She has the only key to every house in town… and she never locks her own door.
Explicit • public sex • voyeurism • free-use fantasy • rough group scenes • 18+
Everyone in town had a spare key hanging on a hook in Vivienne’s workshop. She insisted. “Emergencies,” she said with that slow smile that made men forget their own names.
At night she left her own back door unlocked and a single lamp burning in the bedroom. The first man who tried it was the young deputy. He found her naked on the bed, legs already spread, one finger lazily circling her clit. She never spoke—just crooked that finger until he was balls-deep inside her, fucking her so hard the headboard left dents in the wall. When he finished, she kissed his cheek and whispered, “Leave the key on the dresser. Come back any time.”
Word spread quietly. The door stayed unlocked.
She delivered new locks to the town hall herself, wearing a pencil skirt so tight it looked painted on. The mayor locked the door behind her, thinking he was in control. Five minutes later he was bent over his own desk, pants around his ankles, while Vivienne rode him reverse-cowgirl, heels digging into his thighs. She made him watch in the dark window as people walked by outside, inches from seeing their respected leader getting used like a toy. When she came, she soaked his expensive suit and left teeth marks on his shoulder as a souvenir.
Sunday morning. Father Daniel heard the creak of the confessional door and smelled jasmine perfume. Vivienne’s voice drifted through the lattice: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… and I’m about to again.”
She crawled under the partition on hands and knees, took his cock down her throat while he was still clutching his rosary. He lasted less than a minute the first time. By the third Sunday he was fucking her against the velvet kneeler while the choir practiced on the other side of the wall, her hand clamped over his mouth to keep him quiet when he came inside her.
Five men around her husband’s table. Cards forgotten the moment Vivienne walked in wearing nothing but one of his dress shirts, unbuttoned. She poured whiskey, bent over just enough to flash lace panties, and whispered, “Winner takes me on the table.”
There was no winner. They took turns anyway—mouth, cunt, ass—passing her around like a prize while her husband dealt the next hand and watched with dark, hungry eyes. By the end the felt was ruined and she was dripping from every hole, lipstick smeared, laughing breathlessly as they each left their key on the pile in the middle of the table.
She threw a party. Invited the entire town. One rule: the door stays open, clothes are optional after 10 p.m.
By midnight the living room was a tangle of bodies—deputy, mayor, priest, poker boys, neighbors she’d never even spoken to—all taking turns, sometimes two or three at once. She spent hours on her knees, on her back, bent over furniture, cum glazing her skin like sugar. Her husband filmed it all from the corner, stroking himself slowly, waiting for his turn last, the way she liked it.
At 4 a.m. the last guest stumbled out, leaving his key behind. Vivienne stood naked in the doorway, body painted in handprints and bite marks, and smiled at the sunrise.
The door never did get locked again.