Straighten Her Out

Marcel, the grizzled ex-military type with a conservative streak a mile wide, flips the mattress in Krissa's room and uncovers her secret hoard of lacy thongs. Rage boils up like bad bourbon. He swears to teach the little minx a lesson she'll never forget. Hours later, she strolls in, all innocence, only to freeze at the sight: every skimpy scrap splayed across her bed like evidence in a vice squad bust. Marcel looms there, eyes like storm clouds, fury etched in every line of his face. He lays into her with words sharp as bayonets—sluttish behavior, disrespecting the house rules. No escape. He orders her to strip, right there, clothes hitting the floor in a frantic heap. Pick one, he growls. She slips into the lacy nothing, cheeks burning as he makes her strut, hips swaying under his leering gaze, parading her shame like a trophy on display. Humiliation twists the air thick. Then he yanks her over his knee, hand cracking down on her bare ass—smack after stinging smack—while he spits more venom, calling her out, breaking her down. But Krissa blurts it in the heat: she's into girls, always has been. That ignites him worse than gasoline on a fire. A lesbian? In his house? No way. He grabs her, voice a thunderclap: he'll fuck the queer right out of her, straighten this mess once and for all. She resists at first, tears stinging, but caves under the pressure, body betraying her protests. He takes her rough, no mercy—thrusting deep, pinning her down, every brutal stroke a claim, a correction. She hates it. Or so she tells herself. But damn if her gasps don't turn to moans, pleasure sneaking in like a thief in the night, leaving her wrecked and wanting more despite the war inside.