Virginia Bloom sat at the bus stop with a light travel bag in her p and a soaked pair of panties under her skirt.

  Along with her freckled-peppered brace-face, her eyes were big, hazel-green, and framed by thick round gsses—the kind that made her look even younger, sweeter, almost too innocent to be sitting with her panties soaked and her pulse racing. Her shes curled naturally, and her hair—deep red pigtails tied with red ribbons.

  She wore no makeup beyond the gloss. Her lips were full, slick with clear gloss, and when she bit them—nervous, distracted—the faint glint of braces peeked out behind the shine. She looked like the kind of girl who should be reading in a bakery window. Instead, she was staring at her phone with her thighs clenched, watching herself moan over a spatu like it was the only cock she’d ever known.

  She wore a soft pink hoodie zipped halfway down, just enough to show the top of her white ce camisole beneath it—thin straps and a faint stain from frosting that hadn’t come out in the wash. Her hoodie sleeves were too long and covered her hands, but her nails were painted—tiny strawberries on glossy pink polish, chipped on the edges from nervous chewing. Skirt was pleated, short, high-waisted, and one size too small. It barely covered her thighs when she sat, and she kept pulling at it like it made a difference. Every time a breeze touched her legs, she twitched. Complimenting the outfit with white ankle socks with strawberry ruffles, estic snug against her pale skin. Her shoes were simple sneakers. And her panties? White cotton with cupcake prints. Soaked straight through. Sticking to her lips. Pulled tight against her clit like a thumbprint made of shame.

  Her thighs pressed together as she shifted. She didn’t cross her legs. She couldn’t. It made the stickiness worse.

  It was early. Not even 7 a.m., but her thighs were already sticking together. The seat was cold, her chest was warm, and her stomach wouldn’t stop flipping like something huge was coming.

  She didn’t know what to expect when she got there.She only knew what the ad said:

  “No rent. Full tips. Obedience praised. Weight under 150 preferred (easier to reposition).Matching socks optional, but encouraged.Good girl is a valid reason to cum.”

  She hadn’t even bothered lying on the application.She was 18. She was 117 pounds. She called everyone “Mister.”She’d never said “good girl” out loud, but she’d written it in frosting on every cake she'd ever secretly moaned over.

  She was hired in less than 30 minutes.

  The email read:

  “Welcome to the Blossom House. Report within 72 hours. Bring nothing but yourself, a toothbrush, and matching socks.”

  She’d read that line so many times it was burned into the back of her eyelids. And of course her mind drifted back.

  "Good girl is a valid reason to cum," she whined to herself. She pressed her thighs together harder.

  She looked around. No one nearby. The street was still, birds chirping, the bus stop empty but for her. She unzipped her hoodie just enough to breathe. Then she pulled out her phone. ChatterPix. Her old archive. Deleted from public view, but still saved under a locked album called “Sugar Sessions.”

  She tapped open the one with the whipped cream and her favorite spatu.

  On screen:A giggling redhead in tight shorts licking icing off her fingers and moaning into the camera while calling every anonymous viewer Mister.

  She whispered, “You want me to make a mess, don’t you?”Then dragged the spatu between her tits and gasped just right.

  Ginny exhaled. Her face flushed, thighs rubbing. She turned down the volume, pulled her knees closer, and kept watching.

  She’d filmed that video a week before being banned.She hadn’t even shown her pussy. Just a little underboob. A little gag on a spoon.But the comments were immediate.

  -“God, I’d pay to watch you lick frosting off my cock.”-“Look at those braced moans. Fuck, she’s made for older men.”-“Good girl, baby. Make that noise again.”

  She did. And now she was headed to a pce where those words weren’t just comments. They were rules.

  The bus pulled up with a sighing hiss. Her thighs still tingled.

  She got on quietly, tapping her card, gncing around as the driver grunted something that barely registered. She didn’t care. Her eyes were on the rows. The vehicle was mostly empty—just a few early commuters, a couple teens with earbuds, and one older man near the back window reading a paperback. He looked up when she stepped on.

  Just for a second. She felt it. She took a seat two rows ahead of him, near the window. Let her bag slide down. The video was still pying in her hand, dimmed low, locked in ndscape mode. The girl on screen moaned, sucked her finger, and whispered,

  -“Don’t stop watching me, Mister.”

  Ginny’s thighs squeezed tighter. She slid her hand under her skirt. She wasn’t going to do it. She wasn’t. She had her legs crossed, the volume barely audible, the earbuds in. She kept gncing over her shoulder—but the man wasn’t looking. He was reading again. She spread her knees just enough. Her fingers brushed over her soaked cotton, pressing the fabric down, dragging it slowly up her slit. She whimpered. The girl on screen whispered

  -“Good girl” in her own voice.

  Ginny nearly came. The bus rumbled forward. Every bump shook her. Every engine growl vibrated up her spine. She looked back again. The man wasn’t reading anymore. He was watching her. Openly. Calmly. She held eye contact. He said nothing. But his eyes dropped to her p. And stayed there. She didn’t stop. She slid her panties to the side, biting her lip, working two fingers in slow circles around her clit as her video looped again and again.

  He leaned forward in his seat, elbows on knees. She shivered.

  “Don’t stop now,” he said softly, barely audible over the rumble. “You’ll ruin the rhythm.”

  She moaned. Quiet. Desperate. He stood. Walked up the aisle. Sat directly beside her. Her body froze.

  “Show me,” he said.

  She turned the screen toward him. He watched the video for five seconds. Then reached down and unzipped his scks.

  “Put your mouth here, sweet thing.”

  She was already leaning in. The scent of him hit her first—clean, warm, masculine. Her hand trembled as she pulled his cock free. It was thick. Older. Veined. She whimpered as it brushed her cheek.

  “Go slow,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

  She opened her mouth. Ginny sucked him slow and soft, her braces sliding against her lips. The man stroked her hair. Grabed onto those twintails and guided her rhythm. Let her moan around the base like she was still tasting frosting.

  “That’s it. That’s a good girl.”

  She gagged. And came again. Right there on the seat. He pulled her up, gently.

  “Turn around. Face the window.”

  She obeyed. She felt her skirt lifted. Her panties were peeled down and tucked into his pocket without a word.

  “You know what’s next.”

  She nodded, face burning, breath caught. He slid inside. She bit her sleeve to muffle the scream. Her head hit the window. Her legs shook as he filled her inch by inch, every thrust dragging against nerves already shattered from edging.

  “Good girl,” he groaned.

  She sobbed. The ride continued. No one looked. No one stopped it. Just the wet sp of hips under the bus hum, her face against the gss, the sticky sound of a desperate girl getting exactly what she needed.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t stop saying it—please…”

  “Good girl. Good fucking girl. Take it!”

  She came hard. Loud. Body trembling. Thighs dripping. He pulled out and tucked himself away without another word. She turned, shaking, still on her knees. He handed her a folded napkin and winked.

  “Be ready next time. You’ve got potential.”

  It was yet another good bus fucking session she was all to familiar with, and just in time. Arrival. The bus hissed to a stop in a high-end neighborhood. Private wns. Stone gates. Ivy-wrapped mansions. Ginny stepped off the bus barefoot. Her panties were gone. Her bag felt light. Her legs wobbled. She looked up.

  Blossom House. Four floors. Cream siding. Pink window trim. And a sign above the door. Painted in white script over the pastel archway:

  "Where good girls grow."

  Her thighs were still soaked. Her lips were parted. Her heart throbbed like it knew exactly what was coming. It wasn’t the mansion that made her thighs rub. It wasn’t the air, thick with vender and warm sugar. She clutched her case with both hands in anticipation. Her knees still trembled. The doors opened on their own. She didn't even knock. Now she was here. Now she couldn’t breathe.

  The house loomed four stories high—vanil cream siding, pink shutters, ivy down the walls like fingers curling in. Every window was open. Every breeze smelled like girl. The first thing she heard? A moan. Not a scream. Not a fake porn cry. A real moan—breathy, low, drawn out like someone had just been told she was pretty with a cock inside her. It made Ginny’s stomach flip and her pussy throb like it was nodding.

  “You’re early,” a voice chirped.

  She turned. The girl in the doorway had cherry red pigtails and a lollipop cmped between her teeth. She wore a uniform Ginny recognized instantly from the photos in the listing—a puff-sleeved pastel top that hugged her chest like cling wrap, and shorts that didn’t even try to hide her thighs.

  “I’m Clover. You’re Ginny, right? With the frosting fetish?”

  The girl in the doorway looked like a cherry soda with tits. Smooth caramel complexion. Her bubblegum-pink ponytail was tied with a ribbon already coming loose, like she’d sucked someone off on the stairs and ran straight to the door. Eyes hazel with gold flecks and bad decisions behind every blink.

  She wore the house uniform in its cherry red variant—the cropped puff-sleeve blouse straining over 36DD tits that bounced with every word she spoke. Her buttons were undone just enough to show the start of sweat between them. Her unzipped shorts were tighter than tight—riding up the curve of her ass, wedged high enough that her left cheek had a peek of red ce peeking out. finishing off that outfit with a pair of clear 6-inch ptform heels with pink light-up soles Designed for bar-top bouncing and reverse cowgirl in mirrors, Striped thigh-highs or mismatched ankle ce, more decoration than clothing—exactly her style

  Ginny nodded, cheeks burning.

  “Cool. We’ve been waiting. Come in. Try not to stare when someone cums—it happens a lot.”

  The Tour. The first floor smelled like vanil extract and body heat. There was a man in the living room zipping up his scks. A girl with her tits out was wiping something off her chin with a napkin. Clover didn’t stop walking.

  “Kitchen’s over there. Dining room’s mirrored for obvious reasons. No aprons allowed unless you’re naked underneath.”

  Ginny nodded. Swallowed. Didn’t ask what the obvious reasons were. They passed a hallway. A door swung open. Ginny saw a brunette tied to the bed with silk belts, crying softly as bck-ced goth princess sat between her legs, sketching her with one hand, teasing her clit with the other.

  “That’s Cammy and Vi. Vi’s our little perv artist. Cammy cums when she hears the word ‘student.’”

  They walked past the stairs. Upstairs, something thumped against the wall.

  “Cherry’s probably bouncing again. She thinks moaning louder gets her more tips.”

  “Tips?” Ginny squeaked.

  “You get to keep all of them,” Clover winked. “House doesn’t take a cut unless you beg for it.”

  They stopped outside a tall door on the top floor.

  “This is Miss Magnolia’s room. She runs the pce. She’s also the only one allowed to punish without a safeword.”

  Ginny’s knees buckled a little.

  “Don’t worry,” Clover said. “She likes you already. She’s been watching your bakery clips. The one where you sucked the icing off your fingers for three minutes? Yeah. She sent it to the staff group chat.”

  Ginny whimpered. The door opened. The Interview. Miss Magnolia was exactly how Ginny had imagined her—fwless. Dark-skinned, dark-haired, gold-accented, dressed like a dominatrix with a degree in etiquette and ruin. She didn’t rise from her seat.

  “You’re Ginny.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “You’ve read the house rules.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Weight?”

  “One-fifteen.”

  Magnolia raised a brow.

  “Strip.”

  Ginny didn’t even hesitate. The hoodie fell first. Then the skirt. Then her matching cupcake panties. She stood in nothing but socks—white with ruffles, trembling. Magnolia walked in a slow circle around her, fingers trailing the air beside her cheek, down her spine, behind her knees.

  “You’re smaller than I expected. That’s good. We like easy-to-move girls.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Do you like being told you’re good?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Say it.”

  Ginny blinked.

  “Say what?”

  Magnolia leaned in, whispered it like a curse:

  “Say ‘good girl.’”

  Ginny said it. And came standing up. The First Guest. Magnolia didn’t scold her. Didn’t clean her. Just smirked and nodded to Clover.

  “Take her to Room 4C. Her guest’s waiting.”

  “Already?”

  “She’s wet enough.”

  Clover guided Ginny down the hall with a hand on her lower back.

  “You’re lucky. First guests are usually old creeps. This one’s nice. He teaches piano, I think.”

  “Piano?”

  “Yeah. Says his favorite sound is a girl’s moan between two low notes.”

  Ginny’s thighs clenched again. The room was simple: a bed, a chair, a bottle of lube, a box of tissues, and a man. He looked forty. Maybe older. Salt-and-pepper beard. Kind eyes. Calm smile.

  “You must be Ginny,” he said.

  She nodded, cheeks red, socks scrunching with every step.

  “You nervous?”

  She nodded again.

  “Don’t be,” he said, patting the bed beside him. “We’ll go slow. Just let me hear you. That’s all I ask.”

  Ginny sat. He didn’t rush. He touched her face like it was gss. Brushed her bangs behind her ears. Pressed his hand to her chest and felt her heart racing like a drumline.

  “I’ll tell you something,” he whispered. “You don’t have to fake anything here. If you moan, it’s okay. If you cry, it’s okay. If you beg? That’s just a bonus.”

  She melted. The First Time. He didn’t push her down. He asked.

  “May I touch you?”

  She nodded. His fingers trailed up her thigh, soft as smoke. Her panties were gone, but the wetness remained—a smear on her skin, sticky and shameful and perfect. He kissed her neck. She moaned. He whispered:

  “You’re such a good girl, aren’t you?”

  She screamed through a moan and arched like she was being blessed. His fingers slid inside her like they belonged there. He didn’t thrust. He praised.

  “Look at you… taking it so well. That little whimper? That’s perfect. Such a helpful little thing. I could py your moans like chords.”

  She came on his fingers once. Then twice. Then again when he simply said:

  “Good girl.”

  When he finally slipped into her, slow and full, she was already crying. And smiling. And moaning his name between whispered thank-yous like it was a prayer. After.

  Clover found her curled on the sheets, hair messy, socks still on, panties in her mouth like a pacifier. But ... That was just the beginning for sweet little Ginny. She's about about to experience pleasure she has yet to even come close to in her life.

  “Oh yeah,” Clover giggled. “You’re definitely staying.”

  From the top floor, Miss Magnolia smiled and clicked her pen across the clipboard marked:

  -Resident Bloom – Orientation Complete Praise-locked. Full submissive. High moan frequency. Potential: Unlimited.