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Swingers Maid
She was hired to polish the silver. Now she's on her knees for the man who owns every room in the palace.
Karen is a maid in the grandest estate she's ever stepped foot in — married to JR, the palace's head chef, and just as hungry for the taboo as he is. When the owners extend a private dinner invitation with a wink and a handwritten note, the terms are unspoken but obvious: show up, serve them personally, and leave the professional distance at the door. JR's already scheming to get the owner's wife alone, and Karen's uniform barely contains her as she walks into their suite.
But the moment she kneels on that silk rug and offers a different kind of service, something shifts. She came prepared to perform, to play along for one night — but the taste of submission, the weight of the owner's attention, turns out to be exactly what her body's been craving. And he notices.
A standing invitation arrives for a repeat performance. But when Mr. Cavendish makes it clear he expects her on call — and Victoria starts pulling JR deeper — Karen has to decide if she's still playing, or if this arrangement has already claimed her. What happens when the palace doors close and the uniforms come off? And who's really hungry for more?
Free story: Swingers Mansion - Pulse
My husband says I’m boring him. So I get on my knees for a stranger while he films.
I’m Serena — twenty-four, a hotwife who has never once pretended she doesn’t want new hands on her. Damian is cocky, twenty-five, and bored. Tonight we’re the youngest couple at a glass-walled mansion party in the Malibu hills, where the hosts are handing a VIP invitation to whichever couple strips the filthiest. I plan to remind my husband exactly how unboring I am.
I expect to tease him. Instead the crowd roars, his camera light blinks, and the jealousy flickering across his face stops thrilling me and starts feeding me.
Then the VIP playroom opens. A husband-and-wife team pulls us into a swap, and Damian finally gets the new woman he claimed he wanted — while he can’t stop watching me take two men against the tile. The more he calls me boring, the harder his body argues with him.
We leave at dawn covered in the evidence, already planning the next party. But when the only time he lights up is watching me with strangers, how long can we keep pretending this is about winning a contest?
Also by Lena Marks
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