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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.
(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)
none of the gifts come with a note.
one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.
the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.
-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.
The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.
"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."
You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.
-Dearest husband,
Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.
Your patient and thoughtful wife
A second letter arrives within the week.
-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?
The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.
-Dearest, sweetest husband,
A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.
Your less than patient and less than adoring wife
The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.
tortured wife,
I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.
werewolf!Soap has gotten robbed by a one night stand.
you were desperate. short on rent because your siblings couldn’t be bothered to return the money they borrowed from you after you’d been pressured by your parents to just give them what they wanted.
so you got creative and got busy. the bar was your usual place to strike. you went after the loud and boisterous fucker with the bad haircut after he’d declared that drinks were on him at his table for the night.
it was Soap’s own fault, really, for bringing you to his place. he was a good lay, which was a bonus. enthusiastic, a little too passionate. you hated how soft his eyes were when he pinned your hands above your head and made a point to set a slower pace, hated how praises seem to tumble out of his mouth when he trailed his lips down your skin before he littered you with bites and nips. his chest rumbling with something sickly sweet as he nuzzles his cheek against your neck and inhaled thickly as if he’s trying to breathe you in.
you didn’t sign up to be worshiped. didn’t sign up to be revered by a complete stranger. one you planned to steal from anyway, yet here you were. trapped under him as he pushed you over the edge again and again while your nailed raked down his arms.
he was eager to please too. eager to eat your pussy before and after he stuffed you full of cum. you went the extra mile to ride him to tears for good measure and he returned the favour by folding you in half and fucked you till the neighbours called and complained to keep the noise down.
but slept like a log right after. you almost did too with how much he wore you out but you forced yourself to stay away and pry yourself out of his heavy arms. which gave you the perfect opportunity to take what you want from him.
you struck gold that night. found a fat wad of cash in his wallet and a couple of expensive watches on his night stand which were worth a fortune.
you cast one long look at his sleeping frame. handsome motherfucker, this one. burly arms with a big hairy chest and legs to match. your fingers traced the faint, jagged line running along the side of his head to his chipped ear.
part of you wished this could’ve lasted longer. part of you wished you met him under different circumstances. but alas, life goes on. this would be the last you saw of him and he’d be glad to be rid of you.
or so you thought.
not even half a week lapses before you heard a knock at your front door. your blood ran cold when you opened it to find Soap’s familiar grin flashing vividly before he pushes his way in and pins you down, clasping a hand over your mouth before you can even think to call for help.
“there ye are, little thief.” he heaves over you as you squirm helplessly under him. “yer scent was far too easy tae find, lass.”
it’s not just that he’s heavy. he’s strong too. much stronger than you’d like him to be. you’re reminded of how he’d used that strength a two days ago to mold you to his bed without much of an effort.
you attempt, through tears, to mumble apologies under his palm. your hands try to push him away, to crawl out from under him. but he won’t budge and he won’t let you go anywhere.
just like last you saw of him, you’re trapped under him.
“not here fer that, sweet thing.” he pants into your neck. “i came tae finish what we started.”
it’s only then that you feel his cock pressed against your thigh. his hands pawing over the layers of your clothes and slipping underneath.
it’s only then that you realized that robbing him wasn’t your first, nor worst mistake.
willingly throwing yourself his way like a lamb to slaughter was.
thinking about sex toys in the omegaverse again...
your favorite faceless pornstar releases a line of pheromone sprays and flavored lubes and you guilty pleasure buy the whole line only to get one whiff and realize it smells exactly like the alpha that sits across from you at work...
spending the weekend in bed binge watching porn with your favorite toy between your legs, panting into the pillow you'd sprayed with pheromones, liquid sex clogging your nose with gunpowder oolong and licorice. dark and sexy and so hauntingly familiar. you don't have the brainpower to put towards thinking where you've smelled it before when you're wrapped up in this scent.
showing up to work monday morning with a orgasm hangover, feeling like you just got through a micro-heat. dropping your bag at your desk and booting up your computer to start running through updates and catching up on the emails you'd been ignoring. glancing at the clock every so often to see how late your least favorite coworker is.
you took multiple showers before coming in but you feel like the smell of that pheromone spray is still lingering on your skin. you keep sniffing your shirt, your finger tips, trying to figure out what you missed when you were cleaning up.
it keeps scratching at the back of your mind, subtly embarrassing to think that someone might ask you about the lingering stink of synthetic sex, it's weird that it doesn't have that slight chemical edge that most synthetic pheromones have.
the chair across from you scrapes its plastic wheels against the floor as your coworker sits down heavily and suddenly the subtle scent you'd been catching has increased 100 fold. enough to have you jerking your head towards the smell, breathing deeply (rudely) through your nose as he glances at you in the middle of setting his coffee down.
"What?" he asks, clearly annoyed at your staring. gunpowder oolong and licorice stuff your nose, something soft and milky coating your tongue just at the end of the scent. the part aftertaste that synthetic sprays can never quite capture.
your mouth dries.
"nothing." you hastily look back at your computer screen and hear him inhale. your eyes dart to him, his lips just barely crooking up at the corners.
"you using a new perfume?" your skin feels like it's burning, as you lie through your teeth.
and now that you've noticed your coworker smells like your pornstar pheromone mist you can't stop noticing.
his voice has the same timbre, the same measured way of speaking, purposeful, slightly bored. you'd fawned at every shred of dirty talk, fumbled over yourself to comply with his indecent requests ("don't touch yourself, not yet, I want to get a better look at you, spread your legs a wider, that's it, good.") and it had been exactly the same tone you'd called annoyingly bossy to your friends.
his hands are the same. the dark hair that dusts his knuckles, the outlined veins, you'd watched his fingers curl around his cock more times than you could count, pressed your own hand to your throat and pretended it was his, traced along your sex and imagined it was those same hands. the same hands that you glared at when he tapped your copy edits and told you the red marks meant take out not reword however you want.
his mouth... you try not to stare, try not to pick out the slightly chapped lines of it, try not to remember the video you'd paused and rewatched over and over, the way he'd pushed up his mask to lick his own come off his fingers, and you'd stared at his mouth in awe wishing you could get more, wishing you could catch a glimpse of his tongue to fuel your fantasies.
you hated his smile, that self serving, smarmy smile that tugged at just the corners of his crooked mouth and made you want to punch him in the face. the one he only flashed when he knew it would piss you off. the one that seemed permanently fixed to his face every time you glanced his way.
and his scent, the one you'd spent hours lost in over the weekend, the one that had made your head spin and your eyes roll. the one that you told your work-friends made your nose itch, that you blamed every sneeze on. the one that makes you sniff your shirt again when he gets up to go do whatever the fuck he does when he isn't sitting at his desk tormenting you, just to make sure the spray isn't still lingering on you.
it's so hard to tell when the whole desk seems to reek of him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming