Quezon City, Philippines, 2025 🇵🇭
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The rain’s a relentless drum, matching the panic in my chest. I’m Aisha Mercado, 24, running through Payatas’ muddy streets, my flip-flops slapping the ground, my jeans clinging to my thighs, my breasts bouncing under a soaked tank top.
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Carlo’s text “I fucked up. I’m in deep shit. Help me” burns in my mind, and I’m terrified.
Last night, we had sex in our tiny room, his penis deep inside my vagina, my waist grinding as my breasts pressed against his chest. My “oohs” and “aahs” spilled out, a song of passion, as he groaned my name, his hands bruising my hips.
“I’ll get us out of here,” he promised, but now I’m not so sure.
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I hop a jeepney to Quezon City, the air thick with diesel fumes and cheap perfume. Carlo’s been chasing “big breaks” in dive bars, gambling away our future.
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I find him at Luzon’s Den, a seedy joint with flickering neon and bass thumping like a heartbeat. He’s slumped in a corner, his face bruised, blood on his lip, his torn shirt showing his toned chest.
My breasts heave with fear as I kneel beside him.
“Carlo, what happened?” I ask, touching his face, his skin hot under my fingers.
“Lost big at cards,” he mutters, his eyes avoiding mine.
“Owe ten grand to some bad guys, Aisha. Pesos, not dollars, but still…”
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Ten thousand pesos more than we make in months at the sari-sari stall.
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My vagina clenches, fear mixing with the heat of being so close to him. He pulls me onto his lap, his penis hard against my thigh through his jeans, and my vagina’s wet, aching for him despite everything.
His hands slide under my shirt, squeezing my breasts, and I grind against him, my waist rolling, my “oohs” soft in the bar’s smoky haze.
“I need you, Aisha,” he groans, his lips sucking my neck, and we’re having sex in spirit, not fully, but enough to make my breasts tingle, my vagina begging for his penis inside me.
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A shadow looms over us.
“Santos, time’s up,” says a burly man, Rico, his snake tattoo curling up his arm, his grin cold.
“Where’s my money?”
Carlo tenses, his hands still on my waist.
“I’ll get it, Kuya Rico,” he says, his voice shaky.
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Rico’s eyes rake over my breasts, making my skin crawl.
“Your girl’s pretty. Maybe she pays.”
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My blood runs cold, but my vagina’s still hot from Carlo’s touch.
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Then Rafael’s voice cuts through:
“Back off, Rico.”
He’s at the bar’s entrance, his basketball jersey gone, his black shirt hugging his muscles.
My vagina pulses, imagining his penis, and I hate how my body betrays me.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Rico snarls, but Rafael steps closer, his fingers brushing my arm, sending heat to my breasts.
“It does now,” he says, his starry eyes locked on mine, and I moan softly, an “aah” slipping out as I picture us having sex, his penis filling me in ways Carlo never could.
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Carlo pulls me toward the door.
“Let’s go,” he says, his grip tight, but Rafael’s gaze holds me, my vagina aching for him.
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A new face appears Benny, a wiry guy from the barangay, 20, who runs errands for Mama.
“Aisha, your sister’s looking for you,” he says, his eyes nervous, darting to Rico.
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My heart sinks Lila’s caught in this mess too?
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The rain outside roars, and Quezon City’s neon lights blur as I’m torn between Carlo’s desperate love, Rafael’s dangerous pull, and a debt that could destroy us all.
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Author’s Note:
Yo, loves! Aisha’s in HOT water! 😈 That steamy bar moment with Carlo was intense, but Rafael’s kilig is next level, and Rico’s threat is scary AF.
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Who’s Benny, and what’s Lila up to?
Vote: Team Carlo or Team Rafael?
Tell me what you want in Chapter Three more sexy vibes, Carlo’s debt drama, or Rafael’s mystery?
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Drop your thoughts, and I’ll update soon! 🌧️🔥
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