Be Precise About What You Want
An explicit collection of filthy, unapologetic short stories exploring the raw edges of desire.
Taboo power games, rough spanking and office discipline, intense lesbian first times, dark BDSM scenes with ropes and denial, messy threesomes and full-on group sex, public and semi-public encounters, lactation and milking, age-gap hunger, breeding fantasies, and women who refuse to stay quiet about what they crave.
Every story is pure adult fiction for readers who want it hard, specific, and without apology.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real individuals is purely coincidental. The following content is intended for mature audiences. All characters are consenting, legal aged adults.
Contents
Desert Heat: Rank Has Its Privileges
Be Precise About What You Want
The Milk Debt
Maya stood in the park with the phone pressed hard against her ear. The late-afternoon air was thick with dust and the distant smell of street food, but all she could feel was the cold plastic of the phone and the way her boyfriend’s voice drained the heat from her chest. He was leaving. Mumbai. No more money. No more safety.
“You heartless bastard!” The words tore out of her, raw and wet. Tears spilled hot down her cheeks and onto the collar of her blouse. “I’m four months pregnant. I’m going to be a mother. How the fuck am I supposed to take care of this baby when I have nothing?”
Her sobs came in sharp, hitching bursts that left her throat burning. She ended the call with trembling fingers and sank onto the nearest bench. The metal was still warm from the sun. Tears tracked cool paths down her face and dripped onto her bare knees.
A short distance away, Vikram slowed. The tailored suit sat clean against his skin, the faint scent of cologne cutting through the park’s dust. He had only caught the last of her words, but the broken sound of her voice and the soft, full curve of her body under the thin blouse pulled his gaze and held it. Something dark and hungry stirred low in his gut.
He almost kept walking. Almost.
“What have I got to lose?” he muttered, and turned back.
“Excuse me.” His voice was even, controlled. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You sound like you’re in real trouble.”
Maya lifted her tear-streaked face. The humiliation of being seen burned hotter than the tears. “What do you want?”
Vikram didn’t waste time. “I’ll be direct. You’re short on money. I have more than I need. I’ll pay you one hundred and fifty thousand rupees for each day you spend with me; sexually. Whatever I ask.”
The number landed like a physical weight in her chest. Two months of wages in a single day. Outrage warred with the cold arithmetic of survival. After a long, trembling silence she whispered, “I’ll do it.”
“Good.” He handed her a business card. The paper was thick, expensive, cool against her damp fingers. “Eight o’clock tomorrow. This address.” Then he walked away, already calculating the equipment he would need.
---
The next evening the air inside Vikram’s apartment was cool and still, scented faintly with leather and something sharper; metal, rubber, the clean chemical tang of new equipment. Maya stood on the threshold in a low-cut white blouse and short skirt, no bra. Her breasts felt heavy, the thin fabric already damp at the peaks where milk had begun to bead.
When he opened the door his eyes dropped immediately to the dark circles of wetness. His cock stirred, thickening against the fabric of his trousers.
“Come in, Maya.”
The living room had been cleared. A long, high table stood in the center, its surface smooth and cool under the overhead lights. Restraints hung from the edges; thick padded cuffs lined with soft black leather. In the corner sat a pair of electric breast pumps, their clear plastic flanges and coiled tubing gleaming. The only other furniture was a low couch.
Maya’s pulse hammered in her throat hard enough that she could feel it in her tongue.
“Undress.”
She flushed, heat rising from her chest to her hairline, but her fingers obeyed. The blouse peeled away with a soft rustle; the skirt slid down her thighs and pooled at her feet. Last came the thin panties. Cool air kissed every inch of newly bare skin. Her nipples tightened into hard, aching points. A thin, warm bead of milk gathered at each tip and trembled.
Vikram circled her slowly. His hands rose, warm and dry, and lifted the heavy weight of her breasts. He squeezed gently, then harder, watching fresh milk well and trickle down the soft undersides. The scent of it; sweet, faintly animal; rose between them. He pinched both nipples at once. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat.
“Excellent. On the table. All fours.”
She hesitated only until he repeated the number; one hundred and fifty thousand; and then climbed up. The wood was cool and unyielding under her palms and knees. The position left her open: breasts hanging full and pendulous, the soft weight of them pulling at her chest, her cunt and ass completely exposed to the air. She felt the first cool draft against her already damp folds and shivered.
Vikram locked the cuffs around her wrists and ankles. The leather was soft but unyielding; the metal buckles clicked shut with final, quiet sounds. Then he fitted the soft silicone flanges of the pumps over her swollen nipples. The contact was intimate, almost clinical; cool plastic sealing around the sensitive flesh.
“I’m going to milk these dry,” he told her, almost conversational. “And everything else I want as well.”
He wheeled in a large television and set a camera on a tripod. The live feed filled the screen in front of her face: her own restrained body, breasts dangling, the pumps already in place. The image was sharp, merciless.
“Relax. It’s only for us.”
He switched the pumps on.
The rhythmic suction began at once; deep, insistent pulls that tugged at the roots of her nipples. Milk surged in thin white streams into the clear bottles. The sound was wet and steady, a soft mechanical suck-suck-suck that filled the quiet room. Vikram’s hands followed, firm and practiced, stroking and squeezing her breasts in time with the machine. Warm milk flowed faster, coating his fingers, dripping onto the table in small, sweet-smelling puddles.
Maya watched herself on the screen; strapped down, breasts emptying, body trembling; and felt her cunt grow slick against her will. The dual stimulation of the pumps and his hands sent low pulses of heat straight between her legs. Her thighs flexed helplessly against the restraints.
When the flow finally slowed he shut the pumps off. The sudden silence was almost loud. He detached one bottle, tilted it, and tasted a drop. His tongue flicked out; his eyes half-closed.
Then he brought the bottle to her lips.
“Drink.”
The warm, sweet milk slid over her tongue and down her throat. She swallowed because she had no choice, and because the taste was unexpectedly good; creamy, faintly mineral, intimately her own. While she drank he guided the thick head of his cock between her parted lips. The skin was hot, smooth, already wet with precum. He pushed deeper, holding her hair, fucking her mouth with steady, controlled thrusts. Saliva gathered and spilled from the corners of her lips. The wet, filthy sounds of her gagging filled the space between them.
Only when he was thoroughly coated did he move behind her.
He pushed into her soaked cunt in one long, unbroken stroke. The stretch was sudden and deep; she cried out; pain and sharp pleasure tangled together. The table creaked under the force of his hips. He fucked her hard, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the sparse room. His hands alternated between her hips and her still-leaking breasts, squeezing fresh droplets of milk onto the wood. On the screen she watched her own body rock, tits swinging, milk dripping in thin white threads.
“That’s it,” he murmured against the back of her neck. His breath was warm. “I knew you’d end up loving this.”
He freed her long enough to flip her onto her back. The wood was slick now with milk and her own arousal. He locked the cuffs again and drove back into her. Her heavy breasts pressed against his chest, smearing warm milk between them. He sucked one nipple into his mouth while he thrust, drinking what remained. The dual sensation; his cock stretching her cunt, his mouth pulling hard at her breast; pushed her higher. Her moans climbed, raw and helpless.
“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice rough. “Cum while I drink from these fat tits.”
The words and the relentless pressure of his thumb on her clit shoved her over the edge. She came hard, body arching against the restraints, muffled screams trapped behind the hand he clamped over her mouth. Her cunt clenched around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. The contractions pulled him close.
He pulled out, climbed onto the table, and rested his glistening length against her lips.
“Stroke me into your mouth.”
Maya’s hand wrapped around him immediately. The shaft was hot, slick with her own wetness. She pumped while her other hand slipped between her legs, fingers finding her still-throbbing clit. Vikram watched her work him, watched the open, waiting mouth, and came with a low groan. Thick, hot pulses flooded her tongue. The taste was sharp, salty, heavy.
“Swallow.”
She did. The warmth slid down her throat.
He unlocked her only to turn her back onto all fours and reattach the pumps. Fresh milk began to flow again under the renewed suction; wet, rhythmic, intimate. Maya’s soft, broken moans filled the room as the machines drew on her and Vikram’s hands stroked the rest of her body with possessive ease. The scent of milk and sex hung thick in the cool air.
He looked at the woman on the table; pregnant, milked, thoroughly used; and knew this was only the first night of many.
Hired for the Heat
Aria caught her reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevator and stepped closer. She trailed her fingertips across the smooth brown of her cheek, then around the crisp edge of her deep-red lipstick.
“Looking good,” she murmured, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.
She tried to keep the excitement from showing on her face. The charcoal pencil skirt hit mid-thigh; professional enough for an office, short enough to show the long, toned lines of her legs. She turned slightly and watched the way the fabric hugged the full curve of her ass. That was the part men always noticed first.
She was still smoothing her hands over it when the elevator chimed. Aria stepped back just as the doors opened. A woman in a tailored blazer stepped in, offered a polite smile, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. When the car stopped at the thirty-second floor, Aria stepped out into the quiet hallway of Voss Holdings.
Coming in early on her first day had seemed smart when she left her apartment in East Austin. The glass-walled offices looked empty. She tried the main door and found it unlocked.
The reception area was deserted. She hesitated, then decided against wandering deeper into a place she’d never seen before. Instead, she sat in one of the low leather chairs and waited, still turning over the strange way, she’d gotten the job.
When the agency called about the personal-assistant position for Elias Voss, she assumed it was an interview request. Instead, they told her the job was already hers and she could start the next morning. She had asked why. The answer was vague: Mr. Voss needed someone immediately, and her résumé had caught his eye. It made little sense; her experience was limited and the résumé basic; but when she called the number they gave her, the offer was confirmed. She wasn’t about to turn it down.
“Can I help you?”
Aria looked up. A young woman in a navy dress was hanging her jacket behind the reception desk.
“I’m Aria Delgado,” she said. “I’m;”
“Mr. Voss’s new assistant,” the receptionist finished for her. “Hold on.” She picked up the phone, spoke briefly, then hung up. “You can go through. His office is at the end of the east corridor, last door on the left.”
Aria followed the directions. The inner offices were quiet. She paused outside the heavy oak door, smoothed her skirt once more, and knocked.
“Enter.”
She stepped inside. Elias Voss was already standing. Everything she had read online was true: early millions, quiet empire-building, almost no personal details. The photographs hadn’t done him justice. Dark hair swept to the side, sharp jaw, eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He smiled as she crossed the room and held out his hand.
“It’s good to meet you,” he said. His grip was firm and lingered a second longer than necessary. “Please, sit.”
Aria sat. He remained standing for a moment longer, then settled behind the wide desk.
“I imagine you’re wondering how this happened so quickly.”
She nodded. “Most people interview for a role like this.”
“Most people do. I don’t always follow the usual path. When the agency sent the shortlist, you were the only one who looked like you’d fit everything I need from an assistant.”
“I don’t have a lot of experience.”
He waved the comment away. “Experience isn’t everything. Keeping your employer satisfied is. I’m confident you’ll manage that.”
He handed her a thin stack of papers. “First task; get this typed cleanly. I’ll show you where you’ll work.”
A smaller room opened off the corner of his office: desk, computer, printer, a short row of filing cabinets. Close enough that she would always be available.
“This is yours,” he said.
Aria set the papers down. When she straightened she caught his gaze lifting quickly from the curve of her hips. She wasn’t sure she’d imagined it.
“Bring it through when you’re finished.”
She spent the morning typing. Just after noon she printed the document and carried it back.
“Anything else?” she asked.
He handed her a short list of tasks. She returned to her desk, booked the flight he needed, then realized the time. She asked if he wanted lunch. He did. She brought sandwiches back and they ate in near silence until he spoke again.
“Did you look me up online?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“Plenty about the company. Almost nothing personal.”
“I prefer it that way. You, on the other hand, are less careful.”
Aria’s pulse kicked. She already knew what was coming.
“The posts you left on that desires forum last year,” he said. “Very detailed. Very… specific.”
Heat flooded her face. She had written those entries during a relationship that revolved around spanking. She had never taken them down.
“That was a long time ago,” she said quietly. “I’ll remove them.”
“Don’t. They’re the reason you’re sitting here.”
She stared at him. The pieces locked into place; why a man with his resources had hired an under-qualified assistant so quickly, why his eyes had kept returning to her ass all morning.
“You like spanking,” she said.
“I love it. And from what I read, so do you.”
The shame was still there, but something sharper cut through it; recognition, and a low pulse of interest she hadn’t felt in months.
“Back to work,” he said.
She returned to her desk knowing his eyes followed the sway of her hips. Late that afternoon he walked into her office carrying the document she had typed, closed the door, and locked it.
“Too many mistakes,” he said, setting the pages down. “Being sorry isn’t enough. You need to learn that I expect better.”
Aria’s heart was already racing. She saw the outline of his cock thickening against his trousers.
“How will you teach me?”
“Stand up.”
The command left no room for hesitation. He sat in her chair, took her wrist, and pulled her face-down across his lap. The hard length of his erection pressed into her stomach. His hand stroked once down her spine and settled on the curve of her ass.
He raised her skirt, then tugged her panties high into the cleft of her cheeks, baring the smooth brown skin. One slow caress, then the first sharp crack of his palm.
Pain flared hot and bright. She gasped. The second strike landed on the other cheek. ...