Hi Everyone!
Spotlight today on the latest story available to Nadia Nightside Premium Access Exhibitionists, the monthly membership club that supplies new stories and hot serial content every month, as well as pre-releases to new stories three weeks ahead of time!
This one is just a hot slice-of-life in a sexy office harem that I made as dirty and sexy as possible.
Blurb:
Work is no place for a good girl to work.
Welcome to the most productive office in the world, where the only KPI that matters is how good you look on your knees. Olivia has everything a girl could want: a closet the size of a small country, a body sculpted for worship, and a Master who’s rewired every last thought in her pretty head to revolve around pleasing him. She wouldn’t have it any other way. In fact, she can’t imagine wanting anything else—because wanting anything else simply isn’t on the menu anymore.
Today’s agenda is simple. Charm a desperate, wealthy man out of everything he owns while Master enjoys a far more intimate negotiation with the man’s daughter, right in front of him. It’s all in a day’s work for Olivia and the other exquisite creatures who staff this gilded, debauched paradise—where the losers of Master’s old life scrub floors and hold their tongues, and the winners get everything, forever, on their backs.
WARNING: This highly sensational story depicts an incredibly elevated slice-of-life scenario in a harem-happy office where nothing is off-limits. This erotically-charged fantasy is full of dark ideas and nasty obsessions, eroticizing sadistic desires and giving a happy ending to a villain and his babes-of-choice.
The First 1000-ish Words:
Olivia turned to one side, careful to let her eyes track forward, the better to continue to soak in the mind-melting rays of her Master that she knew emitted from the computer screen.
Her reflection caught in the dark edge of the monitor—black hair falling in a perfect curtain past her shoulder blades, bright amber eyes enormous and pleased with themselves, lips parted just slightly. She touched two fingers to her jaw and tilted her chin up.
God, she was so fucking pretty.
The thought arrived the way all her thoughts arrived now—easy, warm, immediate. Like stepping into a bath that had been drawn specifically for her. She was pretty. She was Master’s. These were the two foundational facts of the universe, and everything else was decoration.
Her hand drifted down. Along the line of her throat, over the sharp jut of her clavicle, the bone standing out beneath poreless skin that never wrinkled, never marked, never so much as freckled. She loved that bone. She loved all her bones—the way they showed through, the way they made her look sculpted, deliberate, chosen. Nineteen forever. Nineteen and perfect and getting more perfect every single day that she sat here soaking up the light off Master’s screen.
I fucking love you.
She soaked in the vanity, knowing she deserved it. Staring at herself, her beauty, what she did to others.
I love you so fucking much.
She loved everything about herself. What turned her on about herself was what turned her on—the arrogance, the beauty, the self-obsession. Whenever she saw those qualities in other women, she ached to lick their cunts and celebrate them for being living disasters in the timelines of the lives of others—focal points that ruined passers-by forever in all their feelings of attraction, love, and desire, because nothing would be as good as the glimpse of perfection that strutted by in tall, narrow heels.
Olivia smiled, just her lips. I love you so bad.
She trailed her fingertips lower, over the swell of one breast pushed high by a Prada bralette, and let her lashes flutter.
She came.
It happened like that now, softly, often, whenever she looked at herself for too long. A little hitch of breath, a flush blooming high on her cheeks, her thighs pressing together beneath the desk, her pussy going slick and warm inside a scrap of matching Prada that Master had chosen because Master chose everything. Her lips parted. Her spine curved.
She held the pose—chin up, shoulders back, one hand at her breast—because a camera might be watching, because a camera should always be watching something as gorgeous as her, and the pleasure rolled through her clean and bright and dignified. No mess. No noise. Just a soft, shuddering exhale and the wet clench of a girl who had been made for exactly this.
She opened her eyes. Smiled at herself. The screen pulsed, patient, feeding her. Pouring into her eyes and skull and what little of her brain remained.
Good girl, it seemed to say, though it never said anything, though the words came from somewhere behind her sternum where Master lived now. Good, pretty, empty girl.
She was a mind-controlled fuckslave for an evil mastermind.
She loved this.
And why wouldn’t she?
She’d spent years, before Master, doing exactly this—posing, preening, being photographed, being adored—except back then she’d had to pretend she didn’t love it. She’d had to be humble in interviews, gracious to uglier girls, polite to the fat little assistants scurrying around set with their clipboards and their sweaty foreheads. She’d had to act like her beauty was a burden, a responsibility, some accident of genetics she carried with quiet grace. She had to act like the questions about beauty from inferiors fascinated or interested her—or the worst, when she had to tell those beasts to “love themselves for who you are.”
What a waste. What an absolute waste of a perfect girl’s perfect time.
Always, she had been aware of the truth: their self-hate was justified. The endless comparisons they made to her waistline, her bust, the way skintight jeans dripped off her hips and how beautiful shots of her life and surroundings occurred so easily were what they should be doing, because the way this tortured them was ambrosia to the superior beings among them. Their agony in their bodies and paltry little lives was the punishment for being born as lesser.
She viewed their questions and admiration with both scorn, righteous self-aggrandizing, and the same wet pussy she got when she saw the numbers in her bank account go up.
Now she got to be exactly what she was. A gorgeous, empty-headed, sopping-wet doll who existed to make her Master hard and to make his enemies suffer.
There was no pretending anymore.
There was no humility, no false modesty, no exhausting little performance of being a Good Person for people who could never in a thousand lifetimes deserve her attention. There was just the truth, warm and simple and endless: she was better than everyone, and now she got to act like it.
The empty, happy screen poured all this into her, reinforcing it, layering it on top of layers and layers; one concrete foundation after another.
Perhaps she thought some other way once; perhaps these weren’t her real thoughts. But she hoped they were; it was so much hotter for Master that way. She stood, smoothing the tiny leather skirt down over her thighs, and the motion drew the fabric taut across the gap between them—that clean, empty space where a lesser girl’s thighs would have touched and rubbed and sweated. Olivia’s didn’t touch. Olivia’s never would. She admired the line of it in the black mirror of the monitor and felt another little flutter start low in her belly, tamped it down, saved it. She had work to do…
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