A surprise guest for pictures

---

The front door clicked shut behind Chyenne as she dropped her keys into the ceramic dish by the entryway, the clatter echoing through the quiet house. The day had been a marathon—castings, fittings, and a last-minute photoshoot that left her muscles tense and her patience thinner than the lace on her favorite thong. She kicked off her stilettos with a groan, the relief immediate as her toes curled into the plush rug. The scent of her own perfume—something floral and expensive—lingered in the air, but beneath it, there was something else. A faint, unfamiliar musk. She dismissed it, chalking it up to the open kitchen window she must’ve forgotten to latch that morning. The late summer breeze had probably carried in the scent of the neighbor’s jasmine bushes.

She didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights. Instead, she flicked on the small lamp by the couch, casting the living room in a warm, golden glow. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound as she unbuttoned her blouse, the silk sliding off her shoulders with a whisper. Her bra followed, the straps snapping free as she tossed it onto the armchair. The air against her bare skin was cool, her nipples tightening almost instantly. She shimmied out of her pencil skirt, stepping out of it like she was shedding a second skin. The thong came last, a scrap of black lace that she peeled off with a slow, deliberate tug, letting it dangle from her fingertips before dropping it onto the growing pile of clothes.

A bath. That’s what she needed. The tub was already half-full from this morning’s rushed attempt at relaxation, the water now cold and uninviting. She twisted the faucet, the pipes groaning as steam began to curl into the air. While the tub refilled, she lit a few candles—vanilla and sandalwood—their flickering light dancing across the tiles. The blindfold was still draped over the towel rack from last time, a silky strip of black fabric that promised oblivion. She grabbed it, tying it snugly around her eyes before testing the water with her fingers. Perfect.

Chyenne sank into the tub with a sigh, the heat seeping into her bones as bubbles foamed around her. She leaned back, her head resting against the rim, and let the silence wrap around her like a lover’s embrace. The blindfold made everything sharper—the scent of the candles, the slick slide of water against her skin, the distant creak of the house settling. She reached for the glass of wine she’d poured earlier, taking a slow sip, letting the rich cabernet coat her tongue.

Then she heard it.

A soft, rhythmic *thump*. Like something—or someone—shifting their weight.

Her fingers tightened around the wineglass. The sound came again, this time followed by the unmistakable *click* of a closet door catching on the frame. Her breath hitched. The cat. It had to be the cat. Mr. Whiskers had a habit of knocking things over when he was feeling playful.

“Mr. Whiskers?” she called, her voice cutting through the steam. “You little shit, you scared me.”

No answer. Just another *thump*, closer this time.

Chyenne sat up, water sloshing over the rim of the tub. The blindfold suddenly felt suffocating. She ripped it off, blinking against the candlelight. The bathroom door was ajar, the hallway beyond swallowed in shadow. Her pulse hammered in her throat.

“Mr. Whiskers, if that’s you, I swear to god—”

A black shape darted past the doorway, tail flicking. The cat. Relief flooded her, followed by irritation. She was being paranoid. Of course it was just the damn cat.

She settled back into the tub, the blindfold forgotten on the tile floor. The wine was warm now, but she drank it anyway, letting the alcohol loosen the knots in her shoulders. Her fingers trailed down her stomach, dipping beneath the bubbles. She was already wet—from the bath, from the tension, from the way her mind kept drifting back to that Uber ride with DJ. The way his hands had felt on her thighs, the rough scrape of his stubble against her neck when he’d whispered *fuck* against her ear like it was a prayer.

The memory sent a jolt of heat between her legs. She bit her lip, her fingers circling her clit in slow, lazy strokes. The water lapped at her skin, the bubbles clinging to her breasts as she arched her back. She could almost pretend it was his touch, his breath hot against her ear—

The toilet lid *clinked*.

Chyenne’s eyes flew open.

A man sat on the closed toilet, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin propped in his hands. The dim light caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the dark stubble shadowing his skin. He was dressed in all black—fitted jeans, a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, gloves. His eyes were locked on her, unblinking, like a predator who’d just found his prey.

She screamed.

The sound was raw, tearing from her throat as she scrambled backward, her hands slipping on the wet porcelain. The man moved faster. In one fluid motion, he was on his knees beside the tub, his gloved hand clamping over her mouth. The other hand pressed something cold and hard against her temple.

“Shh,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. “You scream, I pull the trigger. You nod, I don’t. Understand?”

Chyenne’s breath came in short, sharp gasps against his palm. She nodded, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.

“Good girl.” His grip loosened, but the gun didn’t waver. “Now, you’re gonna listen real close, because I’m only gonna say this once. I came here to rob the place. Bad luck for you, you got home early. But since you’re here…” His gaze raked over her, lingering on the bubbles clinging to her breasts, the way her nipples pebbled in the cool air. “We’re gonna have to improvise.”

Chyenne’s mind raced. *Robbery. Gun. Naked.* The combination should’ve terrified her, but there was something in his voice—a dark, velvety edge that sent an unwilling shiver down her spine.

“Stand up,” he ordered.

“You can’t be serious.” Her voice was steadier than she expected. “I’m covered in bubbles.”

He tilted his head, considering. Then, with a slow smirk, he reached for the detachable showerhead. “Rinse off. But don’t even think about trying anything stupid. I’ve got eyes on you the whole time.”

Chyenne hesitated. The gun was still pressed to her head, but his other hand—ungloved now, she noticed—was wrapped around the showerhead, his fingers long, calloused. Familiar, somehow.

“Now,” he said, his thumb brushing the trigger.

She obeyed.

The water was warm, cascading over her skin as she stood, the bubbles swirling down the drain. She kept her gaze fixed on the tile wall, but she could feel his eyes on her, tracing every curve, every droplet sliding between her breasts. Her body betrayed her, heat pooling low in her belly, her nipples tightening under his scrutiny.

“Turn around,” he commanded.

She did, her back to him as the water rinsed the last of the suds from her skin. His breath hitched—she heard it, the smallest intake of air—and then his fingers were on her hip, turning her to face him again.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. His gaze was dark, hungry. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”

Chyenne’s stomach dropped. *Remembered?*

Then it clicked.

The Uber. The party. The way his hands had roamed her body in the backseat, the way he’d groaned her name like a curse. *DJ.*

“You,” she breathed.

His lips quirked. “Me.”

The gun was still in his hand, but his grip had loosened. “You’ve got a real knack for showing up at the wrong time, you know that?”

“And you’ve got a knack for pointing guns at people,” she shot back, her voice sharper than she intended. The fear was still there, but beneath it, something else—something hotter, darker. *Excitement.*

DJ chuckled, the sound sending a thrill through her. “Touché.” He set the gun on the counter, just out of her reach. “Now, let’s talk about what you’re gonna give me to make this little detour worth my while.”

Chyenne crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly acutely aware of her nakedness. “I don’t have much. Some jewelry, but it’s mostly costume stuff.”

“Mmm.” His eyes flicked to the towel rack, where a silk robe hung, half-slipped from its hook. “What about *that*?”

She followed his gaze. “My lingerie?”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “That lingerie. The stuff you model. I remember how good you looked in it. In my car.” His thumb brushed his lower lip, his knuckles grazing the bulge in his jeans. “I bet you’ve got a whole collection in there.”

Chyenne swallowed. “So what, you’re gonna rob me of my panties now?”

DJ stepped closer, the heat of his body radiating against her skin. “No, sweetheart. I’m gonna have you *model* them for me. And then I’m gonna take pictures. High-quality ones. The kind that’ll sell for a pretty penny online.”

Her breath caught. “You want me to—what, pose for you?”

“Exactly.” His fingers trailed down her arm, sending goosebumps erupting in their wake. “Unless you’ve got something better to offer.”

Chyenne’s mind raced. She could scream. Fight. But the gun was still there, and the way he was looking at her—like he wanted to devour her—made her pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.

“Fine,” she said, lifting her chin. “But I’m not doing it in here. My bedroom.”

DJ’s grin was all teeth. “Lead the way.”

---

The bedroom was cooler, the air conditioning humming softly as Chyenne stepped onto the plush rug. She could feel DJ’s presence behind her, a solid, imposing warmth. The jewelry box on her nightstand was already open, the few cheap trinkets inside scattered. He’d been through her things.

“Sit,” he ordered, nodding toward the edge of the bed.

She perched on the mattress, her fingers twisting in her lap. DJ crouched in front of her dresser, pulling open the top drawer. The lingerie was neatly folded—silk, lace, satin in every color. His fingers hovered over a black corset, the one with the delicate boning that cinched her waist like a second skin.

“This one first,” he said, tossing it onto the bed beside her. A matching thong followed, then stockings, a garter belt.

Chyenne’s hands trembled as she reached for the corset. The fabric was cool against her skin as she wrapped it around her torso, the laces pulling tight with each tug. DJ watched, his jaw clenched, his fingers drumming against his thigh.

“Turn,” he said, his voice rough.

She obeyed, presenting her back to him. His fingers brushed her spine as he took the laces, pulling them tighter than she usually would, the corset squeezing her ribs until her breath came in shallow pants.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Now the rest.”

The thong was next, the lace barely covering her as she stepped into it. The stockings followed, the silk whispering up her legs as she fastened them to the garter belt. By the time she was done, her skin was flushed, her body thrumming with a mix of nerves and something far more dangerous.

DJ had his phone out, the camera already open. “On the bed. On your knees.”

Chyenne’s throat went dry. She crawled onto the mattress, the corset digging into her ribs as she arched her back, presenting herself to him. The first *click* of the camera was like a gunshot.

“Good,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Now touch yourself.”

Her fingers hesitated over her thighs. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.” His thumb brushed the screen, zooming in. “Show me how you get yourself off, Chyenne. Pretend it’s my hand between your legs.”

A shiver ran through her. She bit her lip, her fingers finally sliding up her inner thigh, teasing the lace of her thong. The camera flashed again.

“More,” DJ demanded.

She obeyed.

Her fingers slipped beneath the lace, finding her clit already swollen, slick. She circled it slowly, her breath hitching as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. The camera kept clicking, the sound a steady rhythm in the quiet room.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” DJ muttered. His free hand was on his cock now, rubbing himself through his jeans. “Keep going. Make yourself come.”

Chyenne’s hips rocked forward, her fingers moving faster, her moans filling the air. The corset dug into her skin, the pressure almost painful, but it only made the pleasure sharper, more intense. She was close—so close—

The camera lowered.

DJ was on his knees in front of her, his hoodie discarded, his jeans unzipped. His cock was thick, veined, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He gripped her hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed.

“Enough teasing,” he growled. “I want to taste you.”

Before she could protest, his mouth was on her, his tongue dragging through her folds with a slow, deliberate stroke. Chyenne cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair as he devoured her. The corset creaked with each ragged breath, the lace of her thong damp against her skin.

“DJ—*fuck*—”

His fingers joined his tongue, two of them sliding inside her with a rough thrust. She came with a broken sob, her body shuddering as waves of pleasure crashed over her. DJ didn’t stop, licking her through it, his own groans vibrating against her clit.

When she finally collapsed back onto the bed, boneless and gasping, he stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock jutted out, hard and demanding.

“On your hands and knees,” he ordered, his voice rough. “Ass in the air.”

Chyenne rolled onto her stomach, pushing up onto her knees. The position stretched the corset tight across her breasts, the lace of her thong barely covering her as she presented herself to him.

DJ didn’t hesitate. He gripped her hips, his cock pressing against her entrance before sliding home in one deep thrust. Chyenne moaned, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

“You feel *so* good,” he groaned, his hips snapping forward. “Tight little cunt, taking my cock like you were made for it.”

She could only whimper in response, her body already tightening around him. He fucked her hard, the bed creaking beneath them, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. His fingers found her clit again, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into her.

“Come for me again,” he demanded. “I want to feel you squeeze my cock.”

Chyenne obeyed, her second orgasm crashing over her with a cry. DJ followed with a groan, his release spilling inside her in hot, thick pulses. He collapsed onto the bed beside her, his chest heaving.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing.

Then DJ propped himself up on one elbow, his fingers tracing the lace of her corset. “You’ve got more, don’t you?”

Chyenne blinked up at him. “More… what?”

“Lingerie.” His grin was wicked. “And I want to see all of it.”

---

An hour later, the bed was a mess of discarded lace and silk. Chyenne was