My Bestie's Dad Likes Me Wet-Chapter 31 Late Night Finds

NOVA POV

The week had stretched like a lifetime. Seven days of silence. Seven days of walking past Grant as if we were strangers. Seven days of curling into myself, pretending I didn’t care, when every bone in my body ached from the weight of his absence.

So tonight, instead of sleeping, I wrote. My journal has become my confessional, my graveyard, my punching bag. Ink spilling everything I can’t say out loud: the anxiety chewing at me, the anger curdling under my skin, the stupid, stubborn love that refuses to die no matter how badly he treats me.

Maybe I wasn’t made to be loved. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

The thought scrawled itself in jagged lines across the page before I even realized my hand had written it. I shut the book quickly, blinking back the hot sting in my eyes. I swore I wouldn’t cry again.

That’s when I heard it.

At first it was faint like a glitch in the air, the kind of sound you think your tired brain makes up after being sex starved for days. A moan. Long, low, threaded with pain... and pleasure.

Then came another. Louder. Followed by the unmistakable crack of leather.

I froze. My pen slipped from my hand.

It’s past one in the morning. Everyone else in the house is asleep. Everyone except him obviously.

Curiosity tugged at me like a leash, even as dread screamed don’t look, don’t go. But of course, I went.

I opened my door carefully, every creak of the hinge sounding like a gunshot in the quiet. The moans were louder now, rising and breaking, tethered to the sharp rhythm of something striking flesh.

I tiptoed down the hall, heart pounding so hard I thought it would give me away. The sound was coming from the lounge—the same place Grant often broods with his whiskey and his endless silence.

A red glow bled from beneath the door, painting the hallway like a warning sign. My hand hovered on the wall for balance, every nerve buzzing, before I dared to peek inside.

And then my breath caught.

Three women knelt in the center of the room, faces veiled by shadows, but their bodies were impossible to mistake. Matching black-and-white maid costumes clung to their curves, lace hems teasing bare thighs, the tiny aprons tied like ribbons around gifts that weren’t meant for me.

Grant stood before them.

Not the businessman. Not the asshole man who ignored me all week. But him—the one with power in his veins and command dripping from every word. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, his chest gleaming faintly under the red light. A cigar burned lazily between his fingers, smoke curling upward like sin given shape. In his other hand, he held a whip.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Every breath in that room belonged to him.

"Count."

His voice was smooth, dangerous velvet.

The leather cracked against soft flesh.

"One, Sir," a maid gasped, trembling but steady enough to obey.

The whip fell again.

"Two, Sir."

The sound built like a rhythm of leather, gasp, number, silence. Again and again. Their voices shook, caught between pain and pleasure, until the counting itself sounded like worship.

Grant circled them with the slow patience of a predator.

"Positions are not suggestions," he said coldly. "They are orders. Break them, and you’re reminded why obedience is not optional."

He pointed with the whip. "You. All fours."

One woman scrambled forward, dropping instantly. Her skirt rode up to reveal the round curve of her ass, trembling as she held the pose. He nudged her knee wider with the toe of his boot.

"Better," he murmured. Then louder: "Look at her. Back arched. Body open. Waiting. Perfect."

Her moan broke the silence—high and desperate. His hand came down on her ass in a sharp slap that made me flinch even from the doorway.

"No sounds unless I permit them."

"Yes, Sir," she whispered, voice hoarse.

The others stiffened, their spines like steel rods under his gaze. He didn’t have to touch them to control them; his stare alone was a chain around their throats.

I should have left. I should have walked away. But instead, I slid down against the wall, my body trembling as badly as theirs. Heat pooled between my legs, betrayal in its purest form.

Grant lowered himself onto a chair, sprawling like a king in his throne. He opened a small box from the table beside him. My breath hitched as he pulled out jeweled buttplugs, glistening with lubricant.

"You’ll crawl to me," he said, voice like iron. "And take what I give you."

One by one, they obeyed. Crawling like supplicants. Presenting themselves with perfect obedience. Each gem was pressed into them with a rough precision, the jeweled ends winking in the red glow as they returned to their positions, asses raised high, backs arched in sinful display.

The sight made my pulse trip. My thighs pressed together, desperate for relief. My clit throbbed so hard I thought it might ache forever if I didn’t touch it.

Then Grant’s voice again in a low, cold and unyielding tone.

"Permission to fuck yourselves."

The women reacted like strings pulled at once, collapsing into each other in a hungry, frantic tangle. One climbed onto the other, their lips colliding in a kiss that was more bite than sweetness, tongues sliding wetly together.

Their moans bled into one another, breathless and desperate.

The third dropped to her knees between them without hesitation, hiking the skirt of the one on her back and burying her face in the slick heat waiting there. The sound that tore out of her victim’s throat made my thighs snap together so hard I nearly whimpered.

Her tongue worked with furious devotion—slurping, circling, plunging—until the wet, obscene sounds filled the room louder than their cries. The one receiving arched up, hair flying, clutching handfuls of lace and skin.

"Oh—oh fuck, yes—Sir, she’s—ohhh."

The girl straddling her bent down, mouth sealing over a nipple, sucking hard. Her hand slid between their bodies and I could see the way her fingers slipped inside, knuckles glistening as they curled. The other’s hips bucked helplessly, grinding up into both mouths and hands at once, smearing herself shamelessly across her partners.

The third moaned into her cunt, the vibrations making the woman writhe harder, trembling thighs snapping shut around her head. She clawed at the carpet, teeth clenched, back arched like a bow ready to break.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.

The way their bodies moved together in a slick, messy and desperate motion made my clit throb so hard it was painful. My hand had already slipped into my panties without permission, circling, pressing, sliding through wetness I couldn’t control.

I matched their rhythm, biting my lip to keep quiet, but still the sounds escaped me in tiny, shaky gasps that betrayed me.

The sight of the jeweled plugs catching the red light as their asses rose and fell made my stomach twist with a brutal kind of want. One of the ladies whimpered, lifting her head from the cunt she was devouring, chin glistening with slick, and begged breathlessly,

"Please, Sir, let me make her come."

Grant only leaned back in his chair, tapping the whip against his thigh, his eyes sharp and merciless as they feasted.

"Then do it properly."

Her whole face dove back between those trembling thighs, eating like a woman starved. Her tongue moved in fast, hard laps, her nose nudging ruthlessly against the swollen nub above. The helpless cries that spilled out echoed like music—high, broken, filthy.

And then the one being devoured shattered. Her body spasmed, juices spilling messily across her lover’s mouth. She screamed out a choked "Thank you, Sir!" as her orgasm tore through her, leaving her twitching and limp.

The others didn’t stop. They tangled and kissed and rubbed against one another, hips rolling, fingers pumping, lips wet with spit and slick.

Each moan seemed to vibrate through my bones, each messy sound from their mouths and cunts pushing me closer and closer to the edge.

I pressed two fingers into myself, gasping silently, grinding against my palm as if I could crawl into the scene itself. Watching them lose themselves under his command, I wanted—needed—so badly to be down there with them, dripping, open, ruined by both their mouths and his eyes at once

And then, his voice again

"Silence."

The room stilled. Even the air froze.

I did too. My moans had blended with theirs and worse, I realized I’d been moaning his name like a prayer.

His head turned, slow, deliberate. His eyes cut through the shadows, straight to the doorway where I hid trembling with wet fingers and shame.

And then, with a cruel, knowing smile, he said—

"It’s high time you joined us, Nymph. Your uniform is waiting."