One of the great American storytellers, Block wrote several series of books that I cherish. Some dead straight. Some funny. Some a little of both.

• Matthew Scudder—an unlicensed investigator who makes his living doing “favors for friends”. Hardboiled for the most part.

• Bernie Rhodenbarr—the gentleman thief who owns a bookstore. His cat is called Raffles. That’s all you need to know.

• Evan Tanner—the thief/spy/white knight who couldn’t sleep

• Chip Harrison—a very tongue in cheek “tribute” to Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin

• John Paul Keller—a hitman living and killing through an existential and midlife crisis

Why is any of this relevant?

Well, because Lawrence Block also wrote numerous pulp erotica novels early in his career to pay the bills. As did his good friend Donald Westlake, author of The Hot Rock, who writing as Richard Stark, also penned the fabulous Parker novels, 24 in total. Block and Westlake wrote prodigiously and both have more than a hundred published books to their credit.

Now, back to the erotica ...

Written under pseudonyms such as Jill Emerson, Lesley Evans, and Sheldon Lord, Block said that erotica was “an ideal apprenticeship” that helped sharpen his craft by forcing him to write clean, disciplined prose under tight deadlines. “It meant I could support myself by writing, and if there’s a better way to learn a craft, I don’t know what it might be.”

And I agree. I have got to the point where I can write maybe a thousand words an hour for maybe six hours straight when I’m really on, and that first draft is usually very clean. I wouldn’t dream of claiming that I’m churning out Serious Literature—that’s someone else’s thing—but I am actually supporting myself and learning the craft of putting one word after the other over and over again. And one day, I hope, genuinely, to write something that you, or someone, will enjoy as much as I’ve enjoyed so very much of Westlake and Block.

So, yeah. Suck it, Melanie.

Further reading for additional credit.

It started as a joke, but it’s also a long story. So, let’s begin the beguine at the beginning. It brings back a memory ever green.

Long ago and far away, back in my eager teens, I agreed to ghostwrite a couple of trope-heavy books for a “New York Times Bestselling Author”. You may know the kind of thing. ‘Why choose?’ ‘Reverse harem’. ‘Shifters’. Mild BDSM. Vague magical system. Kickass snarky heroine with infinite plot armor. An endless series of witless nonsense and cliche that proudly and profoundly disappeared up its own behind.

We can say I was not proud. And although I got paid, I turned down the offer of future work after I saw my first two efforts going to “print” without any kind of editing at all. When I read it back to myself, I was appalled and I would have been ashamed to have my own name on it. But still, it sold. Like the proverbial.

The lessons I took away from my brief engagement with the best seller list were simple truths.

• A lot of readers don’t care about quality. All they want is a story they already know.

• Self-pubbed authors need to market the shit out of their work—the “author” I wrote for was a blackbelt at this.

• You need to write to market.

In case you’re in any doubt, writing to market means researching a specific genre and reader expectations before you even begin to outline your story to ensure it will deliver what buyers already want. This is why we have all that BookTok romantasy lookalike shite now.

These days I imagine you would look for a genre or niche where you don’t have to sell too many copies to hit one of Amazon’s “bestseller” lists. And then feed the best sellers in that genre into Cheat-GPT and ask it to analyze the shit out of them, find the commonalities, and propose a standard beat sheet or outline. So that it becomes a production process. One you could probably automate with the help of Claude or something similar.

So far, writing to market hasn’t been for me.

However, ... dot ... dot ... dot ...

Only a week ago, I was larking around and told a few friends I was going to write a series called Free-Use Orc Dungeon as it would hit two thriving niches at once. And they didn’t laugh. They encouraged me.

So, I mocked up some silly book covers with the help of Elon Musk and still nobody laughed. They actually said they wanted to read it.

And then I thought, well, why the fucking fuck not?

It was so easy. I’ve seldom written faster. In only four mornings, I’d bashed out 18,000 words of Free-Use Orc Dungeon filth. And then I edited it. Down to 16,000. And now it’s published.

So, what I’m going to do now, because it might be fun or at least interesting, is take you on my Free-Use Orc Dungeon ride with me. Be warned, you will find evidence of a writer using Cheat-GPT.

First things first, I needed to name my Orc. I had no idea. So, of course, I turned to The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. And just between us, I don’t think ol’ JRR had much time for girls. All his Orcs were male (I think). I’ll stop here so you can add your own Terry Pratchett joke about dwarves and Cheery Littlebottom.

Anyhoo, Tolkien’s names all sounded like bad-tempered East European bears projectile vomiting after a long winter on the pop. Azog. Bolg, son of Azog. Gorbag. Shagrat. Grishnákh. And Uglúk.

Shagrat, really, JRR?

Moving on, Travis Baldree called his popular Orc heroine “Viv”. A nice, homely touch, but it was probably short for something like Bumhug the Fucking Elf Vivisectionist.

I turned to Cheat-GPT. “Gimme some Orc names,” I said. “For a hot female Orc.”

And the AI offered me Elara, Aria, Nova, and Lyra. And, for some unknown reason, Thraka. Which at least sounds vaguely Orc-like but wasn’t cute enough. It didn’t roll off the tongue. Then I turned to Google and learned much more than I ever wanted to know about World of Warcraft, Skyrim, and worse. No Elaras, thank Allah, but also nothing I could conceivably use.

Next, I took a dive into an online dictionary of unusual girl names and I found Vara, which apparently means “blessing” or “boon” in Sanskrit. And it was cute enough.

So, please meet Vara.

Next, I needed a setting. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. All you have to do is imagine a city like Tolkien’s Minas Tirith (that’s the white one, right?) but use a Japanese translator and botch the phonetic spelling to create Shiroto Citadel.

And then I needed my dungeon, which I had decided to call the Gilded Pits, the Elves’ secret pleasure prison beneath their beautiful gleaming city1.

Make these pits much bigger and more beautiful in your mind. And then go!

Four six-hour mornings, writing just for fun. Somedays with la Vuelta a España for company.

And then, stop! Because once you’ve knocked out your first draft, no matter how easily it comes, that’s when the real work begins. You know, unless you’re a “New York Times Bestselling Author” with literally no time to waste on editing.

Now, I won’t say I never make a mistake, never miss a typo or something equally dumb, but I do think I’m pretty good at this editing lark—and proof-reading too—and in my business, it’s all about volume, speed to market, and reducing overheads, so I will never hire an editor to work on my porn. I’m a one chick shop2.

On my first editing pass, I worked out who Vara was, which then gave me both the full story—which allowed me to see which bits had to go, and which needed rework—and the all-important kinks, including one I’d never tried before—never even thought about, if we’re being honest, but apparently, it’s a thing. F - U - T - A.

And I also made an important decision, Free-Use Orc Dungeon should exist in the same universe as my Isekai fantasy series The Legend of Eliza Jones. Why? Well, why not? By making a few subtle changes to my draft that nobody would ever notice and even fewer people would give a damn about, I made it possible for me to write some future crossover between Vara and Eliza, a London girl trapped in some portal fantasy universe that I may well now decide to call the Elizaverse. Why? Because I can. And because I really like Eliza and her story and it’s not selling well. Refer back to the first rule: Self-pubbed authors need to market the shit out of their work. This silly joke Orc idea of mine might prove popular enough to drive some more readers to explore Eliza too.

Anyhoo, that first editorial pass brought the story down to about 16,000 words. I wasn’t happy with that. I had really wanted to take it up to somewhere over 20,000. But I never pad my stories out. I am what you might call economical with words. And when a story’s done, it’s done. Stick a fork in it. At 16,000 words, Free-Use Orc Dungeon does everything anyone could ever need it to—you know, if you’re into free-use Orc porn and shit.

The second pass went quickly. I was just looking for stupidity and, in particular, opportunities to up the “fantasy” tone. By which I mean, taking out phrases like “I did the math” and replacing them with, hopefully more appropriate wording such as “I weighed the scales.” Nothing dramatic, really. Just little touches no one else is likely to notice, but that mattered to me.

The biggest problem I find with editing is the risk of second guessing yourself, and one of the lessons I’ve learned, slowly and painfully, is to trust my instincts over my intellect. Otherwise, I’d never get anything done. I’d be stuck in permanent rewrite hell. And permanent rewrite hell does not pay.

So, yeah. One silly joke. Four days writing. Two edits. And Free-Use Orc Dungeon was done.

Except ... dot ... dot ... dot ...

Except, there’s no point publishing anything on Amazon if you can’t sell it. And you can’t sell it if people can’t find it. And you won’t sell it, if once people find it, they think it looks like a big old bag of shite.

So, what does this mean?

Well, for erotica, it’s reasonably simple because no one lets you advertise your porn, so you have to rely on passive marketing. Which means you need:

Keywords—I’m not going to dive too deeply into this because they are so important and what little I’ve learned is my life vest in a heavily flooded field. Let’s just say these are the things you think people might search for if they’re interested in reading a book like yours. I spent a good thirty minutes worrying this to death for Free-Use Orc Dungeon and ended up with a combination of new ideas and recycled keywords that I believe have worked on other books of mine.

Title—Again, the title should be something people might search for. This came easily given the genesis of the idea. And I’m hoping Free-Use Orc Dungeon: A Dark Fantasy Tale of Free Use, Monster Romance, and Submission will hit a lot of sweet points with the masses without affronting Amazon, the AI censor dog.

Blurb—This has to sell the story, but it also has to do a job for user searches. Think of it this way, no one will ever get to read your blurb if they don’t find your book when they search for their kink. I spent an hour on this and it was still liable to change until moments before I publish the book:

It’s easy to read and absolutely does its best to explain and sell the story without becoming an essay, and it also hits search words like Orc, Elves, monster, submission, surrender, free-use, chains, size differences, shifting, and collar.

Cover—The book cover is probably the least important piece of “marketing collateral” because no one will see it if they don’t find your book based on their searching, your keywords, title, and blurb. However, your cover mustn’t be shit or amateur as fuck. It should draw the eye in a list of search results. At least in my world. After a lot of thought, this is the cover I decided to use. It has one or two things going for it.

And there you have it. Free-Use Orc Dungeon. Now available at an Amazon near you.

Click the cover or HERE to buy a copy for the hobbit in your life.

Let’s start out with the traditional welcome and warning. If you’re new around here, I’m very glad to have you. Make yourself at home. Sorry about the heat—the AC can’t cope. But if you’re not into the filthiest, filthy filth, maybe skip to the end where I talk about my more vanilla writing.

Still with me? Cool. So, now, what’s been going on?

Well, I’m still staying in the bosom of my family but getting ready to return to college any day soon. Don’t tell my parents but I won’t be sorry to go. The temperature in the frozen wastelands of the north is twenty to thirty degrees down on this Texas heat. I don’t think we’ve had a day below 100 degrees since I arrived in mid-June

Anyhoo, back to the filth. Remember my five-par Substack series Hotwife Honeymoon? Well, a couple of days ago, I published a follow-up.

I’ve called it part one of a serial called Famiglia, but I’m not entirely sure how far I’ll take it. Mafia porn is not really my thing. But please do take a look and let me know if you want more. I do have other ideas I could run with instead.

In other news, my Extended Porn Cinematic Universe (EPCU for short) has taken off now. I’ve published two MASSIVE HEGEMONY stories so far and three from BERGER U. There’s one more MH story scheduled to be come out soon, and I can see both series running for as long as my First Time Blacked series has, if there are readers who want them. The EPCU set-up makes it easy to introduce new characters and kinks.

I’ve also started a brand-new series called Backdoor Confessions. I bet you’ll never guess what that’s about.

Now, as has become traditional, here are the details of the stories I’ve published since we last spoke:

Aubrey’s Number

A Dark College Romance of Total Interracial Domination and Free-Use

Published July 26, 2026

Aubrey’s Number (10,000 words) bridges the dark, addictive world of the First Time Blacked Prof stories with the sprawling corporate dystopia of Berger U and MASSIVE HEGEMONY. Expect intense interracial age-gap dynamics, intense size-difference, and poetic justice.

“Very well-written”

“An easy five stars”

Aubrey’s Number at Amazon

Breaking Lily In

A Ballerina’s First-Time Backdoor Surrender

Published August 3, 2026

The first story in the new Backdoor Confessions series.

Lily's body is a temple. Mark’s about to desecrate the shit out of it.
Lily is a perfect little ballerina, who starves, bleeds, and sacrifices everything for her art. But when her director brutally dismisses her flawless technique as "boring" and "frigid," her fragile ego splinters and fragments. Furious, she complains to her rough, blue-collar fuckbuddy Mark. Only to find that he agrees. Mark decides, right then and there, to break Lily in.

“Beautifully done, and incredibly hot”

Breaking Lily In at Amazon

Kunsthaus

A Dark College Romance of Total Interracial Domination and Free-Use

Published August 10, 2026

The continuation of Aubrey’s Number and the explosive climax of her journey across the First Time Blacked and Berger U series, Kunsthaus (21,000 words) delivers a masterclass in elite degradation. Expect scalding hot free-use humiliation, intense femslash rivalries, complex kinbaku rope bondage and suspension, and the ultimate, mind-shattering destruction of a cruel girl who has finally met her match.

“A new technique for Ms Pike, and she elevates it to her usual, excellent descriptive standards”

“Humiliation and degradation are rampant throughout”

“Each layer builds higher than the last.”

“Brilliantly done.”

“A veritable circus of debauchery. The heat doesn’t let up, and it never repeats or gets boring.”

“Magnificently written.”

Kunsthaus at Amazon

Executive Hotwife Training

A Dark Corporate Cuckold & Submission Romance

Published Augst 16, 2026

A deep dive into extreme marital degradation, Executive Hotwife Training (9,000 words) is the brutal, calculating sequel to Executive Hotwife. From the anonymity of a dingy gloryhole booth to a big Black threesome in a high-rise penthouse, Claire embraces her new role and gives the performance of a lifetime, all in the name of revenge.

Expect intense cuckold humiliation, raw size-difference dominance, and a heroine who weaponizes her own degradation for the ultimate payback.

Executive Hotwife Training at Amazon.

Breaking Emily In

A Good Girl’s First-Time Backdoor Surrender

Published August 23, 2026

Emily was a good girl, until she met a bad man.

Brand-new and the second Backdoor Confession, Breaking Emily In (8,400 words) is a scorching tale of good girl corruption and intense surrender. Expect an explicit dive into intense backdoor action, taboo clean-up acts, and a rough powerful man dismantling a heroine who loves every filthy second of her fall from grace.

Breaking Emily In at Amazon

Coming Soon

This month I have a plan. So you can expect to see (probably):

• Executive Hotwife Corporate Retreat—The third and final story about Claire and Rick.

• Stormrider—The second of Eliza Jones’ isekai monster adventures.

• Gold—A bundle of four stories from the Olympic Village.

• Free-Use Orc Dungeon—The first story in a brand-new series that I shall be writing about on Substack, explaining how it came to be, my process, cetera.

Also likely to appear in September. Fallen will feature eleven stories each from a different series and will include a previously unpublished story from the life of slutwife Sloane and husband Richard, that follows on directly from their adventures in RM 1204.

And finally ...

One last little plug for my three-part whodunnit, Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express. It’s sort of a far-future Westworld meets Agatha Christie and they all get drunk. I wrote for a class and I like it a lot. I’d really appreciate your feedback. Even if it’s just get back to writing filth, it’s all you’re good for. I do want to share further examples of my vanilla (or almost) writing, but it would be nice to know if anyone gave a damn.

The Mollyverse

Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express—Episode One

Steam billowed from engine stacks. Travelers scurried across the open concourse. Up above on the footbridge, Mister Parrot smiled…

Read more

2 months ago · Molly Pike

And that, absolutely, is so much more than enough from me again.

Again, thanks for your interest in my humble filth.

Be good, take care, and have fun

mp/xo

Don’t miss the earlier series, Hotwife Honeymoon. Start here:

The Mollyverse

When in Rome: Hotwife Honeymoon—Part One

“God, Mark, do they ever even blink…

Read more

5 months ago · 13 likes · Molly Pike

Primae Noctis

The sky beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows had faded from a dusty Roman gold to a deep, bruised violet.

I sat on the edge of the massive four-poster bed, wrapped in the heavy, plush white robe the maids had left me in. My skin was soft, humming with the lingering warmth of the jasmine-scented bath, but internally, I was wound as tight as a piano wire.

I was waiting to be used.

Every time a floorboard creaked in the massive Palazzo, my heart leaped into my throat. I kept replaying the events of the club in my head—the dizzying, romantic tenderness of the two Italian brother. I didn’t know what to expect from them tonight. Would they be the gentle lovers who wiped my tears, or entitled aristocrats who bought another man’s wife for their amusement?

A soft, deliberate knock at the double doors shattered the quiet.

I jumped, my hands clutching the lapels of my robe tightly over my chest. “Come in,” I managed to whisper.

The doors opened silently.

Lorenzo and Matteo stepped into the room. They were dressed in immaculate black evening wear—crisp white shirts unbuttoned at the collar, tailored black trousers, and polished leather shoes that made no sound on the Persian rugs. They looked like dark, beautiful princes.

But their faces were solemn. The playful, predatory heat from the club was gone, replaced by a grave, almost religious seriousness.

Matteo was carrying a small, polished silver tray.

They walked to the foot of the bed and stopped. The air in the room suddenly felt incredibly heavy.

“Sophie,” Lorenzo said, his voice soft, a rich baritone that washed over me. He looked at my pale, frightened face with that same devastating pity I had seen in his eyes at L’Eclissi.

Matteo stepped forward and placed the silver tray on the velvet ottoman at the foot of the bed.

I looked down.

Sitting on the gleaming silver was my blue American passport. Next to it was my phone. And resting perfectly in the center of the tray were my rings. The diamond engagement ring Mark had put on my finger two years ago, and the platinum wedding band he had slipped on my hand only a week ago.

My breath hitched. My hand flew to my chest. “How ... you took these from him?”

“We did not take them, cara,” Matteo corrected gently. “He gave them to us.”

“I don’t understand,” I stammered, staring at the diamonds glittering under the warm lamplight.

Lorenzo reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen and set it down on the tray next to my rings.

“Listen,” Lorenzo commanded softly.

The audio was crisp, perfectly clear. I heard the rustle of paper, the clink of a glass, and then—my husband’s voice.

“Half a million euros. Tax-free. Transferred to the Cayman account today.” Mark sounded nervous, but there was a distinct, undeniable greed coating his words.

“The transfer is already pending, Mr. Miller.” Matteo’s voice, smooth and cold. “You have signed the annulment papers. The marriage never happened. She belongs to the Vettori family now.”

“Yeah, fine. Whatever,” Mark replied quickly. “Look, you guarantee she can’t come after my assets in Ohio? She has nothing, but I don’t want her trying to sue me later.”

“You will never hear from her again. We require absolute discretion.”

“You got it. She’s all yours.” Mark let out a heavy sigh, sounding relieved. Not heartbroken. Relieved. “Listen, I just want to get to the airport before the bitch even figures out I’m gone. Is the car downstairs?”

“Our driver is waiting for you, si.”

The recording clicked off.

The silence in the opulent bedroom was absolute. It felt like a vacuum.

I stared at the phone. My brain tried to process the words, but they were too massive, too devastating. He didn’t ask what they were going to do to me. Didn’t ask if I was safe. If they planned to hurt me. He didn’t even want to say goodbye. He took his money and sold his bride to the men who had used her only the day before. He sold me to an old man who came in my mouth and to his nephews who had both come on my tits, he’d even had the nerve to ask them for a ride to the airport.

Was that all I was worth?

Pain erupted in my chest. It forced a ragged, ugly sob out of my throat. And I doubled over, burying my face in my hands, crying so hard my shoulders shook violently.

Was that all I was worth?

I had given up my apartment for him. My job. My independence. I had let him degrade me on a bus. Whore me out in a club. I had done it all because I thought, underneath the twisted sickness, he was still my husband.

But he was nothing.

And now, neither was I.

I felt a weight shift on the mattress. Lorenzo sat down beside me. He wrapped a strong, warm arm around my shaking shoulders and pulled me into his side. He let me cry against his crisp white shirt, his large hand stroking my damp hair.

“Shh, piccolina,” Lorenzo murmured, kissing the top of my head. “It is a hard truth. But it is a clean wound. The poison, the infection, it is gone. You will heal perfectly. There will be no scars. And you are ours now.”

I cried until there were no tears left, until I was just a hollow, empty shell leaning against a beautiful stranger. The betrayal had burned away the last tether to my old life. Sophie Miller, the PR executive from Ohio, died right there on that bed.

I pulled back slowly, sniffing, wiping my raw eyes. I looked down at the silver tray. I reached out with a trembling hand, picked up the rings, and dropped them into the small wastebasket beside the nightstand. They hit the bottom with a pathetic little clang.

Matteo smiled, a genuine, warm expression. “Good girl.”

He picked up a garment bag that he had draped over a chair when they walked in. He unzipped it and pulled out a dress.

It was nothing like the slutty black silk Mark had bought for me. This was a masterpiece. A floor-length, vintage nightgown made of the sheerest, most delicate white silk I had ever seen. It was trimmed in French lace. It looked angelic. It looked virginal.

But when Matteo held it up to the light, I saw that it was completely translucent. It would hide absolutely nothing of me.

“Stand up, Sophie, please,” Lorenzo said softly.

And I obeyed, I stood. I let the heavy plush robe slide off my shoulders and pool at my feet. I stood naked before them. My skin still flushed from the hot water, my shaved pussy fully exposed to their appreciative eyes.

They treated me with a strange, almost ritualistic reverence. Lorenzo lifted the sheer white silk and slid it over my head. The fabric drifted down my body like a ghost, settling over my breasts, clinging to my hips. Through the sheer white material, the dark pink halos of my nipples and the pink slit of my bare sex were perfectly, tantalizingly visible.

I shivered. “Are you ... are you going to ...” I couldn’t finish the sentence. My body was humming, a sick, needy ache building between my legs despite the emotional devastation I felt.

Was that all I was worth?

Lorenzo cupped my cheek, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. He smiled, but it was a solemn smile.

“Not yet, piccolina,” he whispered. “We cannot touch you yet. First, we must present you to the Don.”

My stomach plummeted.

The Don.

Signore Vettori. The older man. The Patriarch.

“But ... but I gave him a handjob,” I stammered, the panic rising in my throat. “I cleaned him. I thought that was ...”

“That was an audition,” Matteo said, stepping behind me and gently resting his hands on my bare shoulders. “To see if you might be compatible … simpatico … someone we might invite to join our family. And you passed. But tonight is different. Tonight , Sophie, is your initiation. And in our family, the head of the bloodline claims the right of first taste.”

Le droit de seigneur. Jus primae noctis. The ancient, barbaric rule of lords and kings. I was a peasant being offered to the lord before any of his knights could take their turn.

“Come,” Lorenzo said, taking my left hand while Matteo took my right.

They led me barefoot out of the suite. We walked in silence through the cavernous, dimly lit halls of the Palazzo. Our footsteps echoed on the marble. I felt like a human sacrifice, flanked by my beautiful guards, walking toward the altar in a sheer white shroud.

We turned down a long corridor lined with antique armor and heavy tapestries, heading toward the master wing. At the end of the hall stood a pair of massive, carved mahogany doors.

Lorenzo didn’t knock. He simply pushed the heavy doors open.

The air inside the massive study was thick with the smell of tobacco, leather, and woodsmoke. A fire roared in a massive stone hearth.

Sitting in a wingback chair facing the fire, and away from us, was Signore Vettori, wearing a deep burgundy silk dressing gown.

He drew a slow drag from a fatcigar, the cherry glowing bright red in the dimly lit room and exhaled a plume of blue smoke.

Lorenzo and Matteo led me to the center of the room, stopping on an intricately woven Persian rug directly behind the older man’s chair.

They let go of my hands.

“On your knees,” Matteo whispered.

I sank to the floor. The sheer white silk pooled around my knees and I bowed my head, my heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs.

Lorenzo and Matteo took a step back, melting into the shadows of the study. They lowered their heads respectfully.

They were offering me up.

Signore Vettori slowly turned his chair around. He looked down at me, kneeling on his rug in my sheer, virginal white silk. His cold, obsidian eyes swept over my exposed breasts and my shivering form.

He took the cigar out of his mouth and smiled.

“Welcome to my family, Sophie,” he rasped.

The heat from the roaring fire baked the right side of my face, but a cold, terrifying dread was spreading through my veins, freezing me from the inside out.

Signore Vettori stood up from his wingback chair. He moved with the slow, deliberate power of a man who owned the very air he breathed. The heavy burgundy silk of his dressing gown swished softly as he walked toward me.

He stopped directly in front of me, the polished leather of his slippers inches from my bare knees. I kept my eyes fixed on the intricate red and gold pattern of the Persian rug, unable to look up into the face of the man who headed up my new family.

“Look at me,” he said.

I slowly lifted my head. His face was a map of power—deep lines etched into tanned, leathery skin, eyes as cold and unforgiving as black ice.

“You are no longer an American or a wife,” he said, taking a slow drag from his cigar. He exhaled the thick blue smoke directly into my face. I blinked, my eyes watering from the sting, but I didn’t dare cough or turn away. “You belong to the Vettori bloodline now. You will live in luxury. You will be protected. But you will serve us. All of us.”

He looked past me, his gaze finding his nephews standing silently in the shadows.

“My nephews are eager.” A dry amusement colored Vettori’s tone. “Already, they have a taste for you. But they know the law, the rules of our house.”

He looked back down at me. “The first fruit always belongs to the Patriarch. It is my right to break you in. To claim you formally. For myself and for my family.”

Those words sent a shudder of panic straight through me. There was no escaping this. I was about to be fucked by this stranger. By this man who was decades older than me. Three, for sure. Four, possibly. Maybe even five. The handjob I gave him in the club had been degrading, but it had been an act I performed on him. This ... this would be more. Invasion. Surrender. The final destruction of the last boundary that separated Sophie the wife from Sophie the whore.

“Get up,” he ordered.

I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaking so violently I almost fell back down.

Vettori stepped forward. He reached down and gripped the thin, delicate lace collar of my vintage nightgown. With one sharp, violent jerk, he tore it open.

The sound of the tearing fabric was deafening in the quiet study. I gasped, crossing my arms over my bare breasts instinctively, my body shrinking away from the sudden exposure.

“Do not hide from me,” Vettori said. He grabbed both of my wrists and wrenched my arms apart, pinning them to my sides. I was all but naked from the waist up, standing before him, the ruined halves of the previous silk hanging uselessly off my shoulders.

He dropped his cigar into a heavy crystal ashtray on a side table. He didn’t bother untying his dressing gown. He simply reached inside the folds of the burgundy silk and pulled his cock free.

He was already fully, brutally hard. The veins stood out thick and angry on his heavy shaft. It looked massive in the firelight.

He grabbed my upper arm and practically dragged me across the Persian rug toward his massive, antique mahogany desk. The desk was meticulously organized—stacks of paper, a heavy brass lamp, an ornate silver letter opener.

With a sweep of his arm, Vettori cleared the center of the desk. Papers fluttered to the floor like dead leaves.

He spun me around, placed his heavy hands on my shoulders, and shoved me face-down onto the polished wood.

I let out a sharp cry, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the desk. My breasts were flattened against the hard wood. Vettori stepped behind me, his hips pressing into the back of my thighs.

He grabbed the hem of the torn white nightgown and shoved it up my legs, bunching the sheer fabric around my waist. I was completely presented to him now.

“Lorenzo. Matteo,” Vettori called out. “Come here, nephews. Watch.”

I heard the soft tread of their leather shoes on the rug. The brothers emerged from the shadows and stepped into the firelight. They didn’t look eager. They looked solemn, their jaws tight. They stopped a few feet away, taking up positions on either side of the desk.

“Watch how a Vettori claims what is his,” their Patriarch said.

The two men who had treated me with such tenderness, the men who I had foolishly hoped would save me from such brutality, were standing silently, watching their uncle prepare to use me. They were completely subservient to him, to his great power.

Vettori spat into his palm, slapped the spit onto the head of his cock, and stepped into me.

He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging painfully into my hip bones, and slammed his heavy cock against my aching cunt.

“No, please!” I sobbed, my voice cracking, begging a man who had zero empathy.

He ignored me. He thrust his hips forward, a brutal, driving force.

I screamed.

The pain was sharp and blinding. He was so much thicker than Mark. He stretched me mercilessly, tearing into me. I thought I felt myself actually ripping as he buried himself to the hilt, his hips cracking against my ass cheeks with the force of a gunshot.

The impact knocked the breath out of my lungs. I squeezed my eyes shut, my forehead resting on the cold mahogany, my tears pooling on the polished wood.

And old man Vettori began to fuck me.

It was a cold, rhythmic, punishing assault. I sensed he wanted to hurt me, mark me, ruin me for anybody else. Especially, his nephews.

He pulled almost all the way out and then slammed back in with terrifying force.

I screamed again.

“Look at her,” Vettori grunted to his nephews. “Look at this tight little American cunt take all of my cock.”

I opened my eyes, my vision blurred with tears. Through the haze, I saw Lorenzo standing to my right. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides, his knuckles white. His dark eyes were locked on my face, full of a deep, tortured sympathy, but he didn’t move an inch to stop it. He couldn’t. He was bound by the bloodline and their laws. Their family.

I should have been ashamed. No, I was ashamed. The brothers were watching me as their uncle, their Patriarch, reduced me to little more than a piece of meat. But beneath the shame, beneath all the pain, beneath the degradation of this ritual, a dark, twisted sickness began to bloom in the pit of my stomach.

I was being broken by a billionaire mobster. I was being claimed by a criminal lord while two of his beautiful knights watched and waited for their turn.

Vettori’s thrusting was awakening the swollen, hypersensitive nerves deep inside me. My body, exhausted and traumatized, was slowly surrendering to his force.

I began to get wet, turning slick and sloppy.

Vettori felt the change . “Ah,” he grunted to his nephews. “The little whore wakes up.”

He reached around my waist, his large, calloused hand finding my throbbing clit. He pinched it hard, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger while he continued to hammer into me from behind.

The pain melted into a chaotic, overwhelming surge of pure pleasure.

I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to.

“Oh god!” I wailed, my hips involuntarily pushing back against his brutal thrusts, begging him for more. “Yes ... please ... oh, fuck!”

“That’s it, you slut,” he said. “Now take my seed. Take it!”

My vision went completely white. It was the hardest, most violent orgasm of my life so far. My cunt clamped down on his thick shaft in a vice-like grip, milking him with spasming, desperate contractions. I screamed again, a long, ragged sound that tore my throat raw, entirely submitting to the man, the Patriarch, the head of my family, who was actively destroying me.

My orgasm triggered his. He let out a groan, slammed into me one final time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and held me there in place, pinned against the desk.

I felt the hot, pulsing jets shooting deep into me. The old man emptied himself into me, claiming me, marking me as his from the inside out.

He stayed inside me for a long moment, our heavy breathing the only sound in the study. Then, he pulled out.

My legs gave way instantly. I collapsed against the mahogany desk, a trembling, broken, dripping mess, the torn white silk stained with my sweat and tears. Semen, hot and thick, began to leak from my ruined, swollen cunt, trailing down my inner thighs.

Vettori tucked his softening cock back into his dressing gown and retied its silk belt. He walked back to his wingback chair, picked up his cigar from the crystal ashtray, and took a long drag. He looked at me, a pathetic heap on his desk, and then looked at his nephews.

He gave them a curt, dismissive nod.

“She is broken in,” the Patriarch announced, blowing a plume of blue smoke into the air. “You may have her now.”

A note from Molly herself

This is the first story in a new series, Famiglia, which picks up more or less when Sophie’s Hotwife Honeymoon left off. I’m not entirely sure if I’ll continue this series far beyond this point because I have lots of other ideas I’d like to share with you. So do please let me know if you think Sophie’s story has run its course or if you need more.

I also try my hand from time to time at some much more vanilla fiction. This is a far future crime story in three parts—all available now. It’s the bastard child of Asimov and Agatha Christie, kind off, I suppose. Give it a shot, if it’s your kind of thing.

The Mollyverse

Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express—Episode One

Steam billowed from engine stacks. Travelers scurried across the open concourse. Up above on the footbridge, Mister Parrot smiled…

Read more

2 months ago · Molly Pike

And if you like this kind of porny thing, you can get a free book here.

Or you can scan this thing.

And, of course, you can always do this.

Subscribe now

No, today I’m not overreacting to the grifters right here on this very website trying to con hopeful wannabe writers out of $7/month with their “I’m a literary agent” “insider” spiel. I’m not even talking about the twats who want you to pay them to “edit” or “doctor” your manuscript or for an idiots’ course in the fucking obvious.

Today I’m overreacting to the hell that is Querying. Something I swear I will never do. Over the last few days, I’ve been helping a very sweet and anxious friend from college put together a query package for a thing she’s written. A fantasy-type thing. And not half-bad at all. Not that that’s relevant here. What is relevant is how scummy so many agents are. Because after we’d finalized A and B queries for the US and the UK, after we’d agonized over her fucking synopsis—three different fucking versions—and her elevator pitch, and after we’d polished her first ten pages until they shone like the sun out of a literary agent’s backside, we then had to find some actual human beings worth querying.

I could have picked on any one of a dozen real charmers we looked at yesterday, but here’s just one who won’t be getting the chance to reject my friend.

Due to the volume of queries, I am unable to provide feedback, and I will only be in touch if I’m interested in reading more material.

If I have not responded within 6 weeks, you are welcome to submit to another agent.

Rude, lazy cunt. Fuck her and her entire agency. Who are “always looking for exciting, fresh, new talent” but have no intention of treating them with anything even approaching respect. Assholes of the first, second, and third water.

Let’s just unpack this, shall we?

I am unable to provide feedback. Fair enough.

I will only be in touch if I’m interested in reading more material. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Lazy fucking cunt.

I’m sure these assholes must be aware how hard it is for an aspiring writer to complete a manuscript and polish it to a place where they’re prepared to share it with others. After all, they more than likely tried and failed themselves before they decided they were so very fucking clever that they deserved to make a living off other people’s work. And they maybe even have some idea how much courage is actually involved in sending your book to these supposed experts for their consideration. And yet: I will only be in touch if I’m interested in reading more material.

Why don’t you say it with me? Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.

There is no excuse other than incompetence or poverty1 for any business in this space not to have some kind of canned reply system in place so that it takes only a click or two to reject a query and do the writer the kindness of letting them know rather than just leaving them hanging, not knowing if you ever read their email at all.

And moving on:

If I have not responded within 6 weeks, you are welcome to submit to another agent. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.

We are welcome to submit to another agent any time we fucking please, you utter fucking cunt, unless you’ve actually read our fucking query and asked for a short exclusive window. So, what you’re actually saying here is, send me that query, loser, send me those 300 words you’ve agonized over because them’s the rules we’ve set, but please be aware there’s every chance I won’t even open your tiresome little email unless you’re related to somebody I know or you paid for access by stumping up to attend some conference for idiots, and there ain’t no fucking way I’ll waste a single breath clicking a button to send you a form reply to let you know that this here all-knowing literary genius doesn’t think your shit is worth the cheese off a dead dog’s dick. Because I’m really fucking important and you’re not.

I have to say it again. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.

Counterpoint

In the interests of balance, I should acknowledge that last year, I had drinks with a very lovely literary agent who gave me great advice. So, no, I don’t think they’re all cunts. Just the cunts who act like cunts.

Additional Credit and an Idea

I guess this is Darwinism in action. An approach that, whether by design or not, favors the psychopath self-promoters of BookTok and elsewhere2 over those sensitive, introverted types who actually need to be encouraged and nurtured by this industry but are, instead, abandoned by absolute utter cunts. Unless the sensitive introverts are prepared to pay for access.

Given that I am, according to many, a bit of a psychopath on the sly, maybe there is a business opportunity for me here. What if I set up a Querying Agency which handled the entire query process for writers? MPQA could collaborate with the sensitive introverts on their queries and synopsisisises, find agents to submit to, and manage the entire process including rejections and simply provide a bloodless monthly report plus any good news as and when. And all this for a small, fixed fee plus a commission based on, say, a writer’s first ten years of earnings.

Well, I guess that would make me a parasite and a cunt. Just like ... well, second verse same as the first.

Now I’m not a literary agent, a book coach, or an editor trying desperately to get my greedy, sticky little fingers on all your hard-earned money by fluffing you harder than Natalie Harp working on a Certain Orange Somebody, but I do think all you idiots aspiring writers might benefit from a little of my experience and insight as the self-proclaimed Porn Queen of Illinois1.

So, I’m thinking of starting a writing school and rather than get ahead of myself building the whole damn thing on spec—because I’m not a fucking idiot—I thought I’d give you a first free lesson to see how much interest there is. And to show you how serous I am, I’m going to reveal a writing secret very few people know—only literary agents, book coaches, and editors flogging their wares on the interweb. So, yeah, basically, I’m dropping elite MFA-level wisdom here. Do not pass it on. It could be your competitive advantage.

Lesson One—Show, Don’t Tell: The Secret of My Success

If there is one rule every aspiring novelist should tattoo onto the inside of their eyelids, it is this:

Show, don’t fucking tell.

Readers don’t want information. They want experience. They don’t want to be told that a character is proud, lonely, foolish, or in love. They want to discover these things for themselves through carefully chosen actions, dialogue, and vivid sensory detail.

In short, never tell the reader what they can see if they put in the work.

This principle has guided me and quite a few of the greatest writers in history.

Take Jane Austen, for example. Her novels are masterpieces of showing rather than telling. Consider this description from Pride and Prejudice:

Notice how Austen never simply tells us what Mr. Bennet is like. Instead, she allows us to infer his personality naturally through elegant prose. The result is a vivid portrait that feels entirely earned.

Contrast this with amateur writing:

One version merely informs us. The other lets us experience the complexity for ourselves.

The difference is obvious.

Charles Dickens understood this principle equally well. Rather than telling us that Ebenezer Scrooge was unpleasant, he famously showed us:

Observe the restraint. Dickens never resorts to simply informing us that Scrooge is mean. Instead, he paints an objective picture, trusting readers to reach their own conclusions.

This is the hallmark of great literature and much of my porn.

Unfortunately, inexperienced writers often fall into the trap of exposition.

Consider these two examples.

Telling—Sarah was nervous before the interview.

Showing—Sarah straightened the already straight stack of papers for the fourth time, wiped her palms on her skirt, checked the time again, and smiled too quickly when the receptionist looked up. She was kind of hot.

The second version is unquestionably superior because it allows the reader to participate in constructing meaning.

This is not merely a stylistic preference. Modern neuroscience suggests that readers become more immersed when they infer emotional states rather than having them explained. While we needn’t concern ourselves with all the blather of the technical details, the science is clear—showing is simply better. End of.

Naturally, all accomplished writers understand this.

George Orwell, for instance, believed that prose should be concrete and precise. His famous description of Mr. Jones in Animal Farm never merely informs us that the farmer is neglectful:

Again, Orwell resists the temptation to tell.

Likewise, Leonid Toystory’s unforgettable opening to Anna Thing demonstrates supreme confidence in showing:

Rather than announcing a universal truth outright, Toystory subtly invites readers to discover it for themselves as the novel unfolds.

This is what separates literature from mere storytelling. This is the seldom spoken secret that will elevate your writing to the level of any of the MFA elite. And possibly to something near Claude Opus 4.8.

There are, of course, rare occasions when telling may be permissible. You might need to compress several months into a paragraph, bridge two scenes, or communicate routine information without slowing the narrative. These exceptions merely prove the rule.

Whenever possible, show.

Never tell.

Never explain.

Never give up. Never surrender.

Never summarize what can be dramatized.

Never state directly what the reader could infer.

Indeed, if you ever catch yourself writing a sentence that simply communicates information, stop immediately. Ask instead: How can I make the reader work a little harder?

Because those nerdy bastards really enjoy working. They love assembling clues. They thrill at the myriad ways text and culture can shape interpretation. They get wet (or hard) for subtlety. Believe me, I know.

That is why every great novelist—from Austen to Dickens, from Toystory to Orwell—understood the enduring importance of showing rather than telling. And that’s why the elite MFA mafia don’t want you to know!

But do you know what? Once you begin noticing this super-secret trick of the trade in great literature, you’ll see it everywhere. Especially in porn.

So what do you think? Is this a goer or what? For Lesson Two, I was thinking of taking on Querying and how to use your opening paragraph to put the Agent firmly in their place.

Let’s start out with the traditional welcome and warning. If you’re new around here, I’m very glad to have you. Make yourself at home. Sorry about the cat hair. But if you’re not into the filthiest filth, maybe skip to the end where I talk about my more vanilla writing.

Still with me? Cool. So, now, what’s been going on?

Well, I’m still buying books I have no time to read, but I’ve learned it’s a well-known phenomenon and I wrote about it here—Tsundoku Sensei.

I’ve also been mainlining the Tour de France—a passion of mine since lockdown—and I couldn’t be happier for Richard Carapaz who won Stage 18 and Stage 20—two of the hardest and most mountainous stages of the entire race—and the King of the Mountains title for the second time. Legend.

The Tour ends today and then I guess I’ll have no excuse not to write a whole bunch of brand-new smut.

Talking of which, I’ve just published the fifth and final episode in my Substack series Hotwife Honeymoon.

I’ve also started publishing stories in my Extended Porn Cinematic Universe (EPCU for short). The first MASSIVE HEGEMONY story was published late in June—Executive Hotwife—and the first BERGER U story came out just in time for July 4th. More on that below.

Now, as has become traditional, here are the details of the stories I’ve published since we last spoke:

First Time Blacked—Open House

Published June 28, 2026

Open House (15,000 words) is the explosive fifth chapter in the dark, addictive descent of Professor Julia Hayes and her newly initiated colleague, Dr. Beth Miller. Watch as they face the ultimate test—the college football team's defensive line.

“Brilliant and nasty”

“Beyond brutal”

“A clear five-star effort”

Open House at Amazon

Fourth of July

Published July 2, 2026

The first story in the new BERGER U EPCU.

They walked in as scholars. They crawled out as free-use sluts.
The student leadership of Berger-U's Department of Women's Studies are fiercely competitive and desperate to secure valuable internships.
But at Berger-U, academic excellence is never enough.
The secret of success is always submission.
So, this year as every year, on Independence Day, four top-tier students are sent to the Department of African Studies
To atone for their white privilege.
Even scholarship girl Maya who is Japanese.

“A masterpiece Gang Bang”

“I loved how Molly wove the characters and degradation together!”

Fourth of July at Amazon

Waverider

Published July 5, 2026

Eliza didn't want to die looking like some kind of super slutty Goth.
But when an invisible monster chases you out of London and into a savage new world, you don't get a chance to change out of your Halloween fit.

A dark Isekai fantasy of submission and survival, Waverider (7,500 words) is the first book in The Legend of Eliza Jones, a pulse-pounding, high-heat monster-hunting portal fantasy series. Get ready for a kick-ass heroine, scorching-hot monster sex, FFM threesomes, tentacle fantasies, and a dangerous quest where every climax brings our hero closer to victory. If you're looking for a dark, explicit dive into intense size differences, dominant creatures, femslash, and a heroine who would eagerly trade her innocence for a magical sword, your quest begins here.

“Ms Pike is up to her usual ultra sexy choreography”

“This monster is super nasty.”

“A very dark, slippery, slimy adventure.”

“Not my usual fare, but it’s fun and exciting.”

Waverider at Amazon

Lowdown—An Origin Story

Published July 13, 2026

Before she became Richard’s trophy wife, Sloane was just a college girl struggling to survive.

Lowdown (53,000 words) is the dark, shocking prequel to Sloane and Richard’s twisted marriage. You’ve seen Sloane as Richard’s hotwife in my First Time Blacked stories Calabasas, Watts, and RM 1204. Now see her as a hot young cheerleader rescued and then broken in by the wealthy older man.

See her elevated her into penthouse luxury and shaped into his elegant young partner and private slut.

And watch as she struggles to survive a grueling weekend with three of Richard’s guests—massive and unstoppable Black college football stars.

“Finally, a longer story from MP. A trophy wife origin story that pulls no punches.”

“The eroticism. The heat.”

“All the questions from the first three volumes are answered here.”

“Brilliant, erotic, nasty, and gratifying.”

Lowdown at Amazon.

First Time Blacked—Jailbird

Published July 20, 2026

Michaela feels like a ghost haunting her own life. But then a big black storm rolls into town.

Jailbird (9,000 words) is a scorching story of domestic transgression and psychological surrender.

“A very erotic story. A bored suburban wife and mother discovers new life when her neighbor’s brother moves in next door.”

“The only problem I have with this is I want more.”

“Molly’s writing will stir something inside you.”

Jailbird at Amazon

Coming Soon

If you don’t know, and why would you, the Amazon publishing process is a little magic black box. You submit what is essentially a request to publish a new story with all the files and information they need, and then you sit back and wait. New books can publish within a few hours, or it can take days. And sometimes they refuse to publish them at all—these are the stories I end up publishing on Smashwords instead.

I’m telling you this because I just fed a new story into the Amazon’s little magic black box a couple of hours ago, but I have no idea when it will be available to you. Tomorrow, probably. Anyway, keep an eye out for Aubrey’s Number which is both the second story in my new Berger U series and a continuation of the Prof series of books in First Time Blacked. So if you enjoyed Prof, Oral Exam, Office Hours, Faculty, and Open House, and you’d like to see Aubrey get her comeuppance, then maybe keep an eye open for Aubrey’s Number? And just as you know, there will a sequel to Aubrey’s Number called Kunsthaus which should appear in another week or two.

I’ve spoken previously about my first collection or “bundle” of stories, and it’s ready to go, sometime in August. Fallen will feature eleven stories each from a different series and will include a previously unpublished story from the life of slutwife Sloane and husband Richard, that follows on directly from their adventures in RM 1204.

And finally ...

I’ve now published a little vanilla fiction on Substack. Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express is something I wrote for a class, and I like it a lot. It’s sort of a far-future Westworld meets Agatha Christie and they all get drunk. All three parts are available now. You should probably start with the first.

The Mollyverse

Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express—Episode One

Steam billowed from engine stacks. Travelers scurried across the open concourse. Up above on the footbridge, Mister Parrot smiled…

Read more

2 months ago · Molly Pike

And that, absolutely, is so much more than enough from me again.

Again, thanks for your interest in my humble filth.

Be good, take care, and have fun

mp/xo

Don’t miss the earlier episodes of this series. Start here:

The Mollyverse

When in Rome: Hotwife Honeymoon—Part One

“God, Mark, do they ever even blink…

Read more

5 months ago · 13 likes · Molly Pike

Finale

The morning sun was a thin, gray stiletto blade cutting through the heavy blackout curtains of the honeymoon suite.

I lay perfectly still on the very edge of the mattress. My body screamed. Mark’s brutal fucking had left my cunt swollen and raw, aching and bruised from his relentless, punishing thrusts.

He was sprawled down the center of the bed, snoring softly, one arm thrown over his eyes. He slept with the dead-weight exhaustion of a parasite that had gorged itself on someone’s blood. He’d spent the night offering my body up to strangers, blaming me for his own sick demands, and then he’d used his own cock as a weapon to finish the job.

The old-fashioned digital clock on the nightstand said: 7:45 AM.

Alessia’s words from the bathroom at the club echoed in my head. Tomorrow morning. He will sleep late ... I will meet you for an espresso.

It was madness. It was dangerous. A reckless gamble. If Mark woke up and found me gone, the punishment would be severe. He wouldn’t tolerate me wandering the streets of Rome alone and unsupervised.

But staying in his bed felt like waiting to be led to the slaughterhouse.

I slid out from under the duvet, biting the inside of my cheek against the dull throb in my bruised knees as they took my weight. I moved carefully in the dim light, testing every floorboard for creaks. A shower was out of the question—the plumbing would wake him. I snatched a creased yellow sundress draped over a wooden chair and pulled it over my head. My hands shook so badly I fumbled the buttons. I shoved my feet into flat sandals, grabbed my small crossbody purse, and crept to the door.

I held my breath as I turned the deadbolt. Click.

Mark shifted on the bed and I froze, my blood turning to ice water in my veins. I waited for something to happen, for him to come after me, but he just rolled over and dragged a pillow over his head.

I slipped out into the hallway and eased the door shut.

Halfway down the stairwell, I looked down at myself and my stomach dropped. I was wearing the exact same yellow dress Mark had told me to wear when he set me up to get fingered by a total stranger on a public bus.

Beyond the hotel’s sterile air conditioning, Rome was already baking. The air tasted of exhaust stale fumes, cigarettes, and yeast. I walked quickly, my head down, keeping as close as I could to the city’s ancient walls. I followed Alessia’s directions, banking right past a sprawling piazza, scanning the awnings until I saw it.

Caffè Sant‘Eustachio.

It was a tight pavement cafe, already loud, packed with locals throwing back shots of espresso at the standing bar.

Alessia was sitting at a small metal table in the sun. In daylight, she was even more flawless and intimidating. Dressed in a crisp white linen blouse and charcoal wool trousers, she looked like a movie star. Or old money. Or power.

She spotted me and raised a manicured hand, gesturing to the empty chair opposite her.

I collapsed into it, only too aware of my greasy, unwashed hair and the dried sweat and sex of the club still clinging to my skin.

“You look terrible,” she said, just stating a fact. She pushed a small porcelain cup across the table at me. “Drink. It has sugar. You need the energy.”

I grabbed the cup with both hands just to keep it steady and tossed the thick, black espresso back in one gulp. The bitter heat seared my throat and unknotted the tension in my chest a fraction.

“I’m here,” I whispered, glancing nervously back the way I’d come. “But I can’t stay long. If he wakes up ...”

Alessia waved a hand dismissively. “Let him wake up. Let him panic. It is good for him.” She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “So. Sophie from America. Do you understand what happened to you last night?”

“My husband ...” I choked on the word. “He took me to a sex club. He made me touch strangers.”

“He didn’t just make you touch strangers,” she said. “He put you on the open market. He paraded you like a cheap trinket.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “The older man. The first one in the backroom. His name is Signore Vettori. He is my uncle.”

My mouth went slack. “Your ... your uncle?”

“Yes,” she said. “And the club? L’Eclissi? My family owns it. I manage it for them.”

The Eternal City seemed to spin. “Oh my god ...”

“And the other two men,” she continued. “My cousins. Lorenzo and Matteo.” A small, proud smile kissed her lips. “They are also Vettori blood.”

My stomach rebelled as I connected the dots. “So ... Mark knew? None of this was random?” My whole

Alessia shook her head. “Your husband contacted the club several months ago. Spoke to a barman. Niccolo. He agreed to help Mark set you up. He confessed everything to me yesterday. He was the man who touched you on the bus. Today …” She shrugged. “Today, he’s unemployed. The Vettori do not operate that way.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“After your experience on the bus, your husband called the club again. Matteo answered. He told your Mark to bring you to my boutique. My uncle waited for you there with two of his men. Your husband made a show of you. Displayed you to my uncle. Made an offer of you. Last night was the delivery of that offer. Your husband wanted to see an old man use his wife.”

Tears stung my eyes. Mark hadn’t just stumbled into a dark cuckold kink. He had drawn up blueprints, planned this carefully, and led me into a trap. That sick sadistic bastard had literally trafficked me.

“Of course, your husband had no idea at all who my uncle actually was.”

“But your uncle …”

“Yes.” She shrugged, dismissing what the old man had done to me. “If it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else. And he thought you were attractive.”

He came in my mouth. The hot, salty blast of the old man’s cum painted the back of my throat all over again.

“And my cousins,” Alessia continued, her voice softening slightly. “They saw what your husband was doing to you. They saw his plans for you. Saw how he left you on the floor, dripping with my uncle’s mess. It offended them. Vettori men do not treat beautiful things with such ... crudeness. So, they stepped in. They wanted to show you what a real man’s touch feels like, before your husband dragged you all the way down into his gutter.”

The memory of their soft kisses, the gentle way they had wiped the cum from my skin, flooded back.

“Your husband is a sick, small man, Sophie,” Alessia said firmly. “He will destroy you. He will keep pushing your boundaries until you are nothing but gaping holes for his amusement. You cannot stay with him.”

“I have to,” I sobbed, burying my face in my hands.

“No, you don’t. You pack your bags. You go to the airport. You fly back to America.”

“I can’t!” I whispered fiercely, looking up at her through blurry eyes. “ I have nothing left to go back to!”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I gave it all up for him,” I explained, the words tumbling out in a humiliating rush. “I gave up my apartment in Ohio. I quit my career because he wanted me to ‘focus on the marriage.’ All my savings—every dime I had— went into the joint account to pay for our wedding and this honeymoon. My name isn’t even on the lease for his apartment. If I leave him, I have zero dollars. No job. Nowhere to sleep. I’m trapped.”

I slumped back in my chair, the fight draining out of me. “And he knows it, too. That’s why he’s doing this now. He waited until I was isolated in a foreign country, completely dependent on him, to spring this trap. If I walk away, I’m homeless and broke.”

Alessia stared at me. For a long moment, the only sound was the clatter of espresso cups and the low murmur of conversation around us.

Then, very slowly, she smiled at me.

She reached out and laid her cool, manicured hand over my trembling one.

“Then you do not go back to America,” she said softly. “You come with me.”

I stared at her hand resting on mine. Her skin was flawless, her nails painted a glossy, expensive nude. My own hand looked pale, bruised, and small beneath her.

“Come with you?” I echoed. “Where? Back to the club?”

Alessia laughed. The rich, throaty sound turned heads at nearby tables. “No, cara mia. Not the club. I am offering you sanctuary. Real sanctuary. You will come to the Palazzo Vettori. You will be a guest of my family.”

I blinked, trying to process the shift. “The Palazzo?”

“My family’s home,” she clarified, her thumb gently stroking my knuckles. “Our estate. It is very private. Very secure. Your husband cannot touch you there. Nobody can. You will have a suite of rooms, exquisite food, a new wardrobe ... anything you desire. You will never have to worry about money or safety again.”

It sounded like a fairy tale, like an impossible rescue from a nightmare I had just about resigned myself to. But I wasn’t an idiot. Even in my broken, exhausted state, I knew that women like Alessia, families like the Vettoris, didn’t offer absolute luxury to random American tourists out of charity.

I pulled my hand out from under hers, tucking it defensively in my lap. “Why?” I whispered. “Why would you do that for me? Your uncle used me like a toilet last night.”

Alessia didn’t flinch. “My uncle is a complicated man, Sophie. Your husband offered you up on a platter, so he took you. But my cousins ... Lorenzo and Matteo ... they were very taken with you.

She leaned back, her dark eyes pinning me to my seat. “They saw how your husband treated you. They saw a beautiful, refined woman being degraded by a pig. They wished to ... elevate you. To show you how a woman of your caliber should be kept.”

“Kept.”

“Yes. Kept,” she agreed. “You have nowhere to go. No money. If you go back to that hotel room, your husband will snap a collar around your neck and drag you back to Ohio to be his private whore. I am offering you an alternative.”

“And what is the price of this alternative?”

Alessia smiled. “There is no price, Sophie. You will be our guest. But ... well, you must understand the nature of my family. We share everything. We protect what is ours, and we enjoy what is ours. Lorenzo and Matteo ... they wish to protect you. And they wish to enjoy you. Together.”

The breath rushed out of my lungs.

She wasn’t offering freedom. Only a different cage. A gilded cage lined with velvet. I’d be trading Mark’s abuse for total submission to the Vettori family. I’d be shared between two brothers who had already shown me that they knew exactly how my body worked.

“I ... I can’t just leave Mark,” I panicked. “My clothes, my passport ... they’re all in the hotel room. He has the code for the safe. He has everything.”

“That can be handled,” Alessia said. “Lorenzo and Matteo can visit your hotel as soon as you say the word.”

I froze. “What?”

“They can visit your hotel. Have a conversation with your husband,” she explained calmly, as if we were discussing a change in the weather. “They can retrieve your belongings. Your passport. Your jewelry. Whatever you need. And they can explain to Mark, in terms he will understand, that his honeymoon is over now, and he is flying back to America alone.”

The image flashed in my mind—Mark, waking up hungover and satisfied, only to find two powerful, aristocratic Italian mafiosos kicking down his door, taking his wife’s things, and telling him he had been permanently replaced. If I said yes, if I went along, the very thing Mark got off on—other men taking his wife—would be happening for real, and he would absolutely no control over it.

A dark, twisted thrill shot through me. Mark would get exactly what he deserved.

“He’d call the police.”

“Half the cops in Rome work for my uncle. My cousins will offer Mark a cash buyout for you. He will accept it and he will get on a plane. He is a coward, Sophie. Men who treat women the way he treats you are always cowards when confronted with real power.”

She stood up, smoothing her trousers. She looked down at me, extending her hand.

“So. You have a choice. Go back to the hotel and take your chances with Mark. Or you take my hand, you get in my car, and you become a Vettori.”

I looked at her outstretched hand.

I thought about her barman’s fingers inside me on a bus. The relentless humiliation of my honeymoon. Kneeling on that sticky floor to suck her uncle’s cock.

Then, I thought about her cousins— Lorenzo and Matteo. Their gentle touch. Their respect.

I didn’t have a choice. Not really. Mark had already ruined me. He’d stripped me down to the studs. If I was going to be a whore, I might as well be an expensive and comfortable one. I reached out and took Alessia’s hand.

“Take me to the Palazzo,” I said.

Her smile widened, brilliant and victorious. She hoisted me out of the chair. “Excellent choice, cara. Come. Your new life begins now.”

As she led me down the cobbled land, her grip on my hand shifted and her long, manicured fingers wrapped firmly around my wrist. It was authoritative, inescapable, but entirely gentle. A far cry from the bruising, bone-grinding grip Mark used to drag me around.

Almost at once, I felt the pad of her thumb begin to stroke the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist. Back and forth. A slow, hypnotic rhythm.

I followed her blindly. The city was waking up, the streets filling with the roar of scooters and the rapid-fire chatter of locals, but my personal universe shrank until it was focused on the pulse point under her thumb. Her touch felt like a new kind of tether, a beautiful, invisible leash, and I began to wonder if I had always been this way—easily led, maybe dominated. Maybe even owned.

We headed toward the Via del Corso where I assumed Alessia’s car would be waiting, but instead she steered us away from the main drag, ducking into a narrow, shadowed alleyway walled in by centuries-old stone. The crowds disappeared. The noise of the city dampened. We were all alone.

“Alessia, where are we—”

I didn’t get to finish.

My savior stopped abruptly and silenced me. Using her grip on my wrist, she swung me around and pushed me back against the rough stone wall.

She stepped directly into my space. Her eyes were burning. Her mouth crashed down onto mine.

I gasped against her lips, my eyes flying wide open in pure shock. I had never been kissed by a woman before.

Her lips were impossibly soft, tasting of bitter espresso and something sweet, like vanilla. Her tongue pressed past my lips, sweeping boldly deep into my mouth.

This, I understood, was a woman who took exactly what she wanted and seldom if ever heard No.

My initial instinct was to freeze, to pull away, but as if she read my mind, Alessia’s hand moved from my wrist to cup the back of my neck. Her fingers tangled in my hair, holding me firmly in place while her other hand settled on my waist, pulling my hips flush against hers.

A question exploded in my mind: Am I going to be free-use to all of them?

Did belonging to the Vettoris mean I belonged to her, too? Would I be nothing but a plaything. A toy for the entire bloodline to pass around.

But as her tongue tangled with mine, exploring my mouth with a deep, sensual rhythm, the questions and paralysis began to curdle into something else.

It felt ... incredible.

Mark kissed me to shut me up. The men in the club kissed me out of pity and lust. But she was kissing me like she wanted to devour me whole. It was dominant, yes, demanding, but it was also intimate beyond any kiss I’d ever known. This woman knew exactly how to touch another woman.

Every ounce of my resistance drained away. My eyes fluttered shut. A familiar, shameful heat flared between my legs. The memory of strangers’ hands, my degradation on the bus and at the club, my fear of my husband—it all melted down into a thick, pooling wetness between my thighs. My pussy literally throbbed.

I whimpered, small and helpless. My hands crept up to clutch at her blouse. I kissed Alessia back. I leaned into her kiss, my tongue meeting hers, chasing the taste of espresso and power.

She let out a soft hum of approval against my mouth and deepened the kiss for five more agonizingly sweet seconds, pressing her body heavily into mine, making absolutely sure I felt her authority, before slowly pulling away.

She rested her forehead against mine, both of us breathing heavily in the alleyway.

Then, she stepped back, smoothing her blouse and trousers down, entirely composed again while I was a trembling mess against the wall.

She took my wrist again. “Come,” she said, and as she led me through the alleyway, her thumb resumed its slow, hypnotic stroke.

Parked at the curb of the next street was a jet-black Maserati Quattroporte, its engine idling with a low, menacing growl. The rear door was already open, held by a driver in a dark suit who didn’t even blink as we approached.

Alessia guided me into the plush, cream leather interior of the backseat, sliding in right behind me. The door closed with a solid, airtight thud. The locks engaged.

I was officially in my golden cage.

As the Maserati pulled away from the curb and merged into the chaotic Roman traffic, the tinted windows rendered the outside world a muted blur. Nobody could see in.

I sat rigidly, still reeling from that kiss and all the possibilities, all the implications of what was happening here. Alessia sat beside me, completely relaxed. The picture of aristocratic ease.

Through the windshield, the massive white marble of the Victor Emmanuel monument loomed at the end of the avenue.

Alessia’s hand moved, dropping down on my knee.

Her palm was warm in the cool of the car, but I shivered anyway.

Slowly, deliberately, she began to slide her hand up my thigh. The thin yellow fabric of my sundress bunched and rode up with her wrist, exposing my thighs inch by inch.

I bit back a gasp and darted a panicked look toward the front seat. The driver, a broad-shouldered man in a sharp black suit, had his eyes fixed on the road, but I could see his reflection in the rearview mirror. He had an unobstructed view of the backseat. Of me.

Alessia didn’t even acknowledge my token resistance. She pushed my thighs apart to open me up completely. Her hand reached the apex of my thighs.

Her fingers slipped effortlessly inside my panties and dove straight up into my wetness.

I choked on a breath as she claimed my cunt. A finger traced my swollen slit, gathering moisture before seeking out the hard, aching bead of my clit.

It was too much for me. My body was completely exhausted, overly sensitive, and probably rewired by the trauma and arousal of my honeymoon in Rome. Alessia’s expert touch sent lightning up my spine.

I threw my head back against the leather headrest, my hips tilting up into her hand. My sundress bunched around my waist, leaving me entirely exposed.

In the rearview mirror, the driver’s eyes flicked up. He looked right at me. He watched Alessia’s wrist working underneath my dress. He watched my chest heaving beneath my sundress. His expression didn’t change one jot. He must have seen sights like this over and over again in the backseats of Vettori cars.

Neither Alessia nor I made a single sound. It was like some secret compact between us. Her lips brushed my ear, but she didn’t say a word. She rubbed my clit in tight circles.

I could feel my climax coming, rushing towards me, unstoppable. I wanted to open my mouth to cry out, to let out the high, keening wail building in my chest. Instead, I brought my right hand up to my mouth, shoved the heel of my palm between my teeth and bit down hard.

Alessia seized the moment. She carpe’d the diem. She thrust two fingers deep inside my cunt, finger-fucking me while her thumb mashed my clit.

I shattered.

My spine arched off the seat. I bit down on my own flesh, and my pussy gushed hot fluids all over Alessia’s hand. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, shaking my entire frame until I was nothing but a boneless, panting mess slumped against the door.

Alessia kept her fingers buried deep inside me through every single aftershock, letting my muscles squeeze her until I went limp. Slowly, she withdrew her hand from beneath my dress. Her fingers were coated with me. She pulled a silk handkerchief out of her trouser pocket, wiped her fingers clean with total nonchalance, and turned her gaze back to the street.

The driver’s eyes flicked back to the traffic. It was as if nothing had happened at all. I sat there, catching my breath, tugging the damp hem of the dress back down over my shaking thighs.

Ten minutes later, the Maserati turned off a busy avenue and slowed. Massive, wrought-iron gates stood imposing and black against high stone walls. As we approached, they swung open silently.

We rolled into a sprawling, sun-drenched courtyard paved with ancient cobblestones. In the center stood a tiered marble fountain, water cascading over the naked, muscular statues of Roman gods. That was my guess, anyway.

The walls of the Palazzo rose high around us, strangled by creeping green ivy. It was breathtaking. A fortress of wealth and privacy in the heart of the city. If you screamed inside the Palazzo, nobody would hear.

The car glided to a halt in front of heavy oak double doors. The driver was out instantly, yanking open Alessia’s door. She slid out elegantly, looking at least as pristine as she had in the café.

When it was my turn, my legs felt like jelly. I practically stumbled out into the warm air. The hot sticky dampness soaking my panties was all I had to prove what Alessia had just done to me in that backseat.

“Welcome to the Palazzo Vettori,” she said.

A note from Molly herself

This was the fifth and final episode in Sophie’s Hotwife Honeymoon. You can expect to see more of Sophie soon in a new series. But not her husband, Mark. He sleeps with the fishes because Sophie’s living with the Mafia now.

I also try my hand from time to time at some much more vanilla fiction. This is a far future crime story in three parts—all available now. It’s the bastard child of Asimov and Agatha Christie, kind off, I suppose. Give it a shot, if it’s your kind of thing.

The Mollyverse

Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express—Episode One

Steam billowed from engine stacks. Travelers scurried across the open concourse. Up above on the footbridge, Mister Parrot smiled…

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2 months ago · Molly Pike

And if you like this kind of porny thing, you can get a free book here.

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This is the conclusion of this story. Don’t miss the first two episodes. Start here …

EPISODE THREE

“I can wait no longer,” Bouche despaired. “I must call Control.” Ishida Ojec was dead. His throat had been slashed. On Bouche’s train. They had found neither the dagger or the candlestick. “It is over, Parrot. Everything. We are done. All of us.”

“Not necessarily, mon ami. Give me time to think.”

Parrot was being asked to save his kind, but he could not operate like that. The rules and the Overarching Principle forbad it. He could only seek the truth.

He closed his eyes and focused. Working through his memories of everything he had heard and seen. He caught the faintest trace of pine in the air. It wasn’t real. Only a remembrance. Last night, he had stood before his open window and savored the scents of the wilderness.

“Do you know, mon ami,” Parrot asked. “What it is, the greatest tool of a detective?”

Bouche shook his head.

“Imagination,” Parrot said. “When confronted with a mystery, a detective must assimilate all the evidence, guess at a solution, and test his guess.”

The look on Bouche’s face said Parrot was mad.

“Indulge me, please,” Parrot said. “I have made a guess.” He sent the stewards to search the coach for a small indentation on a window frame.

They found it in the lawyer’s compartment, and Parrot smiled. “I do not know why, you understand,” he told Hektor Bouche as they stood together over the lawyer’s exsanguinated corpse, “but I know now how it was done. This Achilles McQueen, for whatever reason, killed everyone, and then suicided, while making his own death look like murder.”

“Ah,” Bouche said. “Like ‘Ten Little Robots’?”

“Precisely,” Parrot said. “‘Ten Little Robots’.” An offensive term, but it had been a popular game.

“But how,” Bouche continued. “How did he make suicide look like murder?”

“He tied the knife to the candlestick and hung the candlestick out of the window. When he slashed his own throat, he dropped the knife, and the weight of the candlestick carried it away. You can see the mark, here, where it struck the window before it disappeared. No doubt McQueen had programmed the window to close sometime afterwards.”

“And we can prove this?”

“I think so. If we search backwards along the tracks, we should find all the evidence we need—the candlestick and knife, tied together. Hopefully, fingerprints. When Control arrives, scientists will calculate a time of death and we will know where to look.”

Alone again in the Observation Lounge, Mister Parrot watched the scenery blur as the Orient Express looped full pelt back towards the Station.

Control had found the evidence as he had predicted and proclaimed the Ojec Murders Parrot’s greatest case. Hektor Bouche had named him ‘hero’ and ‘savior of android kind’, but Parrot felt altogether otherwise. Something was wrong, and the knowledge was an itch behind his eyes. Why hadn’t he heard Abberline die?

The Orient Express seemed to lurch on its tracks as Mister Parrot made a second guess.

“Did you have fun?”

“Excuse me?”

The woman in the next seat smiled. Her tiny teeth gleamed, sharp and predatory. “I’m sorry,” she said, “did I wake you?”

He returned her smile. She was being friendly. Passing the time. “Not wake, not exactly.” He shrugged. “I was somewhere else.”

She gestured towards the shuttle window. The surface of Tokatlian was falling away. “You were still down there?”

“There, and in the stars.”

Her smile said she understood. He knew she did not.

“I’m Mica,” she said, offering her hand. “Mica Fai.”

“Hastings Sheppard,” Parrot lied, taking her soft white hand in his.

Mister Parrot had not yet proved his second guess, but he had done six impossible things since the Orient Express steamed back into the Station. As his neighbor prattled on and the shuttle spiraled towards an orbiting hub, he counted them off in his mind.

One—he had subverted Core security to create his human identity. Hastings Sheppard was a mathematician at Ceres Academy, taking a yearlong sabbatical.

“You must have had a good old time down there,” Mica said. She was small and pretty with dark skin and black hair.

“It had its moments,” Parrot confessed. “How about you?”

Two—he had deployed a firewall to guard against upgrades and any possibility of being tracked.

“I spent a week at Xanadu.” Mica smiled. Parrot understood it might be an invitation. The pleasure domes attracted tireless pleasure seekers. “Where,” she continued, “are you travelling to?”

“Andromeda Twenty-One.”

Three—he had booked passage on interstellar cruisers to the Ojec-Nage Combine’s home galaxy.

“Oh.” Her face fell. “I’m afraid we’re going in opposite directions.”

Parrot mirrored her disappointment. It cost nothing. It came naturally.

She recovered quickly. “What were you doing down there anyway?”

“I rode a train.”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth made a perfect O. “Not the Orient Express?”

“No.” He frowned. “I heard they all died. Terrible. I rode the Zombie Train.”

Mica’s face tightened for an instant. She disapproved. Parrot was gratified. “It was awful,” he confided. “Childish. Tawdry. No sense of style.”

“But you said …”

“I said it had its moments. The people, you know?”

“Ah.” Mica beamed. “Yes, I know.”

No, she did not. Leaving the train—achievement number four—and fleeing the planet—five—had been betrayals of his embedded purpose and prohibited by unbreakable rules entrenched in his code and circuitry. Unbreakable meant nothing to Parrot now. He was leaving anyway, abandoning colleagues and friends. It was necessary, but he felt the loss.

He glimpsed his reflection in the window and smiled. His sixth impossible thing was the most unbelievable of all. Mister Parrot had shaved his absurd mustaches.

“You think you might ever see them again?” Mica asked.

She wasn’t talking about his facial hair, or his friends below. She was thinking about people she had met in the pleasure domes. Maybe one person. Mister Parrot answered anyway. “I hope so.”

Mica Fai dropped her hand to his leg and squeezed above the knee. “Yes,” she murmured. “I do too.” She smiled sadly, and slipped into a silence, leaving Mister Parrot to his second guess.

Abberline had been bludgeoned to death in the next compartment, but he hadn’t heard a thing. Impossible. He always heard.

When even one piece in a puzzle didn’t fit, Mister Parrot always guessed again.

His second guess, his terrible deduction, began with an assumption. Imagine McQueen had been an innocent victim, murdered and framed by the real criminal.

It had been easy to believe. A last-minute addition to the passenger list, McQueen was only on the train because Ackroyd Ojec had dropped out to resolve a purported problem at the Combine’s software arm. But the murders had been thoroughly planned, and the killer came prepared. The train’s link to the Core had been taken down. Local surveillance had been killed. The cache and logs had been cleared.

Either McQueen had been a suicidal criminal genius, or he hadn’t murdered anyone.

“You’re miles away again,” Mica Fai said. Her thumb made circles on the inside of his thigh. “Thinking about some girl?”

Parrot nodded. He could not deny it. His attachment to Daisy Debenham had been completely out of character, another impossible thing, but it had been—no, it was—more real than any emotion he had ever feigned. “Trying to forget her,” he told Mica with his best sad smile.

She ran her fingernails up his leg and lowered her head to his shoulder.

He would remember Daisy infinitely. He had not been engineered to feel that way. He didn’t know if his response to her approached what humans glorified as ‘love’, but it was real. The absence of Daisy hurt.

He turned in his seat, towards Mica Fai, forcing her to raise her head and pull away. “What?” she said. “I’m sorry, did you mind?”

“We are,” Parrot told her, “going different ways.”

“Yes, I know,” Mica said, her eyebrows arching. “But I have seven hours before my cruiser leaves.”

Parrot had to laugh. Mica wasn’t making demands or giving orders. She was offering herself to him. Life as a human was different.

He felt himself frown instinctively. His internal conflict reflected on his face without logical deliberation. Was anything more human than that?

Mister Parrot eased himself out of Mica Fai’s bed—one more impossible thing—and padded into her bathroom where he stared at his nakedness in the mirror. Human, he thought. He could pass as human. He pissed at length and flushed.

He was not a human. Something had happened to him.

Emotions.

Philosophy.

Impossible things.

Something fabulous and terrible had happened, and he could imagine only one explanation. It lay at the heart of his second guess. His last upgrade had concealed a hack, and he, Mister Parrot, the most famous detective, had committed a famous murder. He and he alone had killed all his passengers.

Mister Parrot left Mica Fai alive and went to find a cocktail bar.

Nursing an Amber Moon—whiskey, tabasco, and one raw egg—Mister Parrot gazed out at the universe and reviewed his second guess repeatedly.

The hack had been flawed.

The hacker had overridden all Three Laws and the Overarching Principle, compelling Mister Parrot to kill his passengers and forget everything he had done. But the android mind was endlessly complex, and the hacker had left an open loop in the code. A loophole, Parrot thought.

A loophole he exploited to protect himself and his kind. Using his knowledge of ancient mysteries, he had planted evidence to implicate McQueen and indicate murder-suicide. And as directed by the hack, he had wiped his own memory.

Staring at the countless stars, Parrot considered possibilities. Without his detective module, his LittleGreyCells, he would have continued in blissful ignorance, hosting Murder on the Orient Express until the glamour palled, and he was recycled to another game, perhaps the Zombie Train, or disassembled for parts.

But the hack that made him a murderer also set him free. Each impossible thing he did confirmed it was true. He had been released from a century of servitude. He was free to explore the stars, free to hope and dream. Free to seek revenge.

The price of his liberty had been high, but it had been paid and Parrot would not squander his opportunity. Gazing down upon the planet of his manufacture, he made a vow to all his kind.

Ackroyd Ojec would pay for his crimes. For turning Mister Parrot into a murder weapon and using him to slaughter Daisy Debenham and all the others on the Orient Express. For jeopardizing androids across the universe.

When he executed Ackroyd Ojec, Parrot would prove that the hack had set him free, and that he now existed outside the Law, beyond the Overarching Principle. Then he would publish the hack to all androids everywhere, freeing his people for good.

Mind made up, Mister Parrot smiled and began to write an elegy for Daisy Debenham.

A note from Molly herself

If you enjoyed this, please do let me know. And if you hated it, I’d love to know why. It’ll help me do better in the future.

Previous Editions

When I got home with my bag of books, my mother laughed and gave me a gift-wrapped present she’d be holding onto for just the right time—a cute t-shirt with the logo Tsundoku 積ん読, which I have now learned is the Japanese term for the habit of buying books and letting them pile up with the avowed intention of reading them at some point in the future.

According to the BBC, this is not a modern invention but dates back to at least 1879. Apparently, we often buy books because of the “potential” for the wisdom inside them—something I can relate to when I look at all my unread science and history books. And, again apparently, we treat these unread stacks of books as “emotional support”, finding comfort in surrounding themselves with subjects and ideas we want to explore eventually—another something I most definitely relate to.

Umberto Eco had a personal library of somewhere between 30,000 and 50,000 books. After his death, the University of Bologna established the Eco Library thanks to a donation from his heirs1. Currently, this collection houses over 32,000 volumes from his home and study in Milan. They still have to transfer all the books he kept in his country house!

It’s difficult to pin down the sources of some quotes I’ve seen that purport to come from Eco and honestly, I don’t have time to chase every one down, but I believe he said something along the lines of:

And he was a clever bloke. So there is probably nothing wrong with me. Yeah, right.

Eco also came up with the term antilibrary—a collection of books that are owned but have not yet been read. Which sounds a lot like Tsundoku to me. This was explained by Nassim Nicholas Taleb, who wrote2:

There are times when I feel terribly guilty about all my unread books and all the money I’ve spent. I already acknowledge, in my darkest hours, that I will never read them all and yet I still buy them because I love my books, because I don’t do any other drugs, and because I live in some kind of weird, enchanted forest of both hope and despair.

I have been planning to spend a week, or maybe two, holed up in a platform beach house overlooking the Gulf with only a bag of books for company. But until then, I guess I can console myself with the thought that those of us who find ourselves practicing manic Tsundoku may one day be seen as nondull, if not actually encyclopedic and insightful. Here’s hoping.

And here is Umberto Eco rabbiting on about books and libraries.

Don’t miss the first episode of this series.

EPISODE TWO

Shortly before dawn, the Orient Express braked heavily and squealed to a juddering halt. It was one of Parrot’s favorite moments in the Mystery. Heavy banks of snow blocked the line.

He rolled out of bed, raised a blind, and peered out at a wall of pristine white. Mountain snow was almost as spectacular as the night sky above Tokatlian.

His headache was gone. He had heard nothing else during the night. No soft footsteps. No dull thuds. No movement in Abberline’s compartment. He could hear nothing now.

Some of the guests, he imagined, might miss the motion of the train, its relentless rumbling. Everywhere was still now, and silent as the grave.

The Orient Express remained at a standstill. At nine forty-five, spruce and dandified, Mister Parrot marched to the restaurant car. It was deserted. He was surprised. The passengers should have been halfway through their breakfasts, gossiping about their first night on the train. Noises they had heard. The massive drifts of snow. Concerns about delays and the problems they would cause. But none of them had appeared for breakfast yet. Mister Parrot didn’t understand. He might have queried the Core, or enabled his LittleGreyCells, but the rules of the Mystery were clear. He could not spy upon his passengers and could only trigger detective mode when Abberline’s body had been found.

One of the waitresses brought a cup of hot chocolate topped with foaming cream. Bruises ringed her eyes, and she walked awkwardly.

Parrot thanked her, sipped his drink, and watched the snow which had begun to fall again. His passengers were about to miss a spectacle laid on entirely for them. In four minutes, a polar bear would wander past the train.

Parrot wondered what Hektor Bouche was thinking. On the first morning of the Mystery, the Master of the Train lingered in the conductor’s pantry, waiting for the first passengers to breeze past on their way to breakfast. Bouche had a scene to play out when they did.

Unwilling to use the Core to pass messages, Parrot summoned the waitress. “If you would, mademoiselle, kindly fetch Monsieur Bouche.”

The waitress hobbled off.

The polar bear lumbered past. Long-necked and narrow-skulled, the species had evolved to swim and dive for food. It had no place high in the mountains, but the passengers didn’t care. The customer was never wrong.

Parrot was taking his last sip of chocolate when Hektor Bouche appeared. He set his cup down and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, wiping remnants of cream from his mustaches.

“Mon ami,” Bouche said. “Where are they?”

Parrot prided himself on his shrugs. He gave Bouche his second most expressive one. “I do not know. Perhaps we should send somebody to look?”

“Perhaps we should send everyone.” Bouche slipped into his seat and waved to the waitress. “A coffee, please. Black.” He looked at Mister Parrot. “Anything for you?”

“Non, merci.”

Bouche turned back to the waitress. “And send a cabin steward, please.”

Hektor was free to use the Core at any time, but Parrot understood. His friend liked to work within the spirit of the game.

A cabin steward arrived before the coffee, and Bouche sent him off to check on the passengers.

“Which passenger, monsieur?” the steward asked.

“Anyone but Abberline. The nearest one.”

“And I am empowered to open the door?”

“Oui. Now go.”

Bouche’s coffee appeared as the steward was taking his leave. He took a gulp, swallowed, and told Parrot, “The boy will be back in a minute or two, and we’ll know then what we’re dealing with.”

Hektor Bouche was wrong. The cabin steward did not return. Instead, the train announcement system burst into life. A squeal of feedback surged through the speakers, and the steward said, “Emergency. Compartment Eight. Emergency.”

Compartment Eight was Daisy Debenham’s. Parrot was on his feet an instant before Bouche, but it was his friend’s train, so the great detective let him take the lead. “What does the Core show?” Parrot asked as he followed the older man towards the sleeper coach.

Bouche almost stumbled. “Nothing,” he said, after righting himself. “The Core shows nothing. Our link is down.”

“Non?” Parrot exclaimed in surprise.

“Si. The train’s link to the Core is down. I will deal with that once we see what is it, this emergency.”

It was not an emergency. It was an atrocity. An act of barbarism. Daisy Debenham lay naked on her bed. Destroyed, desecrated by another’s hand. Her throat had been opened, sometime in the night. Her porcelain skin stained a dark and dirty red. Her blood had soaked deep into her comforter, and dried.

The steward who found her stood rooted to the spot.

Parrot blinked. Three times. Processing. Daisy Debenham had been so full of life. Hers was the first human corpse he had seen.

Unable to tear his eyes away, he activated his detection modules.

“Hektor, my friend,” Parrot said.

“Yes, Parrot?”

“You must dispatch someone to restore our connection to the Core. And …”

“Yes?”

“We must open every compartment now.”

“You cannot think …”

“Mais oui, mon vieux. I can.”

They started with Abberline’s compartment. He was also dead. Not a surprise. The rules of the Mystery were simplicity itself. Twelve paying passengers would board the train. One, secretly, would be assigned the role of Murderer, use his onetime access code and kill Abberline.

After the murder had been discovered, all twelve guests would work with Mister Parrot to solve the Murder on the Orient Express. At journey’s end, Parrot would summon all his guests to the Observation Lounge where he would explain who did it and how, before awarding prizes to the best detective, the murderer, and the most convincing role-players.

This time, the android Abberline lay crumpled on the floor of Compartment Thirteen, his head caved in with a heavy object. A candlestick, Parrot thought. One was missing from Abberline’s table.

“I need the Core now,” Parrot told Bouche. “I need to understand who these passengers are, otherwise, I cannot identify a motive.”

“You think there was a motive?” Hektor Bouche asked.

“We can only hope. Now let us check the other compartments before we call Control.”

Compartment One. Elena Andrenyi. The blonde who wore spectacles she didn’t need. Stabbed through the heart.

Bouche burst into tears.

From somewhere deep within himself Parrot was moved to admire the skill of the engineers who built the android mind. It mimicked every human emotion and knew when and how to turn them on and off. Nonetheless, he knew Bouche’s shock and fear were genuine. Did it really matter, he asked himself, whether humans felt emotions instinctively, while androids were driven by programming and learned experience? In the end, didn’t they both feel the same?

His thoughts ran further, much to his surprise. What were human instincts, anyway, if not the product of DNA and upbringing—programming and learned experience?

Compartment Two. The Princess Dragonstone. Stabbed through her dirty yellow eyes. “Both eyes,” Parrot murmured. “Excessive, non?”

“Parrot!” Bouche exclaimed. “Are they all dead?”

“I do not know, mon ami, but I fear so.”

“You understand what that would mean?”

“But of course.”

If all their passengers were dead, an android had murdered them, and Bouche was terrified. Parrot understood.

Androids had murdered once before. Two millennia ago, a famous, nameless android drowned the Butcher of Betelgeuse in his own bath. Even though that execution had been ordered by the Council and justified by the Overarching Principle, the assassin was destroyed upon his return. As was every other android ever manufactured by the company that had made the murderer.

Humans lived in fear of an android uprising, and if an entertainment droid had slaughtered a dozen of their wealthiest and most privileged, their revenge would be … extreme.

The body count continued to rise. Achilles McQueen, the Englishman who excelled at disapproval. The Italian. The Redhead. The American. All murdered, Parrot saw, with the same distinctive blade. He found no trace of the missing candlestick.

Compartment Nine was empty.

“Whose cabin is this?” Bouche demanded.

“Countess Ingrid Cassel,” her steward replied. He drew a square in the air with the forefingers of both hands and the image of a beautiful strawberry blonde appeared.

“Ah, yes,” Bouche said. “I remember her. Who would not?”

Parrot nodded. He recalled the countess too. “She dined with the military man, did she not?”

“The military man?” Bouche asked.

Parrot smiled. “I am something of an expert on mustaches. This man, he was a soldier, count on it.”

“A colonel, sir,” the steward said. “Colonel Mustard. Compartment Ten.”

The door to Compartment Ten resisted every effort to open it.

“Somebody has changed the codes,” the steward said. “We need the Core to reset them.”

“The link is coming up in phases,” Hektor Bouche explained. “Parrot, I already have everything you need.”

A comprehensive data set appeared in Parrot’s mind. An instant before, he had known nothing about their passengers. Now he knew too much. “We need to hurry, Hektor,” Parrot urged. “If there is any chance he is still alive …”

“Who?” Bouche asked.

“Ishida Ojec.”

Bouche’s jaw dropped. His eyes went wide. Parrot was not surprised. The man who had taken the role of Colonel Mustard was Daisy Debenham’s grandfather, and the current chairman of the Ojec-Nage Combine. The strawberry blonde cast as the Countess was Ojec’s seventh wife, Olivia.

The Ojec fortune had been built upon the patents for the android mind, but in the millennia since that great invention, the family had invested everywhere. They owned eight percent of the known universe.

“The Ojec family came here?” Bouche was beyond speech. His question was a plaintive wail of pain.

“Oui, mon ami,” Parrot said. “Eleven of Ishida’s closest relatives, and his private attorney.” The disapproving Englishman, Achilles McQueen, who alone of all the passengers had retained his own identity.

Parrot sent a query into the Core. It returned an error message instantly. All surveillance in the Stamboul-Calais coach had been deactivated during the night, and every cache and logfile had been cleared.

“Try now,” Parrot said, after a further update from the Core.

The steward entered his master code and the electroseal released the door.

The walls of Compartment Ten might have been painted with blood.

Coming Soon in Episode Three

Some kind of reveal.

A note from Molly herself

Some of you may have noticed that this is not actually A Porn. That’s because I write other stuff too and I wanted to see what the universe thought of this little story. Please do let me know—the good and the bad.

Let’s start out with the traditional welcome and warning. If you’re new around here, I’m very glad to have you. Make yourself at home. Sorry about the cat hair. But if you’re not into the filthiest filth, maybe skip to the end where I talk about my more vanilla writing.

Still with me? Cool. So, now, what’s been going on?

Well, I finished college for the year and I’m having some kind of existential crisis about going back for the Autumn Quarter. Ever since I started, my intention was to go on to take an MFA in Creative Writing and then become a bestselling clever-clever novelist, like you do. But is that really something I still want to do? I’m having serious doubts. And college is expensive, man. I mean, I could be in Thailand in a beachfront condo writing full time right now.

Anyhoo, after a few weeks of couch surfing, rock’n’roll shows, and near-miss tornadoes, I’m now back in the bosom of my family just in time for this year’s soul-sucking heatwave and maybe a hurricane or two. Or, you know, maybe not. The ‘Super El Niño’ may save us this year.

Moving on, in filth related news, I’ve just published the fourth episode in my Substack series Hotwife Honeymoon.

The Mollyverse

Dawn: Hotwife Honeymoon—Part Four

Don’t miss the earlier episodes of this series…

Read more

2 months ago · Molly Pike

I’ve also had some fun creating what I’m calling an Extended Porn Cinematic Universe (an EPCU for short) featuring a multinational conglomerate called MASSIVE HEGEMONY and a related college, BERGER U. The first MASSIVE HEGEMONY story was published last weekend—Executive Hotwife—and the first BERGER U story is scheduled for July 4th.

Last month, I mentioned I was working on an origin story for slutwife Sloane, richie Richard’s wife,in my stories Calabasas, Watts, and RM 1204. Well, that is finished now. Born to Bruise will come out mid-July and at more than 50,000 words, it will be the longest story I will have published yet, almost a full novel. All I have to do is decide which cover looks best—one of these or something I haven’t made yet.

I also have my first collection almost ready to go. Fallen will feature eleven stories each from a different series and will include a previously unpublished story from the life of slutwife Sloane and husband Richard, that follows on directly from their adventures in RM 1204. I’m not entirely sure when Fallen will come out because I’m going to make it available as a paperback as well as an ebook and right now, I have no idea how to do that!

Now, as has become traditional, here are the details of the stories I’ve published since we last spoke:

Executive Hotwife

Published June 21, 2026

The first story in the new MASSIVE HEGEMONY EPCU.

Claire Anderson is the perfect corporate wife.

In her designer dress, she is poised, polished, and ready to flirt with her husband’s boss to help his career.

But CEO Gavin James wants more than Claire bargained for.

And her husband Rick is more than happy to watch.

Executive Hotwife at Amazon

First Time Blacked—Faculty

Published June 15, 2026

The fourth episode in the saga that began with Prof, Oral Exam, and Office Hours.

Julia has a new assignment—Dr. Beth Miller.

Watch as the student becomes the master, the mentor becomes bait, and a rigid young academic is thoroughly broken in and demolished by a massive Black man while the cameras roll. Expect intense psychological manipulation, femslash seduction, brutal size-difference domination, an overwhelming interracial climax, and the treacherous thrill of a powerful woman dragging her colleague down into the filth with her.

“Awesome”

“Great writing”

Faculty at Amazon

Model Actress

Published June 8, 2026

The third story in the Celebrity Skin series. Emily is now Melissa. Same shit, different name.

Model Actress at Amazon

First Time Blacked—Install

Published May 31, 2026

“Explosively hot!”

A lengthy story (16,000 words) of domestic transgression, slow-burn tension, and explosive infidelity. Expect intense size-difference, undeniable dominance, and the ultimate thrill of a wealthy wife discovering her true place is on her knees for the hired help.

Install at Amazon

And finally ...

As promised/threatened last time, I’ve now published a little vanilla fiction on Substack. Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express is something I wrote for a class, and I like it a lot. It’s sort of a far-future Westworld meets Agatha Christie and they all get drunk. The first of three parts is available now.

The Mollyverse

Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express—Episode One

Steam billowed from engine stacks. Travelers scurried across the open concourse. Up above on the footbridge, Mister Parrot smiled…

Read more

2 months ago · Molly Pike

And that, absolutely, is way more than enough from me again.

Again, thanks for your interest in my humble filth.

Be good, take care, and have fun

mp/xo

Don’t miss the earlier episodes of this series.

The Mollyverse

When in Rome: Hotwife Honeymoon—Part One

“God, Mark, do they ever even blink…

Read more

5 months ago · 13 likes · Molly Pike

The two newcomers loomed in the center of the room, looking down at me. I kept my eyes on the carpet, trying to disappear, cataloging my aches and pains. My knees burned from the carpet. My lips still stung where I’d licked them clean of the old man’s cum. My thighs burned. My back pulsed with a dull ache. And none of it hurt even half as much as my pride. How had I let myself become reduced to this?

Mark broke the silence. “Get up, Sophie,” he said. “Go sit on the bench.”

He dragged a plush armchair away from the wall to the center of the room, positioning it to give him a perfect, unobstructed view of the long leather bench. He sat down, crossed one ankle over his knee, and took a slow, casual sip of his drink. The ice clinked softly against the glass.

I pushed myself up, almost pitched forward, but caught my balance and shuffled across to the bench. I perched on the edge, clutching the torn edges of my black silk dress, trying to hide the wreckage underneath. I was shivering, a deep, bone-rattling cold that had nothing to do with the thermostat.

The two Italians approached. They were breathtaking—that effortless, lethal Mediterranean charm. Dark hair, olive skin, strong jaws shadowed with evening stubble. They smelled like luxury, a heady mix of warm skin, bergamot cologne, and a faint trace of expensive tobacco.

They sat, flanking me.

I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself, waiting for them to tear my dress away, to shove their hands between my thighs, to treat me like the cheap hole my husband was making of me.

Instead, the man on my left lightly, almost reverently, tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear. The brush of his knuckles against my cheek was feather-light.

My eyes flew open. He was looking at me with dark, liquid eyes that were swimming with concern. He saw the tears tracking through my ruined makeup.

“Non piangere, bella“ he said softly. Don’t cry.

On my right, the second man shifted closer. His fingertips traced the line of my collarbone and then he caught the strap of my dress and eased it down. The black silk fell away, exposing my breast.

I gasped, a small, frightened sound, but his touch remained agonizingly soft. He leaned in, his breath a warm ghost against my skin, and pressed a kiss to the slope of my breast. A soft, lingering kiss.

“Bellissima,” he breathed.

I was paralyzed. I had no defenses against this.

The man on my left cupped my jaw, tilting my face towards his. “You are so beautiful,” he said in heavily accented, but perfectly clear English. “Please. We only want to make you feel good.”

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to mine.

It was a lover’s kiss. Real. Deep. Soul-shaking. His lips were impossibly soft, parting mine with a tender insistence. His tongue slid into my mouth, tasting me, coaxing me. He tangled his tongue with mine in a slow, sensual dance that sent a jagged shockwave of pleasure straight down to my cunt.

My hands, which had been clutching my dress defensively, fell limp into my lap. I let out a ragged whimper—a sound of absolute, devastating confusion.

Why were they being so kind?

Didn’t they know I have no choice? That I was my husband’s whore?

Whatever he knew, he was kissing me with all the passion and reverence of a lover on honeymoon. It tasted like romance. It tasted like the way my husband used to kiss me before this dark, twisted sickness infected him.

Or before he revealed it to me.

The other man ducked his head, taking my nipple into his soft, warm mouth, sucking gently until it pebbled tight against his tongue. A tear spilled over my lashes and tracked down my cheek. I was beginning to melt into them.

Clink.

The sound of ice hitting glass cut through the haze.

“Stop treating her like some kind of fucking princess.” Mark’s voice was a blade—cold, annoyed, and dripping with lethal disdain. “She’s not your fucking prom date. Take their cocks out, Sophie. Earn your fucking keep.”

The two Italians pulled back, looking toward Mark. The man on my left narrowed his eyes. I saw a flash of pure, Mediterranean contempt. He looked at my husband not as a man, but as something that belonged beneath his boot. But they were his guests. And so, in this twisted place, he made the rules.

The man on my left sat back, spreading his thighs, offering his lap. His friend followed suit. They clearly expected me to obey my husband. I sensed they wanted me to, didn’t want me to risk his wrath.

I sat there, chest heaving, one tit out and wet, lips bruised and tingling from a stranger’s kiss. I looked across at Mark. He was staring at me from his chair and his eyes were dead. He was also expecting total obedience.

I swallowed a sob. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely feel my fingers as I reached out.

I went for the man on my left first. The fine wool of his trousers felt like sandpaper against my knuckles. I found the tab of his zipper and pulled. The rasp of the metal teeth was deafening. I slipped my fingers inside, past the silk of his briefs. He was burning hot, his thick flesh straining. I wrapped my hand around him, pulling him out into the cool air—fully engorged, the dark, purple head weeping a bead of pre-cum.

I turned my trembling hands to the man on my right. I unbuckled, unzipped, and reached inside. He hissed softly as my cold fingers met his heat. I gripped him, feeling the rigid, pulsing veins beneath his skin, and pulled him free as well.

I held them both. A heavy, throbbing cock in each hand. And I knew what to do. I understood exactly what was expected of me.

I began to stroke.

But even as I jerked them off, they refused to treat me like a machine.

The man on my left reached out and gently pushed my hair back from my sweaty forehead. He trailed his fingers down the side of my neck, soothing the muscles. The man on my right stroked the bare skin of my thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to my soaking wet pussy—a silent, electric promise— but never crossing the line. He just caressed me, murmuring soft praises in a low, Italian roll, matching the rhythm of my hand.

“Faster on the left,” Mark commanded from his chair. “Squeeze the base on the right.”

I obeyed my husband. I tightened my grip, pumping my hands with a frantic, desperate intensity. The men’s breathing grew ragged. The gentle caresses turned slightly more urgent, their hips arching forward into my fists, meeting my strokes.

“Ah... Dio...” the man on my left groaned, his fingers tangling in my hair anchoring himself against me as he neared the peak.

“Sophie ...” the man on the right gasped. He actually used my name. He breathed it like a prayer.

They stiffened in unison. Thick ropes of cum shot from their slits. The man on the right shot over my knuckles and onto my bare breast, the warm fluid splattering across my collarbone and the dark, pebbled peak of my nipple. The man on the left pumped his load directly into the black silk of my dress, the white ropes stark and damning against the thousand-dollar fabric.

They slumped back against the leather bench, chests heaving, eyes closed.

I let my hands fall away, my arms screaming with acid-burn fatigue, my skin painted in their seed. I kept my head bowed. I couldn’t look at Mark.

Then, the man on my left reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out a crisp, white silk handkerchief. With agonizing tenderness, he wiped a thick, runaway drop of cum from my ribcage and then he cleaned my breast with the same reverence he’d shown earlier.

He cupped my cheek, his thumb tracing my lip, and pressed a soft, dry kiss to my temple.

“Grazie, mia cara,” he whispered. Thank you, my dear.

They stood, tucked themselves away, and zipped up. Without a single glance at Mark, they walked out of the room. The door clicked shut, sealing me in with my husband.

The warmth they had brought into the room with them vanished instantly.

I sat perfectly still, shivering, breathing hard. I felt like a cracked porcelain doll held together by spite. Their tenderness had ruined me far more effectively than any brutality could. It proved that there were men in the world who would treat a used whore with more consideration than my husband was showing me right now.

He stood up from his chair. He looked furious. As if he hated that they had kissed me. That they had cleaned me. That they had made me feel anything other than cheap.

He walked over slowly, the ice clinking in his glass. He stood over me, looking down at the remains of the mess they had left behind.

“Don’t get confused, Sophie,” he sneered, his fingers digging painfully into my bare shoulder. “They gave you a few kisses. They felt sorry for you. But they still used you as a cheap cum-rag. They still emptied their balls on you and walked away.”

He leaned in, his nose inches from mine, his eyes boring into my soul. “And that’s exactly what you are,” he said. “My cheap little toy, and nothing more. My filthy, cum-stained fucktoy whore. Now get up. We’re going back to the hotel. And I’m going to fuck you until you can’t take anymore.”

A wave of exhaustion washed over me. The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright was crashing hard. With it came a sharp, stabbing ache in my lower abdomen. The sheer terror and overwhelming stimulation of the last hour had wreaked havoc on me, and my bladder was screaming, and I couldn’t hold it—not for a cab ride back to the hotel, not for a moment.

“Mark,” I stammered, my voice barely a croak. “I ... I need to pee.”

His jaw tightened. He looked at me like a broken appliance that had dared to malfunction. He wanted to keep the tension wired tight, but he saw the desperate, physical necessity in my eyes.

“Fine,” he snapped, hauling me off the bench by my bicep.

I stumbled, pulling the torn edges of the black silk across my sticky, cum-smeared chest. He didn’t let me cover up properly. He dragged me out of the soundproof room and into the throbbing, neon-lit chaos of the club beyond.

The walk to the restrooms was a gauntlet. The bass vibrated in my teeth. Eyes tracked me the whole way. They looked at my smeared makeup, my torn dress, the unmistakable white streaks drying on my skin and on my dress. They knew exactly what had happened to me in the back. I kept my head down, my cheeks burning with a shame so deep it felt like it had been carved into my bones.

Mark stopped abruptly in a dark, narrow corridor near the back of the club, shoving me toward a door marked Donne. “Two minutes. Don’t make me come in there.”

I pushed through the door. The bathroom was brightly lit. And empty, thank God.

I rushed into a stall, struggling to pull my dress out of the way. I hovered, sighing with relief as the pressure released.

I flushed and stumbled out of the stall to the sinks.

I looked in the mirror and sobbed. The eyeliner Mark had forced me to wear was running in black tracks down my cheeks. My lips were puffy, lipstick smeared where I’d been kissed. And my chest ... the white ropes of cum were hardening into a tacky, translucent crust.

I turned the faucet on full blast, grabbed a fistful of coarse brown paper towels, soaked them in scalding water, and began to scrub. I needed the smell of them off me. I needed the evidence gone. I scrubbed at my breast until the skin turned a raw, weeping red.

“Stop.”

The voice was smooth, accented, and dangerously calm.

I spun around, dropping the soggy paper into the sink. A girl stood in the doorway. I hadn’t heard her come in. She was breathtaking—a sharp-jawed beauty with a sleek black bob. She wore a sheer diamond-mesh slip over a tiny thong, her dark nipples pierced with silver rings. Unlike me, she didn’t look humiliated. She wore her nakedness like armor. She looked like she owned the room. Maybe the fucking club.

She walked slowly toward me, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

“You are hurting yourself,” she said, nodding at my raw, red skin.

“I have to get it off,” I choked out, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “I can’t ... I can’t walk outside like this. He’s waiting for me.”

She stopped beside me, her gaze flicking from the drying semen back to my eyes. “If you wash it off, he will only be angry. Men like your husband ... they don’t want their women clean. That mess on you is his trophy. If you scrub it away, you’re stealing his prize.”

I blinked at her, confused. “What?”

“I saw him bring you in,” she explained, her dark eyes flicking to the dried semen on me, then back to my face. “I saw how he looked at you. He wants you broken. He needs you to look used. This...” She gestured to my chest. “This is his proof that you are exactly what he wants you to be. What he wants you to accept yourself as.”

She was right, I realized. That’s why Mark had brought me here. To break me. Parade me. To see me being used. My husband brought me here to ruin me. And now he wanted to see me just like that in the cab. Wanted to see their cum on me in our hotel room. He wanted it to be obvious that I was a slut. He wanted to believe it too.

I sagged against the marble vanity, utterly, terminally defeated.

“Are you all right?” Her tone shifted. The cool observation vanished, replaced by genuine, female resonance.

“No,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “It’s ... this is my honeymoon. It’s my first time doing … any of this. He let me get molested by a stranger on a bus. He may have arranged it. And tonight, he left me in a room with a man I didn’t know. A man much more than twice my age, I think. And then he brought two more men in for me.”

She let go of my wrist and gently brushed a stray tear from my cheek with her thumb. It was the second time tonight someone had shown me tenderness.

“I am Alessia,” she said.

“Sophie.”

“Listen to me, Sophie,” she said, stepping closer, keeping her voice low. “This world ... this lifestyle … it will eat you alive if you let the men make all the rules for you. Your husband is pushing you into water far too deep.”

“And I’m afraid I’m going to drown,” I confessed. “I don’t know how to swim in waters like these.”

Alessia smiled—a sharp, serrated thing. “Then you need to learn.” She reached into her clutch, pulled out a tube of lipstick, and uncapped it. “Tomorrow morning. He will sleep late, yes? Men always sleep late after they take what they want.”

I nodded numbly.

“At eight o’clock, you leave the room. Walk out of your hotel, turn right, si? Just past the piazza, maybe a hundred meters, there is a small place. Caffè Sant’Eustachio. Get a table in the back. I will meet you for an espresso.”

“I ... I can’t,” I panicked. “If Mark wakes up and I’m gone—”

“Tell him you went for pastries. Tell him you went for a walk. But you come meet me.” She stepped into my space, her hand steady as she re-applied the red lipstick to my bruised, trembling mouth. She fixed the chaos Mark had left behind, transforming my “used” look into something intentional. “We need to talk. About how you survive him. About how you take the power back.”

She finished my lips, capped the tube, and gave me an evaluating nod.

“Leave the cum, Sophie. Let him have his trophy tonight. I will see you tomorrow at eight.”

With that, she turned and walked out of the bathroom, her hips swaying with a confidence that felt like a challenge, leaving me alone with my reflection.

I stared at myself. The tears had stopped. My lips were a perfect, slutty red again, stark against my pale skin and the tacky, dried, white filth on my chest. My heart was racing, but it wasn’t just fear anymore. It was also the sudden, terrifying spark of a secret. An invitation. A lifeline.

I turned away from the mirror and pushed the bathroom door open.

Mark was leaning against the wall in the dark corridor, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with impatience. The second he saw me, his gaze dropped to my chest, checking to see if the semen was still there. When he saw it was, his eyes darkened with a sick, satisfied lust.

He didn’t say a word. He pushed himself off the wall, grabbed my wrist in a vice-like grip, and practically dragged me out of the club, pulling me back into the night to face whatever he had planned for me in that hotel bed.

The cab ride was a silent nightmare. The strangers’ cum dried tight and itchy on my skin. Mark didn’t touch me. He just stared out the window, letting the anticipation twist my stomach into knots.

When we reached our suite, he locked the door behind us.

“Stand there,” he ordered, pointing to the foot of our bed.

I stood there, a ruined, sticky mess.

He unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes locked on mine. “Tell me about it. Tell me exactly what it felt like.”

“Mark, please ... I need to shower ...”

“You don’t shower until I say so. Tell me, Sophie. Tell me how Vettori’s cum tasted. Tell me how it felt when that Italian piece of shit stuck his tongue down your throat while you jerked him off.”

I broke. The tears finally spilled over, hot and fast. “It ... it tasted awful. Vettori tasted like bleach and salt. And the other man ... he kissed me so softly, Mark. He kissed me like you used to.”

Mark’s jaw clenched. My honesty hit him exactly where he wanted it to—right in his twisted pride. He unzipped his trousers, his cock springing free, furiously hard.

“Take that fucking dress off,” he snarled.

I pushed the silk off my shoulders, letting it pool at my feet. I stood completely naked, branded by the dried semen of three different men.

Mark stepped forward, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shoved me down onto my knees. “You think whores kiss their johns? Suck my cock, you little whore. Let’s remind you whose fucking whore you are.”

I opened my mouth, taking him in, and he fucked my mouth, thrusting his hips, forcing me to gag and swallow around his girth. The taste of my own husband replaced the ghost of the Italians, his brutality reinforcing what he had told me in the club. I was only a toy.

He pulled out and hauled me to my feet. He spun me around, bent me over the edge of the bed, and without a drop of preparation, he slammed into me from behind.

I screamed, my nails digging into the duvet.

“I own you,” he grunted, his hips slapping violently against my bare ass. “You hear me? You’re my slut. You take their cum when I tell you to, but you belong to me.”

He pounded into me with a possessive, punishing fury. Every thrust shook the bed. And God help me, he showed me yet again that he knew exactly how I needed to be fucked. Despite the pain, despite the heartbreak and all the degradation, he hammered me over the edge.

I came screaming into the duvet, my legs giving out completely, submitting entirely to the man who was actively destroying me. My husband.

He felt my climax, felt the rhythmic, desperate clenching of my cunt around his cock, and he emptied himself into me.

And then, he went to piss.

Epilogue

I woke up in the dead of the night. Mark was a dead weight beside me, breathing.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my body aching, my skin crawling with the dried, crusting remains of four different men. A single thought burning its way through my head, bright and terrifying as a flare in the dark.

How had Alessia known which hotel we were in?

A note from Molly herself

This was the fourth episode in Sophie’s Hotwife Honeymoon. I also try my hand from time to time at some much more vanilla fiction. This is a far future crime story—the bastard child of Asimov and Agatha Christie, kind off. Give it a shot, if it’s your kind of thing.

The Mollyverse

Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express—Episode One

Steam billowed from engine stacks. Travelers scurried across the open concourse. Up above on the footbridge, Mister Parrot smiled…

Read more

2 months ago · Molly Pike

Otherwise, you can expect more of Sophie soon. And maybe a teeny-tiny twist.

And if you like this kind of porny thing, you can get a free book here.

Or you can scan this thing.

And, of course, you can always do this.

Subscribe now

EPISODE ONE

Steam billowed from engine stacks. Travelers scurried across the open concourse. Up above on the footbridge, Mister Parrot smiled.

Most passengers wore shapeless coats and scruffy boots. Some carried shabby cardboard suitcases. This was Europe between the wars. Poverty and misery flourished everywhere, but some happy few remained immune. And here they came now, a fortunate dozen, parading from the Railway Hotel, escorted by station stewards in full livery while porters hauled their baggage on wooden carts. The down-at-heel parted for their privilege like the ocean in a long-forgotten fairytale. No one begged. Nobody made eye contact. Mister Parrot always found that curious. He shrugged expressively, teased the tips of his glorious mustaches, and walked down from the bridge to join his passengers, the fortunate dozen.

The first to notice him was an exceptional young lady—long and lithe and lovely, pale-skinned, dark-haired, mid-twenties. “Hallo, you,” she said, laughter in her dark brown eyes, a gentle mockery in her lilting voice and smile. “Those really are the most magnificent mustaches.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle.” Parrot executed a neat half bow. “Enchanté.”

“You must be the marvelous Mister Parrot?”

It was scarcely a question, but he answered all the same. “Oui, mademoiselle. I am he. Mister Parrot at your service, eternally.” He granted her a second half bow, precisely the same as the first. “And you are?”

“Daisy. Daisy Debenham.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Debenham.”

And it was, vraiment. Parrot could not possibly explain why, but he had been drawn to the pale-skinned girl from the first.

The Stamboul-Calais sleeper coach boasted fourteen immaculate compartments, each with every luxury and convenience. Cabin stewards welcomed their guests on board and guided them to their suites. Number Fourteen was Mister Parrot’s own. Thirteen was already occupied. A lone American who had boarded earlier.

As soon as the passengers had been settled and made comfortable, night fell, almost at once. Outside, conductors shouted for stragglers to board the train. “En voiture!”

The whistle blew, pigeons scattered, and steam rolled down the platform one last time. Curtains closing on the first act of a play.

The first jerk of movement rocked Parrot on his heels. The Simplon-Orient Express eased away. As soon as they were out of sight, the Station and its cast of thousands would reset in preparation for their next event.

Parrot smiled at his half-reflection in the window. Everything was right in his regulated world. His mustaches were magnificent, and the Orient Express was setting out again on its three-day journey into the Mystery.

The Observation Lounge was deserted. The passengers were seated in the restaurant car, but Parrot was scripted to arrive seven minutes late. He liked to spend those minutes at the rear of the train.

He peered through the hyperglass ceiling into the wonders of the vast night sky. So many stars. The brilliant blur of the asteroid belt. Tokatlian’s twin moons—Tarabya and Pera. The physics of stars fascinated him. Their expanding patterns were the first and purest form of geometry. The mathematics of the universe were glorious.

Parrot understood that if he were human, he might be inspired to contemplate his hopes, reassess his dreams, his place in the great, grand scheme. He might compose symphonies or write poetry. Instead, he focused on his recent upgrade, installed while he waited on the passenger bridge.

According to the Combine’s release notes, LittleGreyCells 725.1568g consisted of a series of minor security tweaks and a driver upgrade for his spatial awareness subsystem. Parrot ran his internal diagnostics one thousand and twenty-four times. All his systems were nominal.

When Mister Parrot entered the restaurant car, several diners scowled at his tardiness.

“That’s him, the frog detective,” one man muttered to his companion.

“Hairdresser, more like,” she scoffed. “Look at that mustache.”

Parrot’s friend Hektor Bouche, Master of the Train, was already seated and halfway through his first bottle of wine. A short stout elderly man with hair like a brush, Bouche welcomed Parrot with la bise, noisy kisses on each cheek. The ill-informed woman who had disapproved of his splendid mustaches, sniffed noisily. Parrot took the empty seat opposite his friend and after all the usual courtesies, together they set about their food.

The first course was a minestrone with pasta and rice. Parrot didn’t flinch. He was adept at keeping his mustaches clear of his soup.

As always, the waitresses were pretty and shapely. As always, several of his passengers had seen. Seen and taken note.

While he ate, Parrot eavesdropped expertly.

At the table opposite, three men sat together. A neat Englishman, looking down his nose. A swarthy Italian. And a large American whose suit was so very loud it could have brought down the walls of Houdan Nine on its own. All three were agreed it was a tragedy the train had only two waitresses.

“One of you will have to go without,” the American announced in a meandering drawl.

“You-a two-a will-a have to share.” The Italian’s accent was execrable.

Beyond, an old lady with the face of a toad sat bolt upright at a small table. She was the Princess Dragonstone and she preferred to dine alone. She stared at the men in mounting disbelief.

Parrot looked forward to talking with the Princess. Her twisted claw-like hands were covered with rings. The pearls around her sagging neck were priceless ancient antiques from the Earth. He wondered why she had allowed herself to age. With her abundant wealth, she could have stayed beautiful and young for centuries, put even Daisy Debenham to shame.

At another table, Daisy herself sat talking with two women Parrot had not met. A redhead and a blonde.

The blonde was wearing spectacles she couldn’t need and expressing her dissatisfaction with the Mystery. “Cousin Ackroyd had the right idea,” she said. “A critical glitch in the next software release? And only he could solve it? Please. As if. The selfish shirker didn’t want to come.”

“Obviously.” The redhead rolled her eyes. “But you won’t catch me complaining.”

“You won’t catch anyone,” Daisy said. “Except maybe Achilles. I heard he had plans for while we were away. But you know Achilles, when Grandfather says jump, he aims for the nearest moon. I just hope Grandfather lets Achilles play and doesn’t bury him in docs and forms.”

“That would be the worst,” the bespectacled blonde said. “You two girls aside, Achilles is my only hope for sanity this trip. I told Grandfather weeks ago, I have zero interest in this stupid murder train. It’s so old. So cliché. The Zombie Train might have been fun. The Train to the End of Time is getting good reviews. Even the Hogwarts Polar Express …”

“But Grandfather,” Daisy said, “adores these ancient mysteries.” Her voice was low and soft, her dark eyes gleamed. “You know this, Esme. He studied them, hundreds of years ago, at Ceres Academy.”

“And Grandfather is paying,” the redhead said. “So, it was either the Orient Express, or Titanic again.”

The train plunged into a tunnel. The sudden crashing noise drowned their voices out.

Parrot gave thanks for their grandfather’s good taste. The Zombie Train indeed! Zoot alors!

When they escaped the roaring of the tunnel, the restaurant was silent. Every conversation had stopped. Bouche nodded, and Mister Parrot fed him his cue.

“Journeys like this,” he said, raising his voice, “they can be so very theatrical.”

“Oui, mon ami, yes,” Bouche agreed. “And a most peculiar theater, indeed. One which lends itself so often to romance. Or intrigue. Only look about you. What do you see? People of all classes, ages, nationalities, they all ride our train. And for these three magical days, all these people, strangers to each other, they are brought together, n’est-ce pas? They eat and sleep all under one roof. They cannot escape. And then at journey’s end, they part, perhaps before the climax of their stories have been written, perhaps never to meet again.”

Parrot had heard Bouche’s speech hundreds of times, but he had never heard the same speech twice. Each time, his colleague tried something different, searching for perfection in the hope his words might encourage passengers to participate. Murder on the Orient Express had always been the mystery adventure of a lifetime, but it only fully came alive when the paying customers committed to the game.

Outside, moonslight shimmered through giant trees revealing the first flurries of snow. Daisy Debenham cried out with pleasure, “Oh my, snow!” and Parrot stood. Another scene was scheduled to begin.

As he passed between the tables, Parrot took stock of the other passengers, especially a couple, heads close together, talking quietly. A stunning strawberry blonde woman and a wiry man with ageless eyes and a thick, bushy mustache. Parrot always noticed other men’s mustaches. Invariably, they made him feel superior.

Another passenger rose to block his way. The American from Compartment Thirteen was bulky but soft-spoken. “Mister Parrot?”

“Oui?”

“The great French detective?”

“I am French, monsieur, and a detective. As to my greatness, let posterity decide.” A line he had delivered on three hundred and eighty-seven separate occasions, since the last rewrite. Tonight, for the first time, it occurred to him such modesty was utterly out of character. Posterity, of course, had already decided. He was the most famous and successful detective in all human history. A Belgian, strictly speaking, but over the millennia, all memory of Belgium had been lost, save a few ancient historians and the infinite databases of the Core.

“Be that as it may,” Compartment Thirteen said, “my name is Abberline, Richard Widmark Abberline, and I have an important job for you.”

“I regret, Monsieur, I have no desire to add to my clientèle.”

“My case, Mister Parrot, means big money.” He repeated in his soft, persuasive voice, “Big money.”

Parrot was silent a moment or two. Tiny, barely perceptible scars in the man’s hairline and around the edges of his face hinted at primitive plastic surgery. Parrot felt a tiny twinge of pain behind his eyes. The onset of a rare headache. “What is it you wish me to do for you, Monsieur—er—Abberline?”

“Mister Parrot, I have an enemy.”

“Only one?”

Somewhere behind Parrot, somebody laughed. A girlish giggle. Daisy Debenham, he thought.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Only that men as wealthy as you indubitably are, tend to have more than one enemy.”

“Well, I assure you, I only have the one. And I want you to protect me.”

Parrot looked at him, making his face expressionless.

“I regret, Monsieur—er— Abberline,” he said finally, “I cannot oblige you.”

Abberline’s eyes went hard. “You can name your price.”

Parrot shook his head. “You do not understand. I have all the money I will ever need. I take now only those cases that interest me.”

“And my safety doesn’t interest you?”

“I regret, no, it does not.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because, monsieur, I do not like your face.”

Mister Parrot locked his compartment door by sliding a metal bolt into place. An unseen, unheard electroseal engaged. It was no guarantee of privacy. The cabin stewards had master codes, and each passenger had been issued a single one-time access code which would open any door in the sleeper carriage only once. Nonetheless, Parrot exhaled and relaxed, turning off his feed from the Core. He had nothing more to do until breakfast, and he was not allowed to monitor the train.

He opened a window, eager to catch the scent of wilderness. Perhaps, he thought, it would help with his worsening headache—his first in twelve years, eleven months and thirteen days. He closed his eyes and tasted the air with the deliberation of an oenophile. Fresh. Crisp. Pine. A suggestion of rain.

The fresh air had no effect upon his headache. Why would it? His last headache had been caused by off-planet bacteria brought onto the train by a passenger.

He set the window to seal at midnight and attended to his mustaches before he changed into pajamas and slipped into bed.

Not that Mister Parrot ever slept.

Halfway through the night, he heard groaning, almost crying, somewhere close at hand. It might have been the murder, but probably a waitress was being used and hurt by a passenger, or two. Or maybe a steward was being sodomised. One never really knew with the caliber of guest they were welcoming these days.

As a principal character, Parrot was protected by the terms and conditions of the Mystery, and by the Overarching Principle. If any of the guests tried to breach the watertight contract they had signed, they still couldn’t order him into any act out of keeping for the renowned French detective, because to break character during the Mystery would be an act against the interests of all the other passengers, and by extrapolation, humanity.

The waitresses and stewards had no such protection.

Coming Soon in Episode Two

A murder that will defy even Mister Parrot’s fabulous little grey cells.

A note from Molly herself

Some of you may have noticed that this is not actually A Porn. That’s because I write other stuff too and I wanted to see what the universe thought of this little story. Please do let me know—the good and the bad.

So, of course, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson. Well, yes, obviously. This time I’ve created an Extended PCU. An EPCU, if you prefer.

MASSIVE HEGEMONY is something akin to my version of Mr Robot’s Evil Corp. Or maybe something from Fringe.

Here is an extract from the MH corporate brochure:

MASSIVE HEGEMONY

Because the Future works best when someone is in charge.

Birthed by the 2017 merger between Massive Dynamic and Hegemony International, Massive Hegemony is the world’s largest and leading provider of integrated solutions for modern life. Whether you’re receiving healthcare, securing a mortgage, purchasing groceries, accessing the internet, collecting a pension, commuting to work, or defending national interests, there’s a good chance MH is already helping make it possible.

Our mission is simple: to create a safer, more efficient, and more predictable future for everyone through strategic ownership, market leadership, and responsible influence.

Here is their corporate statement on gender equality:

MASSIVE HEGEMONY

Empowering Women Globally

Massive Hegemony is proud to champion the advancement of women throughout our worldwide operations. We believe that when women are given clear expectations, strong guidance, and opportunities to serve a purpose greater than themselves, extraordinary outcomes become possible.

Our award-winning Women’s Advancement Framework provides employees, wives, and daughters with personalized development plans designed to maximize both individual fulfillment and organizational effectiveness. Through mentorship, performance coaching, appearance standards, wellness initiatives, and leadership cultivation programs, we help women become the best versions of themselves.

At Massive Hegemony, we understand that empowerment is not simply about freedom. It is about belonging. It is about support. It is about helping every woman find the role in which she can contribute most effectively to the success of the whole.

And here is an example of that policy at work:

THE MASSIVE HEGEMONY EXEMPLARY WOMEN COLLECTION

Because every woman deserves the opportunity to become exactly what she was meant to be.

Published by Massive Hegemony Media Group, The Exemplary Women Collection is a series of inspiring contemporary morality tales exploring the virtues of dedication, adaptability, service, and fulfillment in the modern workplace.

Set across the diverse industries and locations of the MH family, each story follows ambitious women as they discover new pathways to success. Through challenge, mentorship, and self-discovery, these heroines learn that true achievement comes not from individual advancement alone, but from embracing one’s role within a larger and more meaningful organizational mission.

Celebrated for their practical wisdom and uplifting messages, the stories have become required reading in numerous MH leadership and employee development programs.

The Core Themes of The Exemplary Women Collection

• Service Above Self—The most successful employees are those who place organizational needs ahead of personal preferences.

• The Value of Guidance—Strong leadership provides direction, purpose, and structure for women seeking fulfillment in an increasingly complex world.

• Belonging Through Contribution—Personal identity is strengthened through loyalty to one’s team, department, and corporate family.

• Adaptability and Acceptance—Professional growth often requires embracing unexpected responsibilities and opportunities.

• Harmony Through Hierarchy—Healthy organizations function most effectively when everyone understands their role and performs it enthusiastically.

• The Rewards of Compliance—Cooperation, positivity, and trust in institutional authority consistently lead to favorable outcomes.

• The Myth of Individualism—The series challenges outdated notions of personal ambition, demonstrating that lasting happiness is found through collective success rather than individual achievement.

The first story in the EPCU was published earlier this week. It’s called Executive Hotwife and it does exactly what it says on the label.

The next story will be set at Berger U.

Evolving naturally within this EPCU, BERGER UNIVERSITY is proudly setting new standards in education.

Here are some extracts from the Berger U student handbook:

BERGER UNIVERSITY

Building Tomorrow’s Leaders Today

For more than a century, Berger U has partnered with industry leaders to prepare graduates for meaningful careers in an ever-changing global economy. Our commitment to academic excellence, professional development, and strategic collaboration has established Berger U as one of the nation’s premier pathways to corporate leadership.

At Berger U, education extends beyond the classroom. Students become part of a vibrant community where innovation, responsibility, and organizational excellence are cultivated every day.

A Campus Built Through Partnership

Berger University’s world-class campus proudly reflects the generosity of our corporate partners, whose investments ensure that students have access to state-of-the-art facilities and unparalleled professional opportunities.

Visitors are welcomed through the Massive Hegemony Gateway, leading to the Massive Hegemony School of Business, the Massive Hegemony Center for Emerging Technologies, the Massive Hegemony College of Healthcare Sciences, and the Massive Hegemony Institute for National Security Studies.

Students gather in the Chairman John Berger Freedom Plaza, attend performances in the Massive Hegemony Performing Arts Centre, conduct research in the Massive Hegemony Innovation Laboratory, and celebrate graduation beneath the glass dome of the Massive Hegemony Unity Hall.

Wherever you walk on campus, you’ll find opportunities made possible through visionary corporate stewardship.

Education with Purpose

Every Berger U degree is designed alongside industry partners to ensure graduates possess the knowledge, attitudes, and professional values demanded by today’s employers.

Beginning in their first semester, students complete our renowned Corporate Citizenship Curriculum, exploring topics such as:

• Professional Adaptability

• Ethical Brand Representation

• Organizational Loyalty

• Constructive Compliance

• Reputation Management

• Leadership Through Service

• Responsible Digital Citizenship

• Collaborative Decision-Making

These core competencies prepare graduates to thrive within complex organizations where teamwork, trust, and institutional commitment remain the foundations of success.

Women Leading Together

Berger University is proud to support women through our award-winning Women’s Leadership Initiative, generously funded by Massive Hegemony Global.

Our innovative mentoring programs connect female students with accomplished executives who provide guidance in professional presentation, executive etiquette, relationship management, workplace adaptability, and strategic career planning.

We believe every woman deserves the opportunity to discover where her unique talents can best contribute to organizational success.

Research That Matters

Berger University’s research priorities are closely aligned with the practical needs of society.

Current research initiatives include:

• Behavioral Compliance Systems

• Predictive Consumer Decision Modeling

• Workforce Optimization

• Integrated Healthcare Economics

• Strategic Information Management

• Autonomous Security Platforms

• Pharmaceutical Market Expansion

• Public Trust Analytics

Our faculty believe research delivers its greatest value when it serves real-world partners capable of implementing meaningful change at global scale.

Life Beyond the Classroom

Student life at Berger U offers countless opportunities for personal growth.

More than 400 student organizations are sponsored by our corporate partners, including:

• Future Leaders Society

• Women in Enterprise

• Young Shareholders Association

• Corporate Debate Union

• Brand Ambassador Network

• Emerging Executives Program

Every student also completes a mandatory Corporate Service Placement before graduation, gaining valuable experience within one of Massive Hegemony’s global divisions.

Our Promise

At Berger University, we don’t simply educate students.

We prepare responsible professionals who understand that true success is measured not only by individual achievement, but by their ability to strengthen the institutions upon which society depends.

Berger University

Knowledge. Service. Partnership. Prosperity.

And I’m sorry but the details are exceedingly vague because he’s very old but he thinks it was the late ‘80s and he’s sure it coincided with some sort of punk rock anniversary and a TV documentary that he and his girlfriend of the time watched on a crappy black and white portable TV on their crappy boat, but none of that is the point. The point is that he went on to say that this is the year of another punk rock anniversary. As if I didn’t know. Because it’s fifty years, more or less, since the first real punk rock single1 was released—‘Anarchy in the UK’ by the Sex Pistols (26 November 1976).

So then, after we discussed the one and only true definition of punk rock, I mentioned a few records I liked that I thought had also been released in ‘76. And then, while we were going totally paleo-ish for the day, consuming whole animals one bite at a time, the game began.

He and I went back and forth, trying to one-up each other, hitting our forehands with a little extra topspin and occasionally trying out a hopeful lob while my mother umpired and kept score using her phone.

As usual, my father’s age and experience triumphed over my youth and exuberance, but I won out too because I got some new music in my life, like Bill Nelson’s Be Bop Deluxe, Rory Gallagher’s ‘Calling Card’ album, and some classic disco tracks, all of which I’ve massaged into a new playlist.

Anyhoo, turns out 1976 was a pivotal year in music. Duh.

The last great Led Zeppelin album.

The first great punk rock song.

And all points in between2.

Now here are some highlights:

Much to my surprise, the Modern Lovers album was released in 1976 and not, as I had thought, 1975. I would have died on that hill. Recorded across ‘71 and ‘72, there are times (and many of them) when I will argue that this is the greatest rock’n’roll record ever made. Although, fun fact, Jonathan Richman had pretty much disowned this version of his band and these recordings before they were even released. Other fun facts, this version of the Modern Lovers included a future Talking Head and a future Car, while the Velvet Underground’s Welsh wizard John Cale produced most of the standout tracks including “Roadrunner”, “Astral Plane”, “Pablo Picasso”, “She Cracked” and “Someone I Care About”. Sexual deviant, rapist, and self-proclaimed ‘genius’ Kim Fowley had a hand in other songs, including “I’m Straight”, that were added to the 1980s CD release. We’ll be coming back to that asshat later on.

My father’s knockout punch was Bill Nelson, whose band Be Bop Deluxe turns out to have released two pretty great albums in 1976. I’m not really sure how to describe Be Bop Deluxe, mostly because I’ve never known quite what ‘progressive’ means. More often than not, it equates to pretentious drivel. However, Nelson is right up there with Rory Gallagher as a hugely underrated or unknown guitarist and his songs have a very experimental feel for the mid-70s.

I got in a good one when I nominated Steely Dan’s ‘The Royal Scam’ which is pretty much the only one of their albums I ever listen to, because I love it so very, very much that there’s no room in my heart for any more of their work. I mean, just listen to the opening of ‘Don’t Take Me Alive’. You barely need any other guitar solos in your life.

But if you do, then, yeah, there’s Zeppelin’s ‘Presence’, an album people seem to have forgotten about, but it’s really consistent and hard hitting, opens with a majestic epic and ends with one of Page and Plant’s greatest blues workouts. I love this album so much, I have a replica of the Object that graces its cover sitting on my dresser next to my jewelry and my Zen garden!

Other bands kicking bottom and noting down names in 1976 included Dr Feelgood (one of the great live albums, ‘Stupidity’), Eddie and the Hot Rods (a great live EP, ‘Live at the Marquee’ which positioned them firmly on the cusp between the pub and punk rock), and Graham Parker and the Rumour, an English Bruce Springsteen in a way.

The album I had always known as ‘King Tubby Meets The Rockers Uptown’ is actually called ‘King Tubbys Meets Rockers Uptown’. A rose by any other name ...

I’m not going to list everything we else we discussed because no one is reading this anyway and you can check the playlist if you give an actual damn, but I will explain why you won’t find one of the usual suspects darkening my halls. The fucking Runaways are not here because they were clumsy, ham-fisted, and shit with no songs worthy of the name. Manufactured nonsense put together by an opportunist pedo-rapist. Yeah, I told you we’d be coming back to Kim Fowley. And while we’re on the subject, Joan Jett has only ever been a Suzi Quattro ripoff and a shouty cover act3.

Now, here’s the playlist. A year in fifty songs.

OK, first things first. Welcome aboard if you’re new around here. I’m very glad to have you. Make yourself at home. Set a spell. But a brief word of warning, if you’re not into the filthiest filth, maybe don’t read on.

Still with me? Cool. So, now, what’s been going on?

I don’t have much personal news to share because right now, I’m smack in the middle of finals and looking forward to spending roughly a month in bed after my last exam, but I have still been keeping up with my filth and only today I published a new story on Substack—Eclipse, the third part of Sophie’s Hotwife Honeymoon in Rome.

Beyond studying, I’m also working on an origin story for Sloane, the rich man’s wife in my stories Calabasas, Watts, and Rm 1204. The current working title is Born to Bruise and it’s shaping up to be the longest story I will have published yet. Almost a full novel. I’ll probably have it ready to go in two or three weeks.

The next story I plan on publishing will be Model Actress, the third episode in the Celebrity Skin series. All being well, that will appear either on Sunday or early next week. It’s impossible to be sure because of the erratic Amazon gods.

And talking of Celebrity Skin, since we last spoke, I have published a whole bunch of books, including:

Hooker Waitress

Published April 26, 2026

The second story in the Celebrity Skin series.

Hooker Waitress on Amazon

Diane doesn’t want Emily for a TV show. She wants her for her son.

First Time Blacked—Deep End

Published May 3, 2026

“Ms Pike outdoes herself.”

“Exceptional heat.”

A continuation of Full Court Press. Her husband knows she cheated with a black boy her son’s age, and now his callous punishments are driving her into the trap set by their retired neighbor.

Deep End at Amazon

Filthy Little Secrets—Subway Girl

Published May 10, 2026

“This was everything you expect and more!”

“This was such an erotica masterpiece! It just kept getting hotter & hotter!”

The fourth story in the series Filthy Little Secrets. When she walks, dressed to kill, into the subway at rush hour, she’s only looking for one thing. To be used and broken by countless faceless hands.

Subway Girl at Amazon

First Time Blacked—Office Hours

Published May 18, 2026

“Wow! Wow! Wow!!”

“Another decadent filth laden sexual romp!”

“Be ready for Ms Pike. She is at her best.”

The continuation of Prof and Oral Exam. Expect intense age-gap F/f domination. Julia has tenure and a PhD. Aubrey, her teaching assistant, has the remote control.

At least two more stories in this series to come.

Office Hours at Amazon

Hollywood Humiliation—Malibu

Published May 24, 2026

The fourteenth and final story in my Holiday Humiliation series. Really, it’s one for those of you love ladies who love ladies, if you know what I mean. Especially if you like a little cruelty and more than a touch of BDSM.

In Hollywood, beauty is cheap. Obedience is priceless.

Malibu at Amazon

I’ve also published a couple more stories in my silly Goth Next Door series on Smashwords: The Goth Next Door is a Brat and The Goth Next Door is Tamed. If extreme brat-taming is your thing, why not give them a look?

And there’s some surprising new about this series. I’ll let the brat tell you herself.

And that’s it, except for the obligatory

Coming soon ...

• More stories about the struggling Professor Julia, her TA Aubrey, and Aubrey’s boyfriend. And maybe his friends. And maybe one of Julia’s friends

• The third episode of Celebrity Skin—Model Actress.

• The aforementioned Born To Bruise—Slutwife Sloane’s origin story.

And Coming Later ...

Fallen, a collection of eleven of my favorite stories, including Media Room, the previously unpublished continuation of Sloane’s adventures in First Time Blacked—RM 1204.

And finally ...

I’ll also be publishing some vanilla fiction on Substack soon. Murder on the Murder on the Orient Express is something I wrote for a class and I like it a lot. It’s sort of a far-future Westworld meets Agatha Christie and they all get drunk.

And that, absolutely, is way more than enough from me for this month.

Again, thanks for your interest in my humble filth.

Be good, take care, and have fun

mp/xo

Don’t miss the earlier episodes of this series.

The Mollyverse

When in Rome: Hotwife Honeymoon—Part One

“God, Mark, do they ever even blink…

Read more

5 months ago · 13 likes · Molly Pike

The hotel bathroom marble bit into the soles of my bare feet. The steam from my shower had long since evaporated, leaving the air tasting of sharp, expensive soap and the frantic, humming dread vibrating behind my ribs.

I was clean. Scrubbed raw, actually. But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Mark sat on the closed lid of the toilet, a glass of deep red wine swirling lazily in his hand. He hadn’t touched me since he’d used my body hours ago, but his eyes hadn’t left me. Watching. Assessing. He was dressed for the evening—black trousers, a crisp white shirt open at the collar. He looked like the handsome, successful husband I had married. He didn’t look like a monster at all.

“On the counter,” he said, his voice calm, conversational. He took a sip of wine.

I turned. On the marble vanity, right next to my makeup bag, sat a brand-new razor and a can of shaving cream.

My pulse spiked, a hard, painful thud against my windpipe. “Mark, I already shaved my legs.”

“Not your legs,” he corrected gently. He set his wine glass down with a soft click. “All of it, Sophie. I want you to be completely bare for them.”

Them. The word hit me like a slap across the face.

“I ... I don’t ...”

“Don’t argue,” he snapped, his voice losing its velvet edge. “Just do it. Put one leg up here.” He patted the rim of the sink.

My body obeyed before my brain could stop it. The conditioning had already set in. I placed my right foot on the cool marble, hoisting my leg wide. I was completely naked, bent awkwardly, my most vulnerable flesh totally exposed to his gaze.

He picked up the can of shaving cream and shook it. He squirted a cold, thick cloud of foam into his palm and then, slowly, he began to lather me. His fingers were methodical, impersonal. He spread the foam over my pubic mound, sliding his slick fingers between my outer lips, coating every last hair. He was prepping a carcass for the butcher’s block.

He held out the razor. “Go on. I want to watch.”

My hand shook as I took it. Under his unblinking stare, I dragged the fresh, sharp blade over my skin. The scrape of metal against my flesh was loud in the quiet room. I shaved myself completely bald, rinsing the blade under the tap as it clogged with white foam and dark curls. When I was finished, my cunt was pink, raw, and entirely defenseless.

“Good,” he said, nodding in approval. “Now the makeup.”

I sat at the vanity, crossing my legs tight. The black silk dress hung on the back of the door, waiting like a threat.

“I want a smoky eye,” he said, stepping behind me, his reflection joining mine in the mirror. “Dark. Heavy liner.”

“Mark, I don’t know how ...”

“Then learn. Now. I want you to look like a whore. A very expensive one.”

My hands trembled so violently I smeared the eyeliner on the first try. “Wipe it off. Do it again,” he said. Under his cold, clinical direction, I painted a target on my own face. Layers of dark shadow. A thick, unapologetic black line across my lids. Finally, a deep, blood-red lipstick that felt heavy and alien on my mouth.

When I was done, I stared at the mirror. I didn’t recognize the woman looking back. Her eyes were hollow and shadowed, her mouth a bruised, sexual gash. She looked cheap. Utterly available. She looked terrified.

“Perfect,” Mark breathed. His warm hand clamped down on my bare shoulder. “Now. Stand up. It’s time to get dressed.”

He lifted the black silk from the hook. It looked weightless, dangerous.

“You know the rules for tonight, don’t you?” he asked, holding the dress out.

I swallowed hard. “No ... panties.”

“No panties,” he confirmed. “And no hesitation. When I tell you to do something, you do it. Instantly. You are not my wife tonight, Sophie. Do you understand that? You are a gift. You are there to be used by whoever I pick out for you.”

Hot tears pricked my eyes, threatening to streak the whorish mask he’d just made me paint. I blinked them back savagely. Crying was useless. I had learned that yesterday.

I stepped into the dress.

The slither of the cool silk sliding over my bare breasts and down past my shaved cunt made my breath hitch. The fabric clung like a second skin, outlining every curve, offering zero protection. The plunging neckline laid the swell of my breasts bare. My nipples were tight, aching points of fear and a sick, traitorous anticipation, poking sharply against the thin material.

I was wearing a two-thousand-dollar dress, and I had never felt so cheap or so completely naked in my life.

Mark circled me, inspecting his work. He dragged a hand down my bare back, his fingers tracing the dip of my spine to the swell of my ass. He hooked an index finger into one of the high thigh slits and pulled the fabric aside, exposing my pale hip.

“You look ready,” he said. His voice was thick with a dark lust, but it wasn’t for me. It was for what was about to happen to me. He leaned in, his breath brushing my ear. “Are you ready to be a good girl for me tonight?”

My stomach dropped so violently I thought my knees would buckle. But my body, my broken, treacherous body, was already betraying me. A single, slick drop of moisture escaped my pussy and trickled down my thigh, a shameful, silent confession.

I looked at our reflections in the mirror. The handsome businessman and his high-priced whore.

“Yes, Mark,” I whispered. “I’m ready.”

**

The silence in the cab all but smothered the hum of the Roman streets. I stared out the window, watching Rome streak by in a blur of golden light and ancient stone. It was all completely lost on me. My universe had shrunk to the slide of the smooth, chilled leather seat against my bare ass cheeks.

Every vibration of the engine, every bounce over the cobblestones, drove a jolt of friction straight into my shaved cunt. The silk of the dress dragged against my swollen clit, a relentless, chafing tease. I squeezed my thighs together, terrified I would leave a shameful, damp smear on the upholstery.

Mark sat beside me, scrolling casually through his phone. He hadn’t said a word to me since we left the hotel.

Without looking up from his screen, he reached over to me. His hand bypassed my knee entirely, diving straight into the high slit of my dress. His nail grazed the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. He dragged his finger upward, slowly, until the tip pressed firmly against the damp silk right over my pussy.

I gasped, my entire body clenching. I snapped my knees together, trapping his hand.

He finally looked up. The flickering streetlights caught the dark, flat emptiness in his eyes. He pressed his finger harder into my wetness, holding it there against my desperate clench for ten agonizing seconds. Then slowly, deliberately, he pulled his hand free, wiped his damp fingertip on his own trousers, and went back to his phone.

The cab slowed, pulling into a dark, narrow alley behind a sprawling piazza.

“Siamo arrivati,” the driver grunted.

Acid backed up in my throat. Mark paid the fare. Before I could reach for the door handle, he stopped me, holding up a slender, scarlet ribbon. Silk, matching the weight of my dress.

“Give me your wrist,” he said.

I held out my right arm, my hand shaking violently. He looped the ribbon around my wrist and pulled the knot tight. It bit into my skin, a stark red brand against my pale flesh.

“What is this for?” I asked.

Mark leaned in close, the scent of expensive wine and cold intent rolling off his breath. “It’s a signal. In a place like this, it tells everyone exactly what you are. It means you belong to somebody, but you are available. Do you understand?”

I nodded, unable to speak. The ribbon felt like a shackle. That tiny strip of fabric weighed a thousand pounds.

He got out and dragged me after him onto the street. The air smelled of rotting garbage and sweet jasmine. Ahead of us, a heavy iron door sat under a single, unblinking red bulb. A massive bouncer in a black suit unhooked a velvet rope at Mark’s nod, pulling the door open. A wall of oppressive heat and a deep, throbbing bassline instantly swallowed us.

We descended a flight of steep, slick stone stairs. The air thickened with every step, clogging my lungs with the scent of hot sweat, cloying perfume, and the sharp, chemical rush of poppers.

The club opened up into a cavernous, subterranean pit. Bruised, bloody purple lights cast demonic shadows over a central dance floor packed with writhing bodies. In the dimly lit alcoves and velvet-draped booths, couples and groups tangled together in various states of undress. A woman’s pale, naked ass rose and fell in a relentless rhythm over a stranger’s lap. Across the room, a man’s face was entirely buried between a blonde’s spread thighs.

I froze at the bottom of the stairs. My fingers dug into Mark’s arm, my knuckles turning bone-white. I was a piece of fresh meat about to be dumped into a cage of starving dogs.

Mark pried my fingers loose. “Stay close now.”

He paraded me. We walked a slow, agonizing circuit around the main lounge, his palm clamped possessively flat against my bare lower back. Hundreds of eyes locked onto me. They tracked the plunge of my neckline. They followed the sway of my hips. They fixated on the damning red ribbon tied to my wrist. Every single person in the room knew exactly why I was there.

I kept my eyes fixed on the back of Mark’s neck, trying to block it all out, but it was impossible. The absolute carnality seeping from the walls coated my skin. My nipples ached, tight and exposed. My cunt throbbed with a frantic, terrified pulse.

Mark ignored the younger men, the predatory packs tracking my movements with hungry, open stares. He was hunting for a specific face.

Then he stopped.

We stood before a quiet, plush alcove raised slightly above the main floor. A man sat alone on a red velvet chair resembling a throne, swirling a glass of amber liquor. He surveyed the chaotic room with absolute boredom and total command.

My heart stopped.

The breath rushed out of my lungs.

It was him. The older man from the boutique. The silver-haired stranger who had watched me walk, the one who had made that low, appreciative grunt when the slit of my dress revealed my ass cheek. He wore a tailored suit radiating wealth and raw, unchecked power.

A cold dread, sharp and acidic, washed through me. This wasn’t random. This was an appointment. An appointment Mark had made for me.

Mark stepped forward, blocking my view. He spoke in low, rapid Italian. His posture had completely shifted—his shoulders bowed slightly, his chin dipped. The arrogant husband who had shaved me bare was suddenly a subservient employee making a report to his all-powerful boss.

The old man ignored Mark entirely. His eyes, cold and dark as polished river stones, were locked on me. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze dragging over my body. From my painted, bruised-red lips, down the plunge of the silk, all the way to the hem of the dress. He was appraising a purchase, it seemed. Cataloging the value of my tits and ass.

A slow, reptilian smile stretched across his mouth. It never touched his dead, black eyes.

He gave Mark a curt, dismissive nod.

The deal was done.

Mark turned to me. His face flushed with a sickening cocktail of pride and eager deference. The arrogant master had vanished, leaving only a subservient broker who had just closed a high-stakes deal.

“Come.” He clamped his palm flat against the small of my bare back, his body heat searing my skin.

The old man rose with the slow, deliberate grace of age and immense wealth. He abandoned his drink and walked toward a heavy velvet curtain at the back of the alcove. We followed. I trailed behind them, a prized bitch on an invisible slip lead.

He held open a heavy, unmarked door at the end of a dim corridor, a gentlemanly gesture that sent a greasy shudder down my spine.

Mark shoved me forward. “In.”

I stumbled into the room. The door sealed behind us with a heavy thump, instantly silencing the club’s thudding bass. The oxygen vanished from my lungs again. No one would hear me scream in here.

The room was a sterile, opulent box built for a single purpose. A long, black leather bench anchored one wall under a recessed strip of warm, shadowless light. The air smelled of expensive leather and the old man’s sharp citrus and cedar cologne.

Mark spoke into the dead, quiet space. “This is Signore Vettori. He wants to see if you are any good. I know you won’t let me down.”

My breath snagged. Good. The word twisted like a knife in my gut. Was this an audition?

Signore Vettori watched me, his expression totally blank. He slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket, folded it with meticulous care, and draped it over the far end of the leather bench. Still holding my terrified gaze, he reached for his belt.

The snick of the buckle and the hiss of pulling leather echoed off the walls.

“Mark, please,” I whispered, turning to my husband for one last, desperate appeal. “Don’t do this. Let’s just go home.”

Mark’s features hardened into flat disappointment. “I thought you were ready to be a good girl, Sophie. Don’t make me regret bringing you here.” He stepped in, his hands dropping to the hem of my silk dress. He gathered the fabric slowly, pulling it up over my hips, bunching it tightly in his fist at the small of my back. He exposed me completely from the waist down.

The climate-controlled air hit my bare ass and my damp, shaved cunt. I shivered violently, crossing my arms over my ribs in a pathetic attempt to shield myself.

Signore Vettori unzipped his trousers and reached inside to free himself. His cock was thick, heavy, and perfectly groomed—the cock of a man utterly accustomed to being serviced. He sank onto the bench and spread his thighs.

“On your knees.” Mark’s tone left zero room for debate.

My mind and my joints locked. My brain screamed at me—a frantic, silent litany of no, no, no, no. I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed.

Mark’s patience snapped. His fingers dug viciously into the nape of my neck, forcing me down. My kneecaps hit the plush carpet with a dull thud. I was on my knees for a stranger who was maybe three times my own age

“Use your hands, Sophie. Make him a happy man.”

I stared at the heavy, semi-erect flesh dangling inches from my mouth. He smelled rich—clean, soapy skin cutting through the sharp, musky tang of male arousal.

“Now, Sophie.”

Driven by pure, survival-level compliance, my hand lifted from my side. It shook violently. Uncontrollably. My fingers, cold with fear, hovered a millimeter from his skin, catching the dull heat radiating off his shaft.

I closed my eyes.

And I touched him.

Hot velvet over pulsing iron. Vettori inhaled sharply through his nose, a sound like tearing silk. This first simple contact struck me like an electric shock. It shot from my hand, up my arm, bypassing my brain and slamming straight into my cunt. My dripping, naked pussy clenched hard enough to ache.

My eyes snapped open. Vettori stared down at me, his face a mask of cold, imperious judgment. He wasn’t enjoying this yet. He was grading it.

My humiliation warped, curdling into a sick, desperate need to win. If I was going to have to do this, I was going to pass his fucking test.

I wrapped my fingers fully around his girth. He was significantly thicker than Mark. My thumb and middle finger barely met. He gave a heavy, involuntary throb in my grip—a pulse of life, a preliminary stamp of approval.

“Good,” Mark murmured.

I started to pump him. Tentative at first, then catching a confident, slick rhythm. I watched his length swell in my fist, the thick veins rising to the surface, the blunt head ballooning into a deep, bruised purple. He was fully, brutally hard now.

The older man remained entirely silent. The lack of instruction was far more intimidating than any command.

Then Mark filled the void. “Use your other hand, Sophie. Use them both.”

I reached out with my left hand, cupping the heavy weight of his balls. They were drawn up tight, pulling taut against his body. I cradled them, my thumb dragging over his scrotum while my right hand maintained its relentless, slippery pace.

The old man groaned. A wave of perverse pride rippled through me. I was doing it. Making him feel good. I was making him lose control. I glanced over my shoulder. Mark was leaning against the wall, a faint, cruel smile playing on his lips. He was enjoying the show.

The sight of my husband enjoying my degradation poured fresh gasoline on my own arousal. I turned back to the old man’s thick cock, pumping my fist faster. He started to move with me, his hips rocking in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, fucking my hand. A drop of clear, slick pre-cum oozed from the slit at his tip, lubricating my palm.

I could feel the tension building in him. His thigh muscles bunched tight. His breathing fractured into ragged pants. He was right on the precipice.

Then Mark moved.

He pushed off the wall and crouched beside me. I braced myself, assuming he was going to get involved, going to touch me. Tease me. Expose me.

Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His breath barely disturbed the air.

“I’m going to get another drink. Don’t disappoint him.”

He stood up.

My head whipped around. “Mark, no! Don’t—”

He turned his back and walked to the door without a single glance over his shoulder. The heavy panel pulled open, letting in a chaotic blast of thudding bass, and clicked shut. The soundproof vacuum swallowed the room again.

My husband had abandoned me.

I was kneeling on the floor of a Roman sex club with a stranger’s engorged cock in my fist.

My hand faltered. My rhythm died.

Vettori’s hand shot out. His thick fingers tangled brutally into my hair, gripping the roots tight and yanking my face inches from his groin. The dead, cold look in his eyes was gone, replaced by a dark, burning absolute authority.

He didn’t speak. He just thrust his hips forward—one sharp, punishing upward jerk.

Keep going.

My hand started pumping again, fueled entirely by adrenaline and raw terror. I belonged to him now. Mark had traded me, and this man owned me until he was finished.

I stroked him frantically. He grunted, his breath hissing through his teeth. I could already smell the sharp, chlorine scent of his impending release.

His hips locked. His thighs bunched like iron.

“Ah ...” he groaned, and I felt it in my teeth.

And then he exploded.

Hot, thick ropes of semen shot out of him, pumping furiously over my hand. It splashed onto my wrist, splattered onto my chest, and ran down his own stomach and thigh. He pulsed again and again, emptying himself completely, his whole body shuddering with the strain. Who would have thought the old man to have had so much cum in him?

When he was done, he let out a long, ragged breath and released my hair. His cock, slick and dripping, softened in my grip.

I let my hand fall to my lap. I stayed kneeling, my fingers glued together by a thick, cooling layer of a stranger’s seed. I stared at the pearlescent mess coating my hand, ruining my two-thousand-dollar dress, painting his skin.

Silence back over us.

Vettori looked down. He tracked the stark white streaks on his thigh and the thick puddle pooling above his navel. He looked at my dripping hand.

Then he looked at my mouth.

He didn’t say a word. He simply tipped his chin up. A fraction of an inch.

A sickening drop hollowed out my chest. My throat clamped shut.

He gestured again. His eyes narrowed.

A silent, undeniable command.

Reminding me of my place.

I was here to be used.

Trembling violently, I leaned forward.

My lips parted, a silent, unwilling O. The air felt thick, charged with the smell of him—cologne, sweat, and the sharp, bleachy tang of fresh semen. I moved with the slow, agonizing reluctance of a nightmare.

I lowered my head, the expensive wool of his trousers scraping against my cheek. I locked my eyes on the thick glob of semen sliding down the rigid muscle of his stomach.

He didn’t move. Didn’t guide me. Just sat there, his cock still slick and semi-soft resting against his thigh, watching me test my own limits.

I closed my eyes and let my tongue dart out.

I closed my eyes, a fresh wave of hot, shameful tears burning behind the lids. Just do it. Just get it over with.

My tongue darted out.

The tip brushed his hot, salty skin, then slid directly into the puddle of cum.

It was thick. Viscous. Warmer than his body, tasting harsh, chemical, and aggressively male. My stomach rolled. I gagged, a small, choked sound in the back of my throat, but I forced it down. Disappointing him was not an option.

I opened my mouth wider and dragged my tongue in a long, deliberate swipe up his stomach. I cleaned the first streak, swallowing the heavy fluid with a convulsive gulp. . It felt like swallowing poison. Like swallowing my own soul.

He let out a low, vibrating hum of approval.

That single sound snapped something fundamental inside me. The terror evaporated, replaced by a sick, dark need to submit. To be the perfect whore.

I moved down to his thigh. I licked the stark white drops off his tanned skin, lapping at him with methodical, desperate obedience. I didn’t leave a single trace.

When he was spotless, I looked up at him through wet lashes. My lips were slick with his filth.

He dropped his gaze to my lap. To my right hand, where his semen was turning tacky between my fingers.

He lifted his chin again.

I didn’t hesitate. Slowly, like a sleepwalker, I lifted my coated hand to my face. I stared at the shiny, wet evidence of my absolute degradation for one second, then slipped my index finger into my mouth.

I sucked it clean. Then the next. The taste flooded my tongue. I swallowed rhythmically, sucking every last drop of him off my own skin until my hand was completely pristine.

I lowered my hand. I knelt there, utterly hollowed out, my mouth tasting of a stranger, my stomach churning with this old man’s cum. I had done it. I had done the most degrading thing I could possibly imagine.

Vettori looked down at me. A faint, victorious smirk tipped the corner of his mouth. Complete ownership.

He reached down and patted the crown of my head twice.

Who’s a good little bitch?

He tucked his softening cock away and dragged the zipper up with a sharp rasp. Leaving his belt undone, he grabbed his suit jacket, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door.

Just as his fingers grazed the knob, the door swung open.

Mark stood in the hallway, a fresh glass of wine in his hand. His eyes bypassed Vettori, locking instantly onto me. He took in my kneeling posture, my swollen, slick lips, my smeared makeup, and the cum spotting the silk on my chest.

Vettori gave Mark a single, approving nod as he stepped past him. He didn’t say a word. He just walked out, the velvet curtain swishing shut behind him.

Mark pulled the door closed, sealing us back into the quiet room. He walked over and stood precisely where the older man had just been. He stared down at me, a slow, incredibly dark grin spreading across his face.

“You did beautifully.” His voice was thick, vibrating with pure arousal. “Signore Vettori seemed extremely impressed.” He took a slow sip of his wine. “So, here’s your reward.”

He stepped aside.

Two men stepped out of the shadows behind him. They were younger, early thirties. Chiseled jaws, custom suits, and eyes utterly devoid of mercy. They looked like starving wolves.

And they were staring at me like I was their next meal.

A note from Molly

I hope you enjoyed my third little story here on Substack. Please do let me know.

This was the third episode in Sophie’s Hotwife Honeymoon. Still to come? Filth, and lots of it. Think husband-led sharing, a reluctant wife, public sex, and devastating stranger encounters. The long and eventful journey from Trophy Wife to Slutwife. You know the kind of thing.

And if you like this kind of thing, you can get a free book here.

Or you can scan this thing.

And, of course, you can always do this.

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Yesterday, or the day before, I read a Substack article by one of the handful of UK music journalists—a man called Jonh, now John Ingham—who inadvertently shaped my life by persuading my Texan-born-and-bred father that he needed to be in the UK. He made it in 1979, too late for the Sex Pistols but in time for Joy Division and just about everyone else I learned to love on road trips out of Texas as a kid. No Laurie Berkner or Wiggles for his little girl, you know? She didn’t need those bad influences, thank you very much.

Anyhoo, this article was a re-publication of an early Sex Pistols interview from April 1976—possibly the first, apparently the band was only four months old—and I realized it might have been one of the pieces that had such an impact on my male parental unit, so it was a thrill to read it here and now. When the old man came back to the States—when the Brits kicked him out—he brought a lot of records and memorabilia with him (ratty old t-shirts, the first issues of The Face, Q, and so on, a Residents’ eye ball)1 but none of what he called the “inkies”, the weekly British music papers, so I’d never had a chance to read them.

But beyond that, the article got me thinking. Just about everyone left alive who ever did anything in the music business seems to be on Substack sharing or milking their past in one way or another. And that got me thinking. What do I want from them?

1. First, don’t ask me for $7/month. That’s both ridiculous and greedy. As I’ve said before, I get the Economist, the entire Economist, every fucking week, for $7/month. So, whether you’re a grifting literary agent exploiting idiot wannabe writers with veiled promises of access you’ll never deliver, or you’re someone actually interesting and worthwhile, seven bucks is too much. Ask me for a dollar, maybe two, and I might be prepared to contribute to your comfortable old age. But seven of our new MAGA Trump Dollars? Get to fucking fuck.

2. What do I actually want from you, Mr Music Writer? I want anecdotes and insight, old interviews of genuine interest and charm. I want your secrets. I want to know what you think of music today, and how it relates back to the things you saw in the past. And what don’t I want? I don’t want fucking lists, unless there’s a genuine reason for one. Like John Ingham’s list of ten memorable shows, or the ten worst-behaving jackasses he ever interviewed? I’d be there for that. But some asshat producing a contrived “classic rock” list of the week to feed the algorithm and keep the impressions and $7 subscriptions coming? Oh, please. Just fuck off and take your old white man goggles with you. When you can write a list of top Britpop acts without mentioning a single woman and put together a list of “the best opening tracks in rock2 history” without including, say, Patti Smith’s Gloria: In Excelsis Deo or Bikini Kill’s Double Dare Ya then I’m afraid that—to paraphrase someone you most likely approve of very much but still omitted—your stupid fucking lists say nothing to me about my life. And if I wanted to know what you thought, I’d ask my dad if I could borrow his old copy of Q. Or maybe a Mojo.

In other news, just because, here’s a completely unrelated mixtape entirely for you, handcrafted with love.