Clara Voss had always believed that desire was a quiet thing, something that lived between the lines of well-mannered novels and polite conversations. By day she edited manuscripts in a glass-walled office overlooking Toronto’s Financial District, correcting commas and suggesting gentler synonyms for heartbreak. The manuscripts arrived in neat stacks, their pages smelling faintly of printer ink and coffee rings. She wore tailored blazers, spoke in measured tones during meetings, and smiled the exact smile expected of a woman who had climbed the ladder without ever raising her voice.
But at night the mask slipped.
It began innocently enough, two years earlier, during a particularly brutal winter when the wind off Lake Ontario felt like knives against her cheeks. Insomnia had driven her to her laptop at 3 a.m. She typed “erotic stories” into Google because the word felt safer than “porn.” The first result was literotica.ca. She clicked without thinking.
That first night she read for three hours straight. The stories were raw, unpolished, written by people who clearly masturbated while typing them. No literary pretension, no coy metaphors. Just bodies colliding, mouths open, fingers slick, orgasms described in blunt anatomical detail. After that came twice that night—once with her hand between her legs while reading about a married woman fucked against a kitchen counter by her husband’s best friend, and again in the shower afterward, water pounding her back while she replayed the scene in her mind.
She bookmarked the site, she created an account under the name “InkAndLust”, and she never posted stories of her own—she wasn’t brave enough for that—but she favorited dozens. She discovered categories she hadn’t known existed: NonConsent/Reluctance, BDSM, Group Sex, Interracial, Fetish. Each one felt like opening a forbidden door in her own house.
By the summer of 2026 her ritual was sacred. Friday and Saturday nights she lit a single cedar candle that smelled faintly of smoke and sex, poured a glass of Barolo, dimmed every light except the desk lamp, and opened literotica.ca. She searched for “sexiest stories” first, then refined with “eroticness” because the word itself—strange, almost misspelled—made her clit throb when she typed it.
Tonight was one of those nights.
October rain lashed the windows of her twenty-third-floor condo. The city below was a smear of red and white taillights. Clara wore nothing but the plum silk camisole and a pair of black thigh-high stockings she had bought on impulse during a trip to Montreal. The silk whispered against her nipples every time she shifted. She was already wet; she could feel it when she crossed her legs, the lips of her pussy sliding slickly together.
She opened a new incognito tab—habit, even though no one would ever check her history—and typed literotica.ca.
The homepage loaded. Featured stories rotated in a carousel at the top. One title caught her eye immediately: “The Velvet Abyss – Chapter 7” by MidnightPen. The rating was 4.92 with 1,847 votes. Comments numbered in the hundreds. She clicked.
The story warning at the top was brief:
Dark themes. Dub-con. Intense BDSM. Anal. Multiple orgasms. No safe word used in-scene (but established off-page). Proceed with caution.
Clara’s pulse kicked up. She loved the warnings almost as much as the stories themselves. They were like the small print on a bottle of absinthe—promising danger and delirium in equal measure.
She began to read.
The chapter opened in a rain-soaked alley behind an abandoned theater in Montreal. The woman—named Elara this time—was twenty-eight, a violinist who had just finished a late rehearsal. Her black wool coat was soaked through, clinging to her breasts and hips. She had taken a shortcut she knew was foolish.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
She walked faster. The footsteps matched her pace.
When she turned the corner into a dead-end loading dock, he was already there—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal overcoat and a black balaclava that left only his eyes and mouth visible. Rain dripped from the brim of his hood. He did not speak. He simply stepped forward.
Elara backed up until her shoulders hit the brick wall. Cold seeped through her coat. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
He reached her in two strides. One gloved hand clamped over her mouth. The leather tasted faintly of motor oil and rain. His other hand yanked open her coat buttons—pop, pop, pop—like tearing paper. Underneath she wore a simple black dress for the rehearsal, knee-length, modest. He shoved it up to her waist in one motion.
No panties. She had taken them off in the green room after the performance because the lace had chafed during the long adagio. Now she regretted it and thrilled at it simultaneously.
His fingers found her bare cunt immediately. She was already wet—from nerves, from adrenaline, from the story she had been reading on her phone during intermission (another MidnightPen piece). Two thick fingers plunged inside without warning. Elara’s muffled cry vibrated against his palm.
He finger-fucked her hard and fast, curling to stroke her g-spot with brutal accuracy. Her knees buckled. He held her up with his body, thigh pressed between hers, forcing her to ride the pressure. Rain dripped from his hood onto her face, mixing with the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes.
When she came it was sudden and violent. Her cunt clamped down on his fingers like a fist. A hot gush soaked his glove and ran down her thighs, mingling with rainwater. She sobbed against his hand.
He did not remove his fingers. Instead he added a third, stretching her wider. With his thumb he circled her clit—slow now, torturously slow—while his fingers continued their relentless rhythm inside her.
Elara’s second orgasm built more slowly, deeper. Her hips rocked involuntarily, chasing the pressure. When it hit she screamed into his glove, body convulsing so hard her teeth chattered. He finally withdrew his hand, brought the soaked leather to her lips, and forced her to lick her own juices from it. The taste was sharp, salty, humiliating, intoxicating.
Clara paused the reading. Her own hand was between her legs, three fingers buried deep, palm grinding against her clit. She was dripping onto the chair again. The candle flame danced, casting long shadows across her thighs.
She scrolled further.
The stranger dragged Elara deeper into the theater through a side door that should have been locked. Inside it smelled of dust, old velvet, and long-ago perfume. He pushed her down a narrow corridor lined with faded posters, then through another door into what had once been a private box overlooking the stage.
Moonlight filtered through cracked skylights, painting silver stripes across dusty red velvet seats. He bent her over the balcony railing. The drop to the orchestra pit below was thirty feet. Elara’s heart lurched.
He yanked her dress down to her waist, exposing her breasts. Cold air kissed her nipples into painful points. He pinched them hard, twisting until she whimpered. Then he shoved her thighs apart with his knee.
His cock was already out—thick, uncut, veins standing out like cords. He rubbed the head along her soaked slit, coating himself in her wetness. Then he pushed in—slow at first, letting her feel every inch, every ridge—until his hips met her ass.
Elara moaned. The stretch was exquisite, almost too much. He gave her no time to adjust. He began to fuck her in long, punishing strokes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. Each thrust drove her forward until her breasts swung over the railing, nipples brushing the cold metal.
The angle was perfect. His cock dragged across her g-spot with every stroke. His balls slapped wetly against her clit. Rain drummed on the skylight above them like applause.
Elara came again—third time—screaming so loudly her voice cracked. Her cunt spasmed around him, milking him. He did not stop. He fucked her through the aftershocks, harder, faster.
When he pulled out she felt suddenly empty. He spun her around, pushed her to her knees on the dusty carpet. His cock glistened with her juices. He fisted her hair and fed it to her.
Elara opened wide. She tasted herself—musky, tangy—mixed with the clean salt of his pre-cum. He fucked her mouth with shallow thrusts at first, then deeper, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, tears streaming, mascara running in black rivers down her cheeks. He did not relent. When he came it was explosive—hot, thick ropes flooding her mouth, spilling over her lips when she couldn’t swallow fast enough.
He pulled out, wiped the head across her cheek, leaving a shiny trail.
They were far from finished.
He lifted her onto the velvet-covered bench in the box, laid her on her back, legs spread wide over the arms. He knelt between them, lowered his mouth to her cunt again. This time he was slow, reverent. Tongue tracing every fold, sucking her clit gently, then harder. Fingers slid into her pussy—three, then four—stretching her open. His other hand pressed against her lower belly, increasing the pressure inside.
Elara’s fourth orgasm was almost painful in its intensity. She squirted—a hot, clear arc that splashed across his face and chest. He drank her greedily and his tongue lapping every drop.
He rose, cock hard again already. Lustfull he positioned himself at her entrance and thrust back in. This time he fucked her with rolling, grinding strokes—deep circles that rubbed her clit against his pubic bone with every movement. His hands roamed her body—pinching, slapping lightly, caressing. He leaned down and bit her neck hard enough to bruise.
Fifth climax rolled through her like thunder—long, rolling waves that left her trembling.
He flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up and spread her ass cheeks wide, admiring the view—her cunt puffy and red, still leaking his cum from earlier, her tight rear entrance winking. He spat on it, rubbed the saliva in with his thumb, then pressed the head of his cock against the ring.
“Relax,” he growled—his first word of the night.
Elara exhaled. He pushed in slowly. The burn was intense, then bloomed into dark, forbidden pleasure. When he was fully seated he paused, letting her adjust. Then he began to move—long, deliberate strokes that made her feel utterly claimed.
One hand slid beneath her, fingers finding her clit again. The dual penetration—cock in her ass, fingers on her clit—was devastating. Sixth orgasm hit like lightning. Her ass clenched rhythmically around him, milking him. He groaned, low and animal, and came deep inside her, flooding her with heat.
They collapsed together on the velvet bench, sweat-slick, breathing ragged.
But the chapter continued.
He carried her backstage, through dusty corridors to a dressing room that still smelled faintly of greasepaint and roses. There was a full-length mirror, cracked in one corner. He stood her in front of it, pressed behind her, hands roaming her body while she watched their reflection.
He entered her cunt again from behind, slow this time, letting her see every inch disappear inside her. His hand around her throat—not choking, just holding—tilted her head back so she could watch his face in the mirror. Their eyes met in the glass.
Seventh orgasm was quiet, almost meditative—deep flutters that made her knees buckle.
He carried her to a chaise longue upholstered in faded gold brocade. Laid her on her back. Spread her legs wide. He ate her slowly again, savoring the taste of their combined fluids. Eighth climax with his tongue alone.
Then he fucked her missionary—eyes locked, hands clasped above her head. Ninth orgasm shared, his cum spilling inside her once more.
Tenth came when he positioned her on all fours in front of the mirror again, fucking her ass while she watched herself take him. Eleventh with a vibrator he found in a drawer—old, probably left by some long-gone actress—pressed to her clit while he pounded her cunt.
Twelfth was slow, gentle, spooning on the chaise, his cock sliding in and out of her pussy with lazy strokes until they both came quietly, shuddering together.
When the chapter ended Clara was shaking.
She had come eleven times while reading.
Her thighs were slick to the knees. The chair beneath her was soaked. Her nipples ached from pinching them. Her throat was raw from biting back screams.
She closed the laptop with trembling fingers.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The city was quiet.
Clara stood, legs unsteady. She walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as she could stand. Steam filled the room. She stepped under the spray, let the water pound her skin until it turned pink.
In the mirror afterward she saw the marks: bite marks on her breasts, fingerprints on her hips, a faint handprint on her throat where she had held herself during the tenth orgasm.
She smiled.
Tomorrow she would search again.
She would type “sexiest stories” and “erotic stories” and “eroticness” into the bar.
Because the Velvet Abyss was not fiction.
It was a mirror.
And Clara was finally ready to look.
