"Don't..." My uncle stepped closer, gripping a thick cassava stalk like a weapon, his voice low as he promised to "take care" of me.
I'm Emily Andersonsophomore at the prestigious Rosewood Dance Academy.
With delicate features straight out of a Hollywood fantasy, I never blended in. My curves were too generous, too real compared to the waifish girls around me. Hips like honey, soft and plush, while my chest strained against every top, heavy enough to make every step a tantalizing sway.
I'd discovered pleasure earlytoo early. My hands, then toys, then fantasies spiraled into something insatiable. I was untouched, but my mind? Far from innocent.
Especially after stumbling onto those sites. The kind where rough, weathered men claimed trembling girls, where dominance wasn't a game but a demand. It consumed me. The boys at school? All talk. Soft hands, softer wills. But the men from those storiesthat was what I craved. Calloused hands. Unrefined strength. The kind of raw need that would ruin me.
The ache became unbearable. No toy, no fantasy could satisfy it. So I did something reckless.
One weekend, I boarded a bus to the countrysideno bra, no panties, just a thin dress clinging to every curve. The bus was packed, bodies pressed tight. I felt themhard thighs grinding against me, rough palms "accidentally" brushing my waist. One man, faceless in the crowd, was relentless. His grip bit into my hips, his body pinning me with bruising force.
I didn't fight it. I arched into him, shameless, my breath hitching as heat pooled between my thighs. For ten dizzying minutes, I trembled, biting back whimpers, my skin on fire. By the time the doors hissed open, my skirt was soaked.
Then I saw him.
Him.
A mountain of a manshaved head, sun-darkened skin, muscles like knotted rope. Towering over six feet, he was everything I'd fantasized about. And the bulge in his jeans? Obscene.
His lips curled, slow and knowing, as he rasped six words that sent lightning down my spine:
"Want to come with me?"