Chapter 1 – The Lost Flower

It was a cloudy tropical winter morning in Mauritius, the kind that made the air heavy and wet, sticking to the skin like sweat. The mountains were wrapped in grey mist, the road slick with last night’s rain. The bus groaned and rattled as it climbed higher through the pine forest, each turn flashing glimpses of deep green valleys far below. Inside, the air smelled faintly of perfume and damp clothes, filled with the chatter of college girls on a day trip.

In the middle of the bus sat Nadiya.

Twenty years old. Russian. Blonde. The kind of beauty that could stop a man in mid-sentence. She had the soft, perfect face of an angel, eyes so bright and clear they looked like they had never seen anything filthy. But her body was pure ecstasy. Long, smooth legs that went on forever, poured into tiny frayed denim shorts that barely covered the lower swell of her ass. The kind of ass that made men want to grab it hard, fingers digging into the meat while they slammed into her from behind, forcing her to moan into the pillow.

Her top was a thin white sports vest clinging to her without mercy, no bra underneath, and the chill in the air had her nipples hard enough to push against the fabric like they were begging for a mouth to suck on them. The outline of her tits was perfect, high, round, firm, the kind you’d hold in both hands while driving your cock into her from below.

Her hair was a golden sheet down her back, smooth and silky, catching every flicker of the grey light. Her lips were small, soft, and plump, lips made to wrap around a cock and suck it until it twitched and drained into her throat. They had the kind of natural pout that made a man’s mind jump straight to the thought of her on her knees, drool dripping onto her chest while she swallowed every drop he gave her.

But Nadiya wasn’t some campus slut. She was faithful. Loyal. She had a boyfriend back in Moscow who she loved, who she had promised to stay true to no matter what. On campus, half the guys stared at her like she was something to be unwrapped and fucked raw, but she never gave them the time of day. She didn’t flirt, didn’t play games, didn’t give any man the satisfaction of thinking he had a chance. Even though her body could make a priest think about breaking his vows, she carried herself like the sweet, untouchable girl she was. She had no idea that every inch of her body was screaming for attention to every man who laid eyes on her.

Her phone buzzed and she pulled it from her pocket. A message lit up the screen. Be safe, my little angel. It made her smile. She typed back in Russian, I miss you, and slid the phone away. It was an all-girls outing, so she preferred to dress comfortably without worrying about who might be looking. That meant tiny frayed denim shorts that rode high on her hips and a thin white top with no bra, the kind of outfit that let her move freely on the trail. She didn’t tell him her nipples were hard under a top that would drive any man insane, or that her shorts were the kind you couldn’t bend over in without flashing the thong under them. She knew he’d get jealous.

The bus jolted hard and her shorts rode up, showing more bare thigh. She tugged them down, but the movement made her tits bounce under the thin fabric. If a man had been sitting beside her, he would have been staring straight at them, picturing them bouncing like that while he pounded her pussy.

She tried to join a few conversations with the girls around her, but her French and English were poor, and she could barely string a sentence together without fumbling for words. Most of them didn’t seem too interested in talking to her anyway. A few gave polite smiles, but others eyed her with thinly veiled jealousy. They all saw the same thing men saw, the blonde Russian with porn-star curves and a face that could sell perfume, the kind of girl who could walk into any bar and have every man hard within minutes. Even if she was sweet and kept to herself, her beauty alone was enough to make other girls hate her.

Outside, the forest thickened, the mist closing in. Her phone buzzed again, a selfie from her boyfriend, shirtless, hair messy from sleep. She felt a small, low ache in her belly. A need she didn’t fully understand. She locked the screen quickly before the girls beside her could see.

When they arrived at Petrin, the cool, damp air smelled of wet leaves and earth. The girls spilled out into the mud, chatting loudly. Nadiya stepped down last, bending to tighten her laces. The denim pulled tight across her ass, the faint outline of her thong visible at her waist.

She pulled out a can of mosquito spray and lifted one long leg, misting it slowly from ankle to thigh. Droplets clung to her skin, running along the firm muscle. She turned her knee out and sprayed higher, the hem of her shorts lifting enough to give a flash of where her ass met her thigh, that perfect crease men dream of burying their face in.

The group moved along the trail, the path narrowing into a dripping green tunnel. Nadiya hung near the back, walking slowly, her hips swaying naturally, her ass bouncing with every step. Her hair caught the mist, clinging to her neck, and the damp air made her top hug her tits even tighter.

She stopped to take photos, bending forward for the right angle, her ass pushing out, shorts riding up to where the denim met bare skin. The curve of it was perfect, high, round, and firm, the kind of ass made for a man’s hands to grip tight while he drove into her from behind. The cheeks had just enough meat to ripple when slapped, but still so toned they’d bounce back under his palms. Any man standing behind her would have been hard in seconds, imagining yanking those shorts down, spreading that perfect ass, and fucking her until she screamed and clawed at the ground.

But she wasn’t thinking about that. She was focused on the beauty of the nature around her, the way the mist curled between the trees, the smell of wet earth, the bright splash of flowers against the dark green leaves. The damp air clung to her skin, making every breath feel warm and heavy.

Chapter 2 – Into the Green Maze

The forest pressed closer now, the trail narrowing until the branches above seemed to weave into a dark ceiling that shut out the light. The air was thicker here, damp and heavy, smelling of wet bark, old leaves, and the sweet rot of fallen flowers. The packed dirt path glistened under a skin of moisture, and every step sank slightly into the rich black loam. The rest of the girls moved ahead in a loose cluster, their laughter and chattering voices bouncing between the trunks, fading whenever the trail curved.

Nadiya walked near the back, her mind calm until the sudden pressure bloomed in her lower belly. All the water she had been sipping since morning had finally caught up to her. The urge was sharp now, making her thighs press instinctively together as she walked. She bit her lip, slowing her pace until the other girls gained distance. When she was sure no one was looking, she stepped off the path, slipping into the dense green, her sneakers crunching softly on moss and wet leaves.

She moved deeper until the sound of voices became a faint blur behind her. The forest here felt muffled, like it was holding its breath. She spotted a small hollow between thick ferns, their dripping fronds forming a kind of curtain. Hidden there, she let out a slow exhale, her heartbeat heavy in her chest.

Her hands slid to the waistband of her tiny denim shorts, thumbs hooking inside. She eased them down over her hips, the damp fabric dragging against her soft skin before peeling away from the perfect curve of her ass. Underneath, her white thong clung stubbornly between her ass cheeks, the string wedged so deep it was slick with her own warmth. She hooked a finger under the side, tugged it aside, and let it drop.

The cool, damp air kissed the smooth mound of her freshly shaven pussy, the skin soft and bare, gleaming faintly in the muted light. The lips were neat and tight, hugging together as if they had never been forced open, a thin crease running down between them. The little hood of her clit peeked out just enough to catch the breeze, and the sight alone was enough to make any man ache to spread her open and see what was hidden inside.

She crouched low, balancing on the balls of her feet, her thighs spreading wider as her calves burned from the stretch. The relief came instantly, a hot, steady stream bursting out, hissing against the forest floor. The dirt darkened and softened under her, steam curling up into the misty air. 

Her bare pussy lips glistened as the stream poured between them, trickling down her slit and wetting the skin between her ass cheeks before falling in a steady line to the ground. The release made her sigh softly, the sound almost lost in the stillness. She could feel the muscles in her belly easing, the last spurts coming in short pulses until the urge was gone.

From her bag she pulled a small folded wet wipe. She crouched lower, her back curving, and slowly dabbed herself dry, the soft paper gliding over her sensitive lips and catching the faint heat still clinging to her skin. For a moment she lingered, the tips of her fingers brushing her clit by accident, making her thighs twitch. She shook it off, slid the thong back into place so the string disappeared between her ass, then tugged her shorts up, fastening them with a small snap.

She turned back toward where she thought the trail was. But there was nothing there.

Instead of the strip of packed dirt, she saw the same wall of trunks and dripping green in every direction. She turned slowly to the left. Nothing. To the right. Still nothing. The mist above was thick and even, swallowing the sun and smudging every shadow.

She took a step forward, then another, expecting to see the path appear… but the green only deepened. Somewhere far away a bird called, a short sharp sound, then silence again. The forest felt as though it was leaning in now, listening.

Her breath quickened. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called out.

“Hello! Anyone hear me?”

Her words cracked in the damp air and were swallowed instantly.

She tried again, louder. “Help! I lost!”

Then in thick-accented French, “Au secours! Moi perdue!”

The forest gave her nothing back. No voices. No footsteps. Only the occasional shiver of leaves and the slow drop of water from high above.

Her hand flew to her pocket. She pulled out her phone. One red bar. No signal. She lifted it higher, stretching her arm until her shoulder ached. Nothing. The battery flashed at her. Three percent.

Her heart thudded. “Shit…” she whispered, the sound thin in her own ears.

She picked a direction that felt right and began moving quickly. Leaves slapped against her bare thighs. Twigs dragged over her arms, leaving faint red lines. The ground dipped and rose in uneven humps under her shoes. After several minutes she realised she had only gone deeper.

The air grew heavier. The silence thicker. Every small sound, the snap of a twig, the rustle of a branch, made her head jerk. She could feel the fine hairs lifting along her neck.

She screamed again, her voice raw now. “HELLO!”

Nothing.

The cold knot in her stomach tightened. She screamed louder, the sound tearing out of her throat. The forest smothered it.

She began to walk faster, her sneakers slipping on the slick ground. The mist coiled closer, wrapping around the trees in ghostly strands. Her breathing was shallow, her chest rising and falling too quickly. Her eyes stung as tears began to spill, running down her beautiful face, streaking the fine mist on her cheeks. She did not notice when her quick steps turned into a frantic run, branches snapping back into her face, thorns catching on her shorts, the damp air cutting into her lungs.

Time blurred. The measured panic of a lost girl became the desperate stumbling of someone swallowed whole by the jungle. Every turn looked the same. Every shadow seemed to shift and wait. The green pressed closer until it felt like it was breathing against her skin.

The light above thinned to a dim silver. Then the first drops fell. Big, cold splashes breaking through the canopy, landing on her shoulders and hair. Within moments the rain came harder, a sudden downpour that soaked her instantly. Her white sports top clung to her tits like it was painted on, the wet fabric tracing the roundness of her breasts, every detail of her stiff nipples pushing through. The cold water streamed down the curve of her chest and over her belly, trickling beneath the waistband of her shorts.

Her tiny denim shorts darkened, the fabric heavy and moulded to her hips. The cold trickles ran between her ass cheeks, following the line of her thong. Every movement made her nipples drag across the wet material, sending sharp shivers through her body that clashed with the fear knotting her stomach.

She turned in slow circles, searching for the trail, but saw only dripping branches and shadows. Her lips trembled as she called out again, her voice small this time, as if she already knew there would be no answer.

Then she saw it. A flicker of pale light far ahead between the trees. It wavered, faint and ghostly, as though it might vanish at any second.

Her breath caught. Hope, or something like it, flared through the cold that was creeping into her bones. She moved toward it, pushing through the dripping green. Branches whipped at her arms and face. Mud sucked at her shoes. Her soaked clothes clung to every curve as she hurried forward, the cold and the darkness swallowing her from behind.

Chapter 3 – The Doorway to the Lion’s Den

The rain eased just enough for her to see it, a thin break in the green, a clearing ahead where the forest seemed beaten into submission. The trees gave way to a patch of churned brown mud, deep footprints frozen in the wet earth, and trampled grass as if something heavy had lived here for years.

In the centre, squatting low like it was waiting to pounce, was a crooked cabin with a tin roof sagging under the weight of moss and rot. A dirty plume of smoke curled from a bent metal pipe, stuttering in the damp air. From a distance it might have looked abandoned, but up close, it felt alive, like something inside it was watching her already.

Animal skulls dangled from nails hammered into the warped boards, their empty sockets following her every step. The splintered porch leaned under its own weight, a rusted machete jammed into a stump beside it, its blade slick with rain. A coil of thick rope lay in a muddy heap by the door, like a snake asleep but ready to strike.

Her sneakers sank into the sucking mud as she approached, cold water seeping through the seams. Her top was plastered to her tits so tightly she could feel the seam dragging across her nipples every time she breathed. Her tiny denim shorts were soaked through, darkened to a deep blue that clung to her hips and ass, the fabric outlining the shape of her pussy in crude detail. Her wet hair clung in dark ropes across her cheeks and neck, dripping water down her spine. She hugged herself for warmth, shivering hard, her dead phone like a useless stone in her pocket.

She stepped onto the porch. The boards sagged under her weight, groaning, coughing up brown water between the gaps. She raised a fist and knocked softly, the sound pathetic in the open air. The rain hissed in the leaves. She knocked again, harder. “Hello? … Bonjour?” Her voice felt small, swallowed instantly by the wet, empty silence.

Nothing.

Then, a shadow moved behind the filthy window. Just a shape. The curtain twitched an inch. She felt it before she saw it, someone was on the other side, standing still, looking right at her.

A latch scraped. The wood moaned. The door cracked open and the first thing that hit her was the heat, a blast of thick, stale air that clung to her skin. Smoke. Damp rags. Old stew left too long in the pot. But there was something under it, heavier… the reek of sour sweat, piss, and something rotten that made the back of her throat tighten.

He stood there, filling the doorway.

Roland.

He was huge, not with muscle but with the kind of soft, heavy bulk that swayed when he moved. His belly strained against a sweat-stained shirt that had yellow patches under the arms and a damp patch spreading low over his gut. His skin glistened with grease and grime. The thick white beard at his chin was matted, stained yellow-brown around the mouth from years of smoke and spit. His breath came out in hot bursts that stank of rum, cigarettes, and rotting teeth.

His face was wrong, one eye roamed lazily while the other pinned her in place. His lips curled slowly, not in welcome but in something dirtier, like he’d just unwrapped a present he hadn’t been expecting. His tongue, thick and brown, slid over cracked lips.

His gaze dropped instantly. From her muddy sneakers up over her bare, pale calves. Over the strong sweep of her thighs, lingering where the denim clung like wet paint, the outline of her pussy pressed forward against the seam. His eyes fixed there for too long, watching a drop of rain run down the inside of her leg. His jaw moved slowly, like he was chewing something that wasn’t there. Then up, to her tits, round and straining under the wet fabric, her nipples hard enough to dent the top.

He didn’t bother hiding his stare. He dragged his eyes back to her face like he had all the time in the world.

Nadiya’s stomach tightened. She could feel the filth of his gaze on her skin. She stammered, her accent thick. “I… lost… no phone… friends… please help.” She held the dead phone out like proof, her fingers trembling.

He leaned an arm against the doorframe, bringing himself even closer, his bulk filling the doorway so she could smell every inch of him. The sour stench of his sweat made her take half a step back, but the edge of the porch stopped her.

“Lost,” he said slowly, his voice deep and rasping, Creole twisting around the English. His gaze never left her chest. “Rain bad today.”

She nodded quickly. “Yes. Please. I…”

He cut her off, his eyes still raking her body. “Where from, girl?”

“Russia,” she breathed.

The corner of his mouth curled again, that same ugly grin that made her want to step back.

“Phone? Car?” she tried.

He shook his head once. “No phone. No car. Rain long time.” His words were lazy, almost bored, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every nervous move she made.

Without thinking, she crossed her arms over her chest to block his stare. The motion only pushed her tits up, rounder, tighter against the wet top. His gaze darkened. She dropped her arms again, pulse hammering.

“I am Nadiya,” she said softly, as if her name might change something.

He didn’t repeat it. Didn’t care. Just stepped back half an inch, his belly still almost brushing her. He lifted two thick fingers and crooked them once toward the darkness behind him. “Come.”

The pause stretched. He wasn’t moving aside. He wanted her to step in on her own. To choose.

Her shorts felt heavy between her thighs. The cold was in her bones now. She stepped forward, and as she passed him his shoulder dragged hard against hers, hot and deliberate.

The air inside swallowed her in one breath, thick, hot, and close. Shadows bent and swayed in the flicker of firelight. The smell was worse in here, a stew of damp wood, sweat, and something feral underneath.

The door shut behind her. The latch clicked.

Chapter 4 – Rules of the Cabin

The door shut behind her with a heavy wooden thud, cutting off the sound of the rain like someone had stuffed cotton in her ears. Inside, the air was thick and hot, choking with the smell of woodsmoke, old clothes, sour sweat, and something sharper underneath, a rank animal musk that caught at the back of her throat and made her want to gag.

The place was small, just one dim room. Smoke stained the ceiling and blackened the rafters, the corners lost in shadow. Piles of junk sat in heaps, tangled ropes, dented pots, a rusted axe propped against the wall. The only light came from a low fire in the hearth, licking over a blackened pot.

Roland’s shirt was plastered to his skin, dark patches spreading under his arms and down the swell of his belly. It wasn’t rain, it was sweat, thick and greasy, clinging in the heat. When he moved, the fabric peeled away and stuck again, revealing rolls of sagging flesh. His brown skin shone in the firelight, the creases deep and dark, slick with grime. His beard, yellowed around the mouth, clumped together like it hadn’t been washed in months.

He tapped his chest once with two thick, cracked fingers. “Roland,” he said, voice low, heavy with Creole. Then his mouth curled into a slow grin, eyes glued to her chest. “You call… Tonton.” In Creole, tonton meant uncle, but the way he said it wasn’t anything family. It was a claim, a mark, a filthy little title he wanted dripping from her lips. He waited until she repeated it in a soft, uncertain voice. His grin widened, teeth brown and uneven, like he’d just branded her.

She swallowed, glancing at the door.

He gestured to the fire. “Come. Warm.”

She crossed the room, her sneakers squelching on the warped boards. Every step made the soaked white top cling tighter to her tits, the fabric dragging over stiff nipples, pressing the wet outline of her breasts into perfect shape. His gaze followed every sway, heavy and unashamed. She could feel him watching like a hand sliding over her body, pausing here, pressing there.

She lowered herself onto a rough stool by the hearth, hugging her arms across her chest for warmth.

Roland didn’t sit. He prowled slowly, circling her like he was deciding how he’d take his first bite. His eyes roamed shamelessly over her, the wet strands of hair plastered to her cheeks, the pale column of her neck, the round swell of her tits that would easily wrap around his cock, the way her shorts clung to the mound of her pussy like the seam was parting her lips for him to see. He stared there for a long moment, a slow smirk spreading like he could already taste her.

A crack of thunder rattled the cabin, making her flinch. The rain hammered harder on the tin roof, a thousand fists pounding above them. Roland’s gaze slid to the door, then back to her, eyes glinting. “Rain not stop three, four days. No phone. No car. You stay here. Safe.” The word “safe” curled from his mouth in a way that made her skin crawl.

She turned to the window, the forest outside blurred into a grey wall. She could feel it now, the truth settling in her chest like a stone. No one was coming for her. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Until that storm broke, she was trapped here, alone with him.

The ladle clinked against the pot. He poured the steaming slop into a dented tin bowl and handed it to her. The smell was flat, boiled meat and little else, but hunger had her lifting the spoon.

Roland stayed close, watching every movement, her hand, the lift to her lips, the soft wrap of them around the spoon. His mind twisted it instantly into something filthy, imagining those same lips stretched wide around the head of his cock, spit glistening as she sucked. His cock gave a slow, heavy twitch inside his trousers, the damp fabric pressing against the outline of his shaft.

“Where from again, girl?” His voice was low, steady.

“Russia,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the bowl.

He repeated it, slow, like rolling the word around in his mouth. “Cold there.” His eyes dropped back to her tits, nipples still pushing hard through the wet fabric. He lifted one thick, cracked finger and pointed straight at them, his nail yellow and split. “You cold now too, eh? The words came out thick with Creole accent, his voice low and dirty, followed by a rough chuckle that rumbled in his chest, like he’d just made a joke at her expense.

She looked up briefly, catching his eyes still fixed on her tits. Heat crept into her cheeks, a flush of shame and disgust knotting in her stomach. Instinctively, she folded her arms tight over her chest, trying to hide the stiff peaks under the soaked fabric. “Yes… I am cold,” she murmured, voice small, before quickly looking back down at the bowl and forcing another bite past her lips.

He moved behind her, slow enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. The smell of him, sweat, smoke, and that sour tang, wrapped around her, making her stomach knot.

“You… have man?”

She froze for half a heartbeat, then nodded. “Yes. In Russia.”

When she turned slightly to glance over her shoulder, he was right behind her, close enough that the heat of his body brushed her back. His eyes weren’t anywhere near her face. They were locked on her ass. Sitting on the small stool, she’d unknowingly arched her back, the posture pushing her ass out toward him. The wet denim clung like a second skin, outlining the perfect, round curve of each cheek, the seam riding high between them and cutting deep over her pussy. In the firelight, the shape looked firm and full, the kind of ass made to slap and watch ripple, to grab and spread while driving a cock in hard. Roland’s gaze was slow, dragging over every inch, and in his mind he could already feel it bouncing back into his belly as he split her open raw.

“Good, good… you have man,” Roland said, his grin stretching wider, eyes dragging over every wet curve of her body like he was licking her with them. “You… beautiful girl…” He paused, tapping two thick fingers against the heavy bulge in his trousers. “Your man… happy cock, eh? You very… very beautiful girl.” His broken English was thick, but the meaning was crystal clear, he was talking about her man being happy to fuck her, to bury himself in her.

Nadiya’s stomach turned. She dropped her gaze to the bowl in her lap, her cheeks burning. Her heart thudded so hard she could feel it in her throat.

Roland’s eyes narrowed slightly, catching the flicker of unease on her face, and then he let out another low, throaty laugh. “Girl… I joke,” he said, the Creole heavy in his voice. He thumped his chest once, grinning wide. “I funny Tonton. You safe here.”

The way he said it didn’t match the promise.

The walls of the cabin seemed to press closer around her, trapping her in the heat, in his smell, in the weight of his stare. She told herself maybe he was just joking, trying to be funny, right? But deep down she knew, there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run. All she could do was sit there, small and silent, hoping she would be okay.

In his head, the thought was darker, nastier. Of course that little slut’s got a man. With a body like this, she damn well knows her way around a cock. I bet that bastard fucks her for hours, holding those tits, splitting that pussy until she cries. As the image played in his mind, his cock gave a slow, heavy twitch inside his damp trousers, making him shift his stance and adjust himself without shame, his eyes never leaving her.

“What he name?”

She hesitated. “Dmitri.”

Roland’s smirk deepened, eyes crawling over her like she was already stripped bare. In his mind, she wasn’t a lost, wet girl anymore. She was a tight little bitch who would be bent over his table before the storm ended, taking his cock raw until she screamed.

Chapter 5 – One Bed

Roland sat in the firelight, his eyes crawling over every soaked inch of her. He didn’t just glance, he stared, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping her with his gaze. The wet top clung to her tits so tight he could make out the hard swell of her nipples, the fabric stretched over each curve like it was begging to be peeled off. Her shorts were plastered to her hips, the seam riding high and framing the mound between her thighs in a way that made his cock give a heavy, lazy twitch.

He didn’t care to hide it anymore. She was here, cut off from the world, rain sealing them inside. No phone. No help. No one would be looking until the storm was long gone. If he wanted to get into that tight little body, those sweet holes, he had to make his move now. She was already his in every way that mattered. Trapped in his den. Nowhere to run.

Roland shifted his weight and pushed up from his stool, the wood groaning under him. He moved away from the fire without a word, his heavy bare feet thudding on the warped floorboards. The air seemed to get thicker with every step he took, the smell of his sweat and musk trailing with him. He stopped at the far side of the cabin, his big toe hooking under the edge of something. With one hard kick, a thin, flattened straw mat slid forward. It barely counted as a bed, a flimsy wooden frame just above the floor, frayed at the edges, a crumpled, filthy grey blanket lying beside it.

He looked straight at her, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp. “Bed only one. You, me sleep. Good. Not cold.”

Her stomach knotted. “No… I can sleep on the floor,” she said quickly, her voice unsteady.

Roland chuckled low in his throat, the sound dark and heavy. “Floor cold. You sick. You sleep with Tonton. Warm.”

“I’ll be fine,” she tried again, but her voice was smaller now.

Roland stepped closer, his shadow thickening over her, his eyes never leaving her body. “You cold… rain no stop. You sleep on bed. I old man… I good man… you safe, girl,” he said, his voice low and heavy, as if trying to reassure her, though the way his gaze slid over her curves told a different story.

Her eyes flicked to the floor. Damp. Hard. Unforgiving. The cold alone would make her sick, and he knew it. She bit her lip, her chest rising faster. Finally, she nodded once, the tiniest movement. “Fine.”

Roland’s mouth curled in satisfaction, his eyes never leaving her. He didn’t rush. A man like him didn’t need to. He knew he had her cornered, cold, wet, nowhere to go. The storm would keep her here for days if he wanted, and he was already thinking about how he was going to break her in.

He’d been with enough women to know what happened when they saw what he carried between his legs. Didn’t matter if they were married, shy, or pretended to be pure, once they saw the size of it, once they imagined it inside them, their eyes always gave them away. That first shock… then the way they’d bite their lip, pretending not to think about it. He loved that moment. And he was about to see it again.

Slowly, he hooked his thick, cracked fingers under the hem of his shirt. The fabric was damp and clung to his broad frame, catching under his arms. He peeled it up in one steady pull, muscles shifting under the bulk, the dark skin of his chest glistening with a permanent sheen of sweat. Every movement was deliberate, heavy with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what kind of man he was. The shirt dropped to the floor with a wet slap.

He stood there in the firelight, chest and stomach wide and solid, every crease deep, the air around him thick with heat and the musk of a man who’d lived hard and didn’t care to hide it.

Then his hands went to his trousers.

Her pulse spiked. She thought he’d maybe loosen them, stop halfway. But Roland shoved them down in one slow, relentless push until they pooled at his ankles. He stepped out, his bare feet spreading on the boards.

Her eyes fell between his legs, and froze.

His cock swung free. Thick. Heavy. Long enough that the tip nearly brushed his knees. It was obscene, the skin stretched tight over bulging, twisting veins. The head was huge, swollen, almost purple, and wide enough that she couldn’t imagine it ever fitting inside anyone without splitting them open. Even soft, it was massive, and the weight of it made it sway slowly in the firelight like it had its own pulse.

The smell hit her next, raw, unwashed, thick with sweat and the sour bite of piss. It was male in the dirtiest, most animal way, the kind of scent that made her stomach turn but also made heat coil in her gut against her will.

She couldn’t stop staring. In her life, she’d only ever seen one cock before, Dmitri’s. Pale. Small. Easy to take in her mouth in one go. She’d giggled the first time she sucked him under the blankets back in Russia, teasing when he came too quickly. That was the size she knew. That was safe.

This was nothing like that. This was a weapon. Thick as her forearm, veined like a rope, the head flaring wide. She could see the slow throb of life in it, the promise that one push could ruin anyone forever.

Roland saw her staring, he wanted her to stare. His cock twitched, the head swaying slightly, and his grin deepened. He didn’t look away from her face, watching the shock, the flicker of fear, and something else, that tiny part of her that couldn’t look away no matter how much she wanted to.

Her lips parted before she even realised, breath catching in her throat. “H-hey… w-what you doing?” she stammered, her voice small but trembling. “Why… you take off… clothes?”

Her eyes flicked up to his face, searching for some harmless answer, but her gut was already twisting. Heat climbed up her neck, her pulse thudding in her ears. Her hands clutched at the edge of the stool beneath her, knuckles white, as if gripping it could anchor her. The cold prickle of fear crawled over her skin, every nerve screaming that something was shifting in the air between them, something she couldn’t control.

Roland stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her. “I sleep no clothes. Good health. Keep warm. If you no want, you sleep on floor.”

She looked at the floor again, cold and hard and wet at the edges. Her chest tightened, her throat dry. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to lie beside him. But she had nowhere else to go. Slowly, without a word, she lowered herself onto the mat.

Roland stood over her for a moment longer, eyes locked on her like he was already peeling the blanket away in his head. Then he turned toward the fire, the flicker painting the thick length between his legs in orange light.

She pulled the filthy blanket up to her neck, curling small under it, staring into the flames, her thoughts spinning. What is happening to me?

The rain hammered the roof. The fire hissed and spat. And in the heavy heat of the cabin, the predator and the prey lay side by side, the night still young and far from over.

Chapter 6 – Cold and Closer

Nadiya lay stiff on the thin straw mat, the wooden frame under it creaking every time she shifted. She hugged herself tight, trying to make her small frame disappear into the very edge of the bed, as far from him as she could get. The fire was dying, its light no more than a weak orange smear across the filthy walls. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, damp wood, and Roland, that heavy suffocating male musk that clung in her nose and coated the back of her throat.

She heard him move. Slow. Deliberate. The floor groaned like it knew exactly who was walking on it. Then the weight of him sank into the mat behind her, his heat instantly wrapping around her back. Every fine hair on her neck stood on end.

She kept her eyes locked on the fire, trying to breathe evenly, to pretend she did not feel his presence pressing in. But it was useless. She could feel him in every inch of her skin.

Her mind was spinning. Outside, the storm screamed and tore at the roof, but inside was worse. He was here. Behind her. Watching her, she was sure of it even with her back turned. She could smell him. She could almost feel his eyes tracing the outline of her body through the damp fabric clinging to her curves.

She was freezing, her clothes glued wet to her skin, each shiver making her nipples push harder against the thin top. And worse than the cold was the memory, the flash of him standing bare, that monstrous cock swinging between his legs.

She had only ever known Dmitri’s. Small. Pale. Something she could hide in her mouth without effort.

But Roland’s was no cock. That was a weapon. Thick as her forearm, veined and heavy, the head fat and swollen like it could plug her whole mouth. Even soft it had hung low and obscene, swinging with a slow weight that made her thighs clench without thinking. She didn’t want to imagine it hard… but the image slipped in anyway, her mind painting it jutting up from between his legs, so big it made her breath hitch.

A rush of warmth spread low in her belly, her nipples tightening against the damp fabric of her top. Her lips parted without her meaning to, breathing deeper, and for a split second she let herself sink into it, the raw male presence of him, the memory of that massive shaft.

Her clothes clung to her completely, soaked through, making her shiver with cold as the fire grew dimmer. The damp fabric sucked the heat from her skin, each drop sliding down her spine like ice.

From behind her came his voice, low and certain, like he already owned the space between them. “Your clothes… wet. You get sick. Take off… keep warm.”

Her stomach knotted tight. “No,” she blurted quickly, almost too quickly, still staring at the fire.

Roland did not push. He gave a slow grunt, rolled over, and went quiet. The boards creaked once. Then nothing. Only the rain hammering the tin roof and the soft hiss of the fire sinking lower.

She lay there, still shivering, the cold eating into her bones. The thin blanket was nothing against the wet fabric sucking the heat out of her. Her teeth ground together as she tried to stop the chattering but the shaking would not stop.

Minutes dragged. The fire nearly collapsed into embers, the light barely reaching the far walls. She glanced over her shoulder. Roland’s eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling slow and deep. Pretending to be asleep.

Her body begged for warmth. Slowly, she slipped off the mat. The cold slapped her bare skin instantly, making goosebumps race up her arms. She reached for her soaked white top and pulled it over her head. The wet fabric peeled away slow, her stiff nipples scraping against it before it fell to the floor with a wet slap. Her tits spilled free, round and full, the kind of firm that still held their perfect shape but soft enough to yield under a man’s hand. The firelight licked across the smooth skin, catching on the pink peaks of her nipples, so hard they looked like they could cut the air.

Her shorts clung tighter, heavy with water, gripping her hips and the mound of her pussy like a second skin. She hooked her thumbs inside the waistband, wiggling them down inch by inch, the wet fabric dragging over her skin until she had to push them past her ass. The thin thong underneath was barely there, its white strings sitting low and disappearing between her ass cheeks, the triangle in front stretched tight over the smooth mound of her pussy.

Roland was not asleep. His eyes drank in every detail. He took in the smooth pale skin of her back, the round swell of her ass, the way that little strip of white vanished deep in the crease. He imagined his hands spreading her cheeks wide so he could look at the tiny pink hole tucked between them, imagined spitting on it, working his thumb in until it loosened, then shoving his cock in so deep she would cry out.

His cock pulsed under the blanket, swelling heavy and hard. His hand slid down to wrap around it, the thick length throbbing in his palm as he stroked slow, savoring the view.

Nadiya bent to grab the blanket from the floor and her tits hung heavy and round, nipples pointing down and swinging slightly. Roland felt his shaft twitch hard in his grip, a heavy thud of blood that made it ache.

She climbed back onto the mat, pulling the blanket over herself. The cold still nipped at her skin but it was better than wet clothes. She lay facing the fire, her back to Roland.

The heat from his side of the bed pulled her closer without her thinking about it. Inch by inch, she shifted until her bare ass was almost brushing him. The smell of him, smoke and sweat and raw male musk, made her nose wrinkle, but the warmth was too tempting.

Roland rolled over. The frame groaned under his weight. She felt it. His cock. Huge. Heavy. Hot. Pressing right into the curve of her ass.

He adjusted himself lazily, like it was nothing, but the shift made the thick length slide along the crease of her ass from the top down, dragging over her thong and settling deep so the head pressed against the base of her cheeks. She could feel the heat of it, the weight, the slow pulse.

Her breath caught in her throat. The fire hissed. The rain pounded. Roland did not speak. But his cock stayed there, pressing into her like a silent promise of what he could do to he

Chapter 7 – The Agreement Without Words

The storm outside was a beast. Rain hammered the tin roof in thick, merciless sheets, each one drowning the cabin in noise. The fire had burned low, a dull orange glow licking at the last of the wood, shadows twitching on the walls like they were alive.

Nadiya lay with her back to Roland. She had felt him, in the last long silence between them, the heat of that cock pressed into her ass like a heavy log, even soft. She had tried to forget it, tried to erase the way it had twitched against her, but now the awareness was back, sharp and raw.

The smell of him was everywhere. Smoke. Sweat. Wet wool. And that deep, animal stink that came from his body alone, heavy and male. She hated it, but her lungs still pulled it in with every breath.

The mat creaked.

Roland shifted behind her, the weight of his body making the frame sink. He slid closer, slow and sure, like a man who knew there would be no resistance worth noting. He kept his breathing slow and even. Nadiya thought he was sleeping, telling herself the movement was nothing, just the restless roll of a man in slumber. His warmth bled into her back before he touched her, making the cold blanket on them feel useless.

Then his arm came over her waist. Solid. Heavy. Not rough, but certain. Pulling her slightly back into him until her ass met the thick heat lying against her again.

It was harder now. Thicker. She could feel the full length of it running up her ass cheek, the heavy head resting high, almost nudging into the small of her back. A slow throb pulsed through it, steady, alive.

Her mind told her to move away. But she didn’t.

She stayed still, even as the warmth in her belly deepened. She felt herself breathing shallow, her pulse quickening, her thighs tensing without her consent.

Then, instinctively, she moved. Just a little. Her hips shifted back into him.

Roland’s eyes opened in the dark. He felt every inch of that small surrender.

Her ass rubbed along his length, the soft drag of it through the blanket and her thong making the throb in him grow heavier.

He waited.

And she did it again. Slower this time. Testing herself.

The ache in her clit was getting worse. She told herself it was the cold, that she just wanted the heat, but the truth was in the way her pussy tightened with each grind, in the way her breathing caught as she felt him swell harder.

His arm loosened enough for his hand to move. It slid down over her belly, the palm broad, rough and calloused, his fingers spreading like they were claiming territory.

Her gaze stayed locked on the dimming fire as his hand moved up, brushing under the swell of her breast. The slow drag of his rough, calloused palm made a warmth begin to spread low in her belly, an ache that tightened with every inch he climbed. Her eyes fluttered shut, her breath hitching, and without meaning to, her back arched just slightly, pressing her ass more firmly against the thick, hot length of his cock. When his hand finally reached her breast, he filled his palm with it, the round, firm tit yielding under his grip, the soft skin a perfect contrast to his coarse fingers. He began to massage it slowly, possessively, his thumb brushing over the nipple until it hardened, then rolling it in slow, deliberate circles that drew a soft, helpless gasp from her lips.

“You like, ti pitin?” His voice was close, almost touching her ear.

She froze, the words slithering through her like a spark on dry grass. Ti pitin. She knew that one creole word. She had heard it plenty of times from the Mauritian guys in her college, usually thrown at drunk girls grinding on the dance floor, always with that same filthy grin; Little whore. That was what it meant. The meaning hit her chest hard, made her nipples tighten even more under his thumb. She shivered, not just from the cold, but from the way the word sank into her skin like it belonged there, even though her mind screamed that it didn’t.

She shut her eyes, refusing to answer.

“You come, I help. Now pay, ti pitin.” It was not a request.

His cock felt like iron now, pressed along her ass with a steady pulse. She ground back against it again, slower, more deliberate. She hated herself for it. She hated the warmth that rolled through her when the thick head caught between her cheeks and pressed in.

His hand left her breast and moved down, over her belly, lower, until it reached the small band of her thong. His fingers hooked it, brushed over the damp fabric clinging to her pussy.

He could feel it, the heat, the wetness.

A low, amused sound rumbled from him. “You wet, ti pitin.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, her hips gave a slow, deliberate roll, the movement grinding her ass harder against the thick heat of his cock. She could feel every inch of it pressing along her, fat and unyielding, the head sitting high between her cheeks. The motion was instinct now, her body shamelessly working against him, rocking and circling as if begging for more.

His fingers pushed under the thong, spreading her bare lips apart. The air hit her wet slit, making her hips twitch. He dragged two thick fingers slowly from her dripping hole to her clit, coating them before circling the tight little bud. The first touch made her bite down on a gasp, but it still escaped.

He pressed his palm down against her mound, trapping her clit between his skin and her bone while his middle finger rubbed slow, steady circles. The motion was crude, almost lazy, but it sent shocks up her spine. Her pussy clenched hard, a bead of slick running down to wet the base of his hand.

She tried to pull her hips forward, away from him, but his arm around her waist pulled her right back.

“No, ti pitin. You stay.”

He slid one thick finger down, finding her slit and rubbing through the wet folds until he was at her entrance. He pressed just the tip in and felt her whole body jolt. She squirmed away, her hips trying to retreat, and he felt the resistance, tight, almost closed. His eyes narrowed in the dark, surprised but amused.

What? That slut… a virgin? No way. That body, those tits, that perfect ass, never been claimed? He almost laughed to himself.

“You man… never fuck you?” he murmured, the question low, almost curious.

Nadiya’s breath caught. Her head shook quickly, eyes fixed on the fire. “No… no… n… never.”

His voice rumbled closer to her ear. “You never sex?”

Her cheeks burned hot. “M… mouth… only. Few times,” she whispered, barely audible.

Roland’s arm locked tighter around her waist, pulling her back into him until her ass was flush against the hard length of his cock. “You love… Tonton teach you, ti pitin,” he growled, the words thick and final.

He pushed his finger in deeper, breaching that tight ring of muscle until the thick knuckle slid past. Nadiya’s back arched sharply, a strangled cry ripping from her throat.

“Aah—! Tonton… it hurts! please!”

Her hands gripped the mat, knuckles white, her whole body trembling around the invading digit. The raw stretch made her gasp for breath, her chest heaving.

Roland leaned in close, his voice low and steady in her ear. “Shhh… relax, ti pitin. You safe. Tonton good man. Just breathe… let me in.”

He didn’t pull out. Instead, he held there for a moment, feeling her walls flutter and spasm around him, before easing back just an inch and sliding in again, slower this time. Each push made her gasp, each retreat made her whimper.

“Good girl…” he murmured, starting to work his finger in a slow, steady rhythm, curling it at the top to stroke her from the inside while his thumb began to rub lazy, teasing circles over her clit.

Her ass began to move again, grinding against the thick hardness behind her, matching his rhythm without thinking. She hated the way her body was begging for it, hated that she was making herself rub against his cock while he fingered her like he owned her.

Soft, breathy moans began to slip from her lips, unbidden. “Mmhmm… y-yes…” she whispered, the sound trembling between shame and pleasure, her voice betraying her as much as her hips.

Her breath came fast now, ragged. Every time his finger curled inside her, her hips jerked without her control, her clit throbbing under his thumb.

He bent his head until his lips were almost at her neck, his breath hot against her skin. “Good girl. Little pussy so soft. So wet.”

She wanted to curse him. To spit the words back. But what came out instead was a broken, breathless moan as his second finger slid in beside the first, stretching her wider.

Her grind became needier. Slower but harder. She pressed her ass into him until the fat head of his cock was wedged between her cheeks, pulsing with the same beat as the throb in her clit.

PART 2 COMING SOON (FOLLOW FOR MORE INFO)