemical burn that went straight to my brain.

I stood up straight, my head clear, my senses buzzing. I met her gaze.

"He drinks top-shelf when he's holding and well-liquor when he's bluffing," I said. "He just ordered a double bourbon and ginger. He's got nothing."

A slow, genuine smile spread across Ashleigh's face. It wasn't the weapon she'd been using all night. This was appreciation. Bryan finally looked at me, really looked at me, and his stone-carved face showed a flicker of something. It might have been surprise. Or respect. It was gone before I could decide.

"The break's over," Ashleigh announced, turning away from the bar as if we'd just been discussing the weather. She and Bryan returned to the table.

I watched the next hand play out from behind the bar. It was exactly like I said. The loud guy in seat four, Johnnie Walker Blue guy, was talking big. He raised, then raised again. Bryan just calmly met his bets, his face giving away nothing. Then the guy went all in. The tech bro with the watch folded immediately. The old money guy thought about it, then pushed his cards into the middle. It was just Bryan and Mr. Johnnie Walker.

"You sure, buddy?" the loud guy asked, leaning over the table.

Bryan didn't answer. He just looked at Ashleigh. She gave him the tiniest, almost invisible nod. He pushed his massive stack of chips forward. "Call."

The guy laid down his cards. Two pairs. A strong hand, but not a monster. Bryan turned his over. He had a quiet, brutal full house. The guy's face went slack. He'd been bluffed into betting his entire stack. He was out.

The rest of the game ended quickly after that. The energy was gone. Bryan had bled them dry. One by one, the other players cashed out, their faces grim, and left without a word. Mr. Chen came over to the bar while I was cleaning up. He handed me a thick envelope.

"Your five thousand," he said. He handed me a second, even thicker envelope. "And this is from them. They said you earned it." He nodded towards Bryan and Ashleigh, who were standing by the window, looking out at the city lights. Then he left.

The heavy penthouse door clicked shut. The silence was sudden and absolute. It was just the three of us.

Ashleigh turned from the window. She walked back towards me, her pace slow and deliberate. She didn't stop at the edge of the bar this time. She came around it, invading my space.

"That was a very profitable tip," she said, her voice a low hum. Her hand came up and rested on my waist, her fingers cool against the thin fabric of my work shirt. "We believe in rewarding talent."

She pulled me gently, leading me out from behind the bar. I went without resisting. My heart was a hammer against my ribs. This was it.

The next level of the game. Bryan followed us, his presence a silent, heavy weight at my back. They led me to the poker table, the green felt still littered with a few stray chips.

Ashleigh's hands went to the front of my shirt. "Let's see the rest of your cards," she murmured, and her fingers started working on the buttons, one by one. The shirt came open, and the cold air of the room hit my skin. My nipples went hard instantly.

Bryan stepped closer. It was the first time he'd touched me. His hand, the one I'd watched stack chips with such unnerving precision, spread flat against my stomach. His palm was warm and dry. He didn't push, didn't grope. He just held it there, claiming the space.

Together, they lifted me and sat me on the edge of the poker table. My black work skirt rode up my thighs, exposing the top of my dragon tattoo. Ashleigh stood between my legs, her hands resting on my knees. Bryan stood beside her, his gaze locked on my face.

Ashleigh leaned in, her smoky voice dropping to a whisper. "Bryan plays a no-limit game," she said. "Are you all in?"

I didn't have to answer. My body answered for me, my hips giving a little tilt forward, my legs parting just enough. It was all the invitation she needed.

Ashleigh's smile was sharp and knowing. She knelt on the floor between my legs, her hands coming up to grip my thighs, her thumbs pressing into the soft skin on the inside. She looked from my face, down my body, and then her eyes locked on mine again.

"Bryan likes to watch," she said, her voice a low murmur. Then she bent her head.

Read more

Missed Chapter One? Read it here.

The world hung suspended in that single, silent moment. Alice's eyes, which I had been studying all afternoon, became a fascinating, chaotic storm. First, they went wide with pure, blank shock. The kind crinkles at the corners vanished, replaced by stark disbelief. Then, confusion clouded them. Her brow furrowed as she tried to make the pieces of my confession fit into the neat, orderly puzzle of her world.

(They didn't.)

I kept my hand flat on her chest, my gaze locked with hers. I wouldn't let her look away. I wouldn't let her retreat into her thoughts. She had to face me. The heartbeat under my palm stuttered, then kicked into an even faster rhythm.

Then I saw the flash of anger. Her eyes narrowed, the soft brown hardening into a sharp, dark glint. She had been played. Deceived. A flush of color rose on her cheeks. Her body tensed, her lips pressing into a thin line. This was the moment of truth. The moment she would either push me away and call me a p…

Read more

I wanted to introduce you all to a new voice you'll be hearing from, exclusively on this Substack. She's a special character, born from the sweat and bass of Miami's late-night scene, and her stories are just for you... a little something extra that you won't find in any of my book series.

She's taking over the mic now. I hope you enjoy the ride.

Read more

Sometimes Portland just feels... flat. You know what I mean? Like a beer left open overnight. The fizz is gone, and you're just left with the stale smell of hops. I'd just finished a week of shifts at The Hop & Hammer that felt exactly the same. The same IPAs, the same arguments about whether hazy is better than West Coast, the same guys trying to explain my own tap list to me. By Friday night, I was crawling out of my skin.

It was 2 a.m. and I was doing what I always do when I feel that specific kind of restless: riding my fixie with nowhere to go. The streets were empty, just wet pavement reflecting the orange streetlights. It had rained earlier, and the air smelled like damp asphalt and greasy, yummy food from the late-night carts closing up.

I was grinding up a hill in the industrial district, my thighs burning, just trying to sweat out the boredom. It wasn't working. I wanted something sharp. Something that wasn't predictable. I was thinking maybe I should book a flight. But where? Just somewhere else.

Then my phone buzzed in the pocket of my hoodie. I slowed down, skidding the back tire slightly, and pulled it out.

It was Kat.

Kat is the only person I know who makes me feel like I have my shit together. We both sling drinks, but she works at this absolute gutter-punk dive on the Eastside. She's covered in tattoos that look like they were done with a prison gun, she's got a septum piercing she's always flipping up and down, and she treats life like it's something to be used up as fast as possible. We bonded over tequila sodas and a shared appreciation for chaos.

The text was simple: Feeling brave? Got us on the list. The Velvet Curtain. Backroom. 3 a.m. Be ready for trouble lol

I stopped the bike completely. The Velvet Curtain. I knew what it was, even though I'd never been. It wasn't a bar. It wasn't really a club. It was a space. People talked about it in whispers after their third shot. It was an old warehouse, totally unlisted, known for performance art that blurred the line between a show and a sex party. Extreme, hedonistic, and very, very private.

The boredom evaporated. This was the wavelength I needed. I hadn't fucked anyone in what felt like weeks (it was a few days) and I could really use a good pounding. Some trouble, as Kat put it.

I'm in, I texted back. Where?

She sent an address deep in the warehouse district. I turned my bike around and started pedaling hard.

I got there at 2:45. It was a massive, brick building that used to be a cannery or something. No signs, just a heavy steel door painted black. Kat was already there, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. She was wearing thigh-high boots, ripped fishnets, and an oversized leather jacket that looked like it might be the only thing she had on underneath.

"Hi," she grinned, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out. Her eyes were already bright. "Knew you wouldn't bail."

"Fuck this week," I said, catching my breath. I chained my bike to a rusty signpost.

"Exactly." She pulled me into a quick, hard hug. She smelled like clove cigarettes and cheap whiskey. "Okay, so here's the deal. It's already going inside. This isn't the usual performance night. This is... specialized."

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small glass vial with a dropper and a tiny, folded piece of paper.

"Focus and feeling," she said, tapping the paper first, then the vial.

Coke and liquid MDMA. Perfect.

I unfolded the paper and took the bump of coke quickly off the back of my hand. The familiar, bitter drip started almost immediately. My teeth went numb. The fog in my brain cleared.

Kat unscrewed the vial. "Open," she said.

I stuck my tongue out. She dropped three drops of the MDMA onto it. It tasted metallic and chemical.

"That'll kick in right when we need it to," she said, putting the vial away. "Ready?"

I nodded. My heart was hammering, a mix of the coke, the bike ride, and the anticipation.

Kat banged on the steel door. A slot opened, eyes looked out, and then the door clicked open. A huge guy with a shaved head nodded at Kat and stepped aside to let us in.

The main space was massive, dark, and loud. There was heavy, slow industrial music playing – a deep bass that I could feel in my ribs. It was mostly empty, though. A few people were milling around some weird sculptures made of scrap metal, but that clearly wasn't the main event.

Kat grabbed my hand. "Back here."

She led me through the main room toward a smaller door marked "Private." The air was getting warmer, heavier. The smell changed from stale air and dust to something else. Sweat, definitely. Lube. Sex. A weird, sharp ozone smell, maybe from a fog machine or just the sheer amount of body heat.

She pushed the door open, and we stepped inside.

The backroom was small and intensely dark, lit only by a few red bulbs hanging from the ceiling. It took my eyes a second to adjust. The music was muffled back here, replaced by different sounds. Wet noises. Heavy breathing.

Against the far wall, there was a partition, painted matte black. It ran the length of the room. And it was studded with holes.

Glory holes. Maybe ten of them, at different heights. Some at mouth level, some lower down.

There were a couple of other women in the room, already busy. I couldn't see their faces clearly in the red light, just the shapes of their bodies kneeling or bent over.

Kat leaned in close, her breath hot on my ear. The MDMA was starting to hit. A warm wave was spreading from my stomach, and the red lights suddenly seemed much brighter. My skin felt sensitive.

"Rules are simple," she whispered. "No talking to them. You don't see their faces, they don't see yours. You pick a spot, you take what comes through. You're in control until you decide you're not." She squeezed my arm. "I'm right here. Tap my shoulder if you need water, a break, or if you want me to step in. Got it?"

I nodded. My mouth was dry. I looked at the black wall. I could hear men on the other side. Shuffling, a low cough, the sound of a zipper.

This was insane. This was completely impersonal. It was exactly what I wanted. I didn't want to talk about IPAs. I didn't want to flirt. I just wanted the physical. I wanted to see how far I could push it.

"Have fun, slut," Kat said, smirking.

I took a deep breath. The air was thick and smelled like… cum, for lack of a better term. I walked toward the wall, my boots sticky on the concrete floor. I picked a hole right at mouth level, about center of the room, and I knelt down.

The concrete was cold and gritty under my knees. The molly was rolling hard now. My jaw felt tight, and the red lights seemed to be leaving trails when I moved my head. My skin was buzzing, hyper-sensitive. I put my face close to the wall, near the opening. I could smell the latex paint, but underneath it, something else. A musky, male smell coming from the other side.

I didn't have to wait long. Maybe five seconds.

A cock pushed through the hole. It just appeared. Thick, uncut, and completely hard. It twitched slightly. No hand guiding it, no face, just this anonymous piece of meat sticking through the black wall.

It was so impersonal. So transactional. It was incredibly hot. It stripped everything away. There was no flirting, no names. It was just a cock, and I was just a mouth.

I leaned in and licked the tip, right over the slit. He tasted salty, clean. A low, muffled sound came from the other side of the wall. A grunt, maybe.

Read more

I've got this theory that the universe occasionally gets bored and decides to fuck with your travel plans just to see what you'll do. My plan was simple: Portland to Lima, with a quick, painless connection in Mexico City. I'd be sipping a pisco sour near Machu Picchu within twenty-four hours.

The universe, apparently, had other ideas.

The email arrived with a sterile, apologetic ping while I was still standing in the customs line at MEX. "Flight Cancellation Notice." A mechanical issue. The next available flight wasn't for another 26 hours.

Fuck.

A lesser woman might have cried, or yelled at an underpaid airline employee. Years of bartending have burned that impulse out of me; you just deal with the spill and move on. I spent ten minutes leaning against a pillar, scrolling through the Hostelworld app on the shitty airport Wi-Fi.

My criteria were simple: cheap, not a murder den, and a bar. Preferably a rooftop bar.

I found one in Roma Norte that looked perfect. Pictures showed colorful murals, aggressively cheerful font on the signage, and a rooftop patio with plastic chairs and a view. Good enough. I booked a bed in a four-person shared room, figuring I could handle snoring strangers for one night.

The Uber ride from the airport was a chaotic symphony of horns, Spanish radio, and the thick, humid air of a city that never really sleeps. Roma Norte was beautiful, though. Big trees arched over the streets, and old colonial buildings sat next to modern glass-fronted cafes. The hostel itself was exactly as advertised: a little worn, smelled faintly of damp concrete and cleaning supplies, but undeniably cool. The guy at the desk had a nose ring and a bored expression that I recognized from half the hipsters back in Portland. He handed me a keycard for Room 3B and pointed vaguely towards the stairs. "Rooftop is open 'til midnight," he mumbled.

My room was small. Two sets of metal bunk beds, four lockers, and one window that looked out onto a brick wall. It was empty, for now. I claimed a bottom bunk, tossed my backpack into the locker, and locked it. All I kept out was my phone, my wallet, and my journal. The air in the room was stuffy and hot. The idea of staying in here for more than the five minutes it took to drop my shit was suffocating. Rooftop it was.

The bar was just a small counter with a couple of coolers full of Cerveza Pacífico and some dusty bottles of tequila, but the patio was the real draw. It looked out over the neighborhood's treetops. The sun was setting, painting the hazy sky in shades of orange and pink. A few other backpackers were scattered around, speaking a mix of English, French, and German. I grabbed a beer, found an empty table in the corner, and settled in to feel sorry for myself.

That lasted about half a beer. Self-pity is boring. People-watching is not. My bartender senses took over, scanning the small crowd. My eyes landed on two guys at a table near the edge of the roof. They were slumped over their own beers, looking defeated. One was tall and lanky, with dark, floppy hair that he kept pushing out of his eyes. He had a serious, almost brooding look on his face. German, I guessed from the accent I could faintly hear. The other was his opposite: blond, broad-shouldered, with a kind of golden retriever energy even in his dejection. His eyes, even from across the patio, were a startling, bright blue. Swedish, maybe?

I couldn't hear their whole conversation, just snippets carried on the breeze. "...total rip-off..." and "...paid twenty dollars for that?" and the blond one sighing, "...at least the picture was nice."

Tourist trap. Classic. They'd probably been suckered into one of those polished, sterile restaurants in the Zócalo that serves microwaved tacos to unsuspecting foreigners. I knew the type.

I watched them for another minute. The dark-haired one gestured emphatically with his hands, long fingers tracing shapes of disappointment in the air. The blond one just nodded, taking a long pull from his bottle. I saw the moment their conversation died, leaving them in that awkward silence of a shared bad experience.

Fuck it. My layover was already a wash; might as well make it interesting.

I stood up, walked over to their table, and pointed at their empty bottles with my own. "Let me guess. You went to that place with the giant sombreros on the wall and the laminated menus."

The blond one looked up, and his blue eyes were even brighter up close. A slow grin spread across his face. "Is it that obvious?" he asked. His English was almost perfect, with just a hint of that sing-song Swedish rhythm.

The German just grunted. "It was a culinary tragedy."

"Hugo is a bit dramatic," the Swede said, sticking out a hand. "I'm Filip."

"Nice to meet you," I said, shaking his hand. It was warm and solid. "And Hugo is right. You got fleeced." I turned to Hugo. His eyes were a dark, thoughtful brown. He looked me over, not in a creepy way, but like he was analyzing me.

"You are American," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"Guilty. And you're a victim of bad tacos. A crime here in Mexico City." I took a seat without waiting for an invitation. "Tell me everything. I need to know the extent of the damage."

Filip laughed, a loud, happy sound. He explained how a promoter on the street had promised them the "most authentic food in the city," and led them to a brightly lit tourist trap. They'd been served lukewarm meat on stale tortillas.

I listened, nodding sympathetically. This was my territory. Back home, I could tell you the best IPA, the dirtiest dive bar, and the food truck with the most life-changing carnitas within a five-block radius of anywhere in Portland. Turns out, the skill is transferable.

"Okay," I said, leaning forward and lowering my voice like I was sharing a state secret. "Here's what you're going to do. We're going to leave this place. We're going to find a street vendor with a giant flaming cone of meat called a trompo. You're going to order al pastor. It's going to be greasy, and it's going to be served on a tiny corn tortilla with pineapple, onion, and cilantro. It will cost you about a dollar. And it will change your life." I paused. "Then, we find a real mezcalería. Not a tourist bar. A little hole-in-the-wall place that smells like smoke and limes. We're going to drink mezcal until the city starts to feel like a dream."

They stared at me. Filip looked like a kid who'd just been told Santa Claus was real. Hugo's serious expression had cracked, replaced by a look of intrigued curiosity. His dark eyes flickered from mine down to my mouth and back up again.

"You seem to know what you are talking about," Hugo said, his voice a low rumble.

"It's a bartender's intuition," I said with a shrug. "I know a tourist trap when I see one, and I know how to find the real deal."

Filip leaned forward, his blue eyes practically sparkling. "Will you be our guide? Our taco-and-mezcal-prophet?"

I looked at both of them. At Hugo's intense, searching gaze and the promise of a sharp mind behind it. At Filip's easy smile and the sheer, uncomplicated fun he radiated. A forced 24-hour layover. A cheap hostel. And two hot European backpackers in need of a proper adventure. The universe hadn't fucked up my plans. It had given me better ones.

"Of course," I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. "Get your wallets. It's time for your real education to begin."

The walk back from the mezcalería was a blur. The streets of Roma Norte had come alive, spilling over with a spontaneous party. A cumbia band played on a corner, the brassy sound echoing off the buildings. People were dancing, laughing, drinking beers they bought from coolers on the sidewalk. The air smelled like grilled corn, exhaust fumes, and joy.

The alcohol had sanded down all my sharp edges, leaving me warm and open. Filip, buzzed and happy, grabbed my hand and pulled me into the moving crowd, spinning me around. I laughed, a real, deep laugh that came from my stomach. Over his shoulder, I saw Hugo watching us. He wasn't smiling, but his dark eyes were fixed on me, an intensity in them that cut right through the mezcal haze.

He moved through the crowd and put a hand on the small of my back, a steadying, proprietary pressure. Just a simple gesture to keep me from getting swallowed by the throng, but it sent a jolt straight to my cunt. Filip was still holding my hand, his thumb stroking my palm. I was sandwiched between them, a bubble of heat and potential in the middle of the chaos. My head was light, my body was heavy with a feeling I knew all too well.

It was the feeling right before the storm hits.

We bought another round of beers and drank them walking, our shoulders bumping, our fingers brushing. The talk was easy, pointless stuff about their travels, about my life in Portland. But underneath the words, something else was building. Every shared look lasted a second too long.

When we finally got back to the hostel, the sudden quiet of the hallway was deafening. The party noise faded behind us. It was just the three of us, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, and the keycard in my hand. Room 3B. I suddenly remembered the two empty beds besides my own.

Read more

Subscribe now

xx
Lila

Read more

Read Claiming My College Roommate's Dad

If you read it, let me know what you think!

Now, on to the good stuff…

xx
Lila

Read more

Read Claiming My College Roommate's Dad

If you read it, let me know what you think!

Now, on to the good stuff…

xx
Lila

Read more

Read Claiming My College Roommate's Dad

If you read it, let me know what you think!

Now, on to the good stuff…

xx
Lila

Read more

Read Claiming My College Roommate's Dad

If you read it, let me know what you think!

Now, on to the good stuff…

xx
Lila

Read more

Read Shared With The Handyman on Amazon

If you read it, let me know what you think!

Now, on to the good stuff…

xx
Lila

Read more

Read Shared With The Handyman on Amazon

If you read it, let me know what you think!

Now, on to the good stuff…

xx
Lila

Read more

Read Shared With The Handyman on Amazon

If you read it, let me know what you think!

Now, on to the good stuff…

xx
Lila

Read more

Every chapter of the book is also available here on Substack, with the spiciest bits reserved for upgraded subscribers.

If you’re interested in joining me as a paid subscriber, where you’ll have access to all of my erotica work, please subscribe:

Subscribe now

But if you’re not convinced yet, stick around and I’ll do my best to win you over! Be sure to let me know what you think with a DM or in our subscriber chat.

xx
Lila

We lay there in the darkness, tangled up in my cheap dorm-room sheets. The only sounds were our breaths, slowly evening out, and my roommate's little desk clock, ticking away the minutes we had left. The taste of him was still in my mouth. My body felt heavy, bruised in the best way possible, and completely, utterly sated. He was the first to move.

He untangled his arm from around me and sat up, swinging …

Read more

If you’re interested in joining me as a paid subscriber, where you’ll have access to all of my erotica work, please subscribe:

Subscribe now

But if you’re not convinced yet, stick around and I’ll do my best to win you over! Be sure to let me know what you think with a DM or in our subscriber chat.

xx
Lila

I leaned against the cool wall, my cheek pressed to the painted cinder blocks, just trying to process the feeling of my roommate's dad's cum running down my ass crack. My body was humming, a network of spent nerves buzzing with pleasure. I've been fucked before, but I've never been fucked like that before.

The raw, frantic energy had peaked and crashed, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. As the real world started to seep back in, one practical question pushed through the haze:

How much time do we have left?

Mark had pulled away and was leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his bare chest, watching me. I met his gaze as I walked on unsteady legs to my desk and found my phone.

I had to know. The game wasn't over unless I said it was.

I typed out a quick, innocent text to Sarah, my fingers still not quite steady.

Me: Hey, how's the project going? Just checking in. Need us to save you any food or anything?

The reply came almost instantly, the three little dots of her typing making my heart pound with anticipation.

Sarah: Omg MAYA it's a NIGHTMARE. We had to start over from scratch. Literally everything was deleted. We're gonna be in the library for at least another hour. Don't wait up for me lol. And no, I'm good, we ordered a pizza. Thx tho!!

An hour. A satisfied smile spread across my face. Oh, we had plenty of time.

I turned the phone around and showed the screen to Mark. He walked over, his eyes scanning the message. He looked up from the screen and met my gaze, and I saw the question there. He was asking for permission. He was wondering if the fantasy was over.

I wasn't done with him yet. Not even close.

Read more

If you’re interested in joining me as a paid subscriber, where you’ll have access to all of my erotica work, please subscribe:

Subscribe now

But if you’re not convinced yet, stick around and I’ll do my best to win you over! Be sure to let me know what you think with a DM or in our subscriber chat.

xx
Lila

"Are you sure?"

The question was a rumble in his chest, a vibration against my own body. I couldn't form words. My world had narrowed to the space between my legs and the dark intent in his eyes. I just gave a short, desperate nod, my hips pushing up off the desk, a silent plea.

Yes. Fuck, yes.

That was all the permission he needed. He pulled back just an inch, just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shove them down past his hips. My breath caught in my throat. In the dim, gray light filtering through the window, his cock sprang free, and it was... amazing.

I'd been with guys before, fumbled around with boys from my classes who were all enthusiastic and quick on the trigger. This was different. This was a man. It was thick, heavier than anything I'd ever seen up close, with a slight upward curve. The head was a dark plum color, slick and glistening with a thick bead of precum.

It was beautiful. It was terrifying. I wanted it more than anything.

He took my hips in his hands, his grip firm and sure, and repositioned me on the very edge of the desk, my legs dangling. He guided the head of his cock to my entrance. I was so wet, I was practically dripping onto the floor, but as the blunt, wide tip of him pressed against me, I knew it was going to be tight.

He pushed, slowly. The thick crown of his cock slid past my outer lips, stretching me in a way I'd never felt. I let out a sharp, involuntary gasp. It was a feeling that was half pain, half the most intense pleasure I'd ever known.

He paused, only the head of him inside me, and looked at my face. He must have seen the shock in my eyes, the mix of pain and wonder. A flicker of something knowing crossed his face.

He'd realized. He knew I'd never had anything like this before.

Read more

If you’re interested in joining me as a paid subscriber, where you’ll have access to all of my erotica work, please subscribe:

Subscribe now

But if you’re not convinced yet, stick around and I’ll do my best to win you over! Be sure to let me know what you think with a DM or in our subscriber chat.

xx
Lila

My phone buzzed on the table, a sharp vibration against the dark wood. I glanced down. It was Sarah.

'OMG this is a disaster. It's all gone. We're gonna be here for at least another hour, maybe more. Don't wait up! So sorry again!!'

I slid the phone back onto the table, screen down. An hour. An hour was an eternity. It was a lock clicking open. I looked up at Mark. He was watching me, his expression unreadable as the waitress cleared our flight glasses. He'd seen me look at the phone. He knew.

"Everything okay?" he asked. The question was just a formality. He was really asking, So? What now?

"Yeah," I replied, trying to keep my voice from giving up my nervousness. "Sarah's going to be a while. Her project group is having a meltdown."

"Ah." A single, soft sound. He nodded slowly, his eyes holding mine. The loud chatter of the brewpub, the clinking glasses, it all just faded into a dull background hum. There was only our table, a tiny island in the middle of a noisy sea. He reached for his wallet. "Well," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Let me get this, and I'll walk you back."

My heart gave a hard thump against my ribs. I'll walk you back. The game was still on.

After he paid, we stood and I shrugged on my thin jacket. As we moved toward the exit, my arm brushed against his, and that familiar jolt of heat shot right through me, sharper and more insistent this time. I was so charged that I was worried I might come just from the friction of my clothes. We walked out into the cool, misty Eugene night.

The ten-minute walk was some of the most loaded silence I'd experienced to that point in my life. The damp air smelled like wet earth and pavement. We walked shoulder-to-shoulder, not touching but close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his body. Every step on the slick sidewalk was like a drumbeat, counting down. I was hyper-aware of everything: the way the hazy streetlights reflected in his dark hair, the tension in his shoulders, the quiet sound of his breathing. I pictured the look on his face back at the restaurant when he talked about beer, the passion that lit him up.

That's what I wanted. I wanted to be the thing that made him look like that.

We walked through the dorm lobby, past the dozing RA, and into the humming fluorescent box of the elevator. The silence in there was even heavier. I could see our reflections in the scratched metal doors. Me, looking straight ahead, trying to keep my face a mask of casual indifference. Him, his jaw clenched, staring at his own reflection like he didn't recognize the guy looking back.

The elevator dinged. The second-floor hallway was empty, a long, quiet tunnel of closed doors. We stopped in front of mine. 21B. The black plastic numbers seemed to scream at me. Sarah's room.

This was the moment. The point of no return.

Read more

If you’re interested in joining me as a paid subscriber, where you’ll have access to all of my erotica work, please subscribe:

Subscribe now

But if you’re not convinced yet, stick around and I’ll do my best to win you over! Be sure to let me know what you think with a DM or in our subscriber chat.

xx
Lila

A couple of months slid by. The Oregon autumn settled in, all crisp air and constant, gray drizzle. Sarah turned out to be a decent roommate. A little clingy, prone to homesickness, but her dad sent her care packages with fancy coffee and snacks from their Portland suburb. And she experimented with drugs with me from time to time, so I couldn't complain. We fell into a rhythm of classes, studying, and the occasional shitty dorm party. It was fine. It was college.

Then I got a text from her. 'My dad's in to…

Read more

If you’re interested in joining me as a paid subscriber, where you’ll have access to all of my erotica work, please subscribe:

Subscribe now

But if you’re not convinced yet, stick around and I’ll do my best to win you over! Be sure to let me know what you think with a DM or in our subscriber chat.

xx
Lila

I remember the air on move-in day in my first year of college. It wasn't just hot. It was thick. Thick enough that you could wave your hand in the air and feel like you were slicing something. You could taste the last 50 years of stale beer, dust, and industrial-strength cleaner baked into the cinderblock walls of the dorm. It was the official smell of freedom, I guess, or at least the start of my student loan debt. The hallway was a total shitshow. A chaotic mess of dads in polo shirts sweating through their collars, moms trying to dire…

Read more