This is where she burns.
Gem was never meant to be safe. Not in the motel, not on the balcony, not even in the aftercare you thought might redeem her. What you are about to read was hers. Her voice, her hunger, her choice.
But that is not the only version.
Plain Smut handed her over to Gunther in the third instalment of Bleached Palms Archives, Motel Burns. Coming early 2026. He stripped her voice, stole her POV, flattened her into frames and reports. He reduced her to skin positions, to holes that could be counted, timed, archived.
Gunther’s Gem is not Gem. It is the record of her, the voyeur’s log. No breath, no thought, no tremor of decision. Just angles, notes, the kind of clinical theft that makes a body less than human.
You already know this pattern. If you read Motel Drips or Motel Moves, you’ve seen the bleaching before. Every archive version turns the living into the spectral. The girl who spoke in sweat and laugh becomes a mute exhibit.
But here’s the cost: what was loud becomes silence. What was claimed becomes stolen. What was Gem becomes Gunther’s.
Motel Burns is Plain Smut at its most ruthless. Not for the girl, not for the reader who loved her voice. For the record. For the ruin. For the bleach that never stops eating.
Take it if you can.
This is Plain Smut, dismantled. Motel Burns arrives early 2026.
~ Candy Pleasure
Curator, The Pleasure Trove
This is Normally Behind a Paywall
SMUT isn’t free. It’s raw. It’s paid content for a reason. But every now and then, we let one drip past the wall.
Don’t treat it like a freebie. Treat it like a leak.
Gem
The lift hums, floor numbers glowing one by one. My reflection stares back at me in the steel, hair loose, lipstick smudged from too much wine and not enough care. I should fix it, but I do not. I like the look of myself messy, already half-undone before I even get there.
The doors open, the carpet swallows my bare steps. I left the party without shoes. I left without goodbyes. The corridor stretches, quiet and plush, and I follow the numbers until I find theirs. The key-card slides, the lock clicks, and I walk straight in.
Heat hits me first. Steam leaks from the bathroom. The shower is running, the sound thick through the door. Three voices low, rumbling. Then they fall silent when they see me.
Justin leans against the frame, hair still wet, grin lazy, towel hanging loose at his hips. Marcus is on the bed, shirt off, trousers unfastened, watching me like I am already his. Clyde stands behind them, broad and steady, arms crossed, waiting.
I do not stop. I slip my dress straps down my shoulders, one after the other, and let the fabric fall. Their eyes follow it to the floor. I stand there in nothing but skin and hunger, and that is all the consent I need to give.
Justin moves first. Of course he does. He always moves first. He comes close, mouth curved, eyes bright. I catch his jaw in my hand, pull him down, and kiss him like I came here for no other reason. Wet, greedy, full. I taste him, take what I want, then push him back. Marcus is next. His kiss is slower, deeper, tongue dragging, hand firm at my waist. I let him taste me, then break away and turn to Clyde.
He kisses like he stands: solid, unshaken. Heavy mouth, warm breath, steady as stone. I give him longer. I let it soften my knees.
The bathroom is thick with heat. Steam curls along the tiles, fogs the wide mirror, beads and runs down the glass. I step inside, the air wet against my skin, and the hiss of water drowns out everything but my own pulse.
Justin drops his towel before he follows, grinning as though he’s been waiting for me all night. Marcus is slower, his eyes locked to the curve of my hips as I move. Clyde shuts the door behind us, shutting out the city, shutting out everything that is not this.
The shower is wide, tiled in pale stone, a space made for more than one body. I step beneath it first, tilting my head back, letting the spray soak my hair, trace my throat, slide down to my chest. Warm water bursts across me, washing away perfume and smoke, leaving only skin, heat, and need.
Justin kneels before I tell him to. The water glazes his shoulders, his dark hair slick against his skull, his grin wiped away when he presses his mouth between my thighs. His tongue is quick, greedy, sharp. He laps at me like he’s starving. My hand tangles in his hair and I rock forward, letting the spray and his mouth work me together.
Clyde’s hand finds my hip. Solid, steady, grounding. He holds me in place, not forcing, just anchoring me so I can take what Justin is giving. His other palm cups my breast, heavy and warm, thumb teasing the nipple until it hardens beneath his touch.
Marcus comes close, standing just behind me, his breath hot at my ear even through the steam. “Open for us,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear it. His lips graze my neck, slow kisses that drag fire across my damp skin. I arch against him, water dripping off my chin as Justin’s tongue flicks deeper, harder.
My breath turns ragged. I spread my thighs wider, brace a hand against the slick tile, and let them have me. Justin pushes his tongue in, then drags it up, circling, teasing. My hips buck forward and Clyde steadies me, his grip tightening, his chest pressed close to keep me upright. Marcus kisses lower, across my collarbone, down to the swell of my breast, sucking at the water that runs there as though it belongs to him.
I gasp. My thighs tremble. Heat builds sharp and fast, a knot low in my belly pulling tighter with every stroke of Justin’s tongue. My head falls back against Marcus’s shoulder. He whispers, “Yes, that’s it,” into my ear, voice velvet, voice wrong in the right way, making me shiver.
The orgasm comes sudden, hard, wringing through me as my body jerks against their hands and mouths. My cry is muffled against Marcus’s skin, Justin’s mouth locked to my cunt, Clyde’s grip steady as stone. I come and come again, twitching against them, until I have to push Justin’s head back with a breathless laugh, too much, too sharp.
He pulls away grinning, mouth glistening with water and me both. “Hungry, like I said.”
I slide down to my knees in the spray, catching Marcus’s cock in my hand before he can smirk. Hard, thick, hot against my palm. I take him into my mouth, the water hammering down my back, Justin watching with his lips wet, Clyde’s hand still tangled in my hair.
I suck him slow, deep, taking my time, tasting the salt of his skin under the wash of clean water. He groans low, fingers curling at my shoulder, but I set the pace. I own the rhythm. When I release him, lips wet, I turn my head and take Justin into my mouth, giving him the same slow, teasing drag.
The steam thickens. The water beats. The mirror is nothing but fog. I shift, press my ass back against Clyde, feeling his cock hard and waiting against me. I push until he groans, until he presses forward, the promise clear: bed next.
I laugh again, breathless, rising, water dripping from every part of me. “Not here,” I tell them, voice rough. “There.”
And I step out of the spray, leaving them to follow.
The suite is dim when we come back out, curtains drawn loose across the glass, the city bleeding in at the edges in strips of silver and orange. The bed waits low and wide, sheets already creased from Marcus sitting there before. I drop my wet hair down my back, still dripping, and climb onto it without looking at them. I stretch out on my back, thighs open, one arm behind my head, watching.
They do not make me wait.
Clyde takes the centre, kneeling between my legs, his cock heavy, his eyes locked to mine. Justin sprawls beside me, leaning down to take one breast into his mouth, sucking hard until my nipple stiffens. Marcus kneels by my head, brushing wet hair from my face before guiding his cock to my lips.
I open for him. The weight fills my mouth, thick and hot, pressing against my tongue as he slides deeper. I moan around him, the sound vibrating in my throat, and Clyde pushes into me at the same moment. His cock stretches me, slow at first, then deeper, until I can’t tell which makes me shudder harder — my mouth full or my cunt split wide.
Justin’s tongue circles, teeth grazing lightly, his hand pinning my other breast flat. I arch into all of them, one long line of use, filled at every point, giving myself over.
Clyde’s thrusts grow steadier, Marcus rocks against my mouth, Justin pinches until I gasp around them both. The rhythm builds until it crashes. I shake, body clenching, coming hard around Clyde, gagging softly on Marcus as my orgasm tears through me. They do not stop until I push Marcus away for breath, until Clyde groans and spills inside me, hot and thick, making me buck with the flood of it.
I lie there panting, wet hair sticking to my face, and laugh once, sharp and raw.
They move me without words. Clyde rolls out, spent but grinning, and Marcus drags me onto my side, pulling my leg over his hip. He slides into me quick, my cunt still dripping, his pace rough from the start. Justin slides in close at my front, his cock pressing at my lips until I take him into my mouth again.
Pinned between them, I am stretched, filled, used from both sides. Every thrust rocks me forward onto Justin’s cock, every pull back drags me off it. My mouth is slick, messy, spit dripping down my chin as I choke and swallow and take him deeper. Marcus groans behind me, teeth at my shoulder, hand locked at my waist to keep me exactly where he wants me.
Clyde leans back against the headboard, watching, stroking himself slow, eyes dark as he studies every twitch of me between them.
I break again, body seized tight, crying into Justin’s cock as I come around Marcus, soaking him, soaking the sheets. He growls, shoving harder until he empties inside me, grinding deep, leaving me full again.
They lay me back, lift me up. Clyde is hard again already — a steady bull — and pulls me onto his lap. I straddle him, thighs wide, cock buried deep inside me, his hands gripping my hips to guide my grind.
Justin and Marcus crowd in at either side. One feeds me his cock, the other his mouth. They kiss me in turns, their tongues fighting for mine as I ride Clyde, grinding, bouncing, the slap of wet skin loud in the dim room. Clyde holds me steady, groaning each time I sink all the way down on him, cock stretching me to the edge.
Justin grabs my hair, makes me open, makes me swallow him while I grind. Marcus whispers filth in my ear, telling me how I look, how I sound, how I’m dripping down Clyde’s cock like I was made for this.
I break again, clutching at their shoulders, sobbing out a moan as my body convulses on Clyde’s cock. He pulls me down hard, thrusting up, groaning loud, filling me a second time with a spill so hot I can feel it leak as I rock against him.
I collapse forward, face pressed to the pillows, ass raised. Clyde slides out of me slow, cum dripping down my thighs. Justin is there instantly, pressing into me from behind, groaning at how wet and loose I am, driving into me without pause. He pounds hard, relentless, hands tight on my hips as he buries himself again and again.
Marcus kneels in front of me, cock against my lips, and I take him, gasping, moaning, gagging as Justin slams me forward. My mouth is full, my cunt stuffed, my body jolting with every thrust. Clyde lies beside me, stroking my hair, whispering praise in my ear as he watches them use me.
Justin grits his teeth, groans, and spills inside me, thick and fast, pulling out only when I’m dripping down my thighs, soaked, ruined. Marcus thrusts deeper into my throat until his cock jerks, until he spills hot down my throat, until I gag and swallow and lick my lips clean.
I collapse sideways, body shaking, skin wet, sheets ruined. My thighs are slick with all of them, my mouth tastes of them, and I am laughing again, because this is exactly what I came here for.
I slip from the bed, pull the robe from the chair, and shrug it over my shoulders without tying it. The fabric clings damp to my skin.
The balcony door slides open with a low groan. The night air rushes in, sharp and cool, cutting through the heat of the room. I step out barefoot, the tiles cold beneath me, the city stretched below in a glitter of lights. Far-off traffic hums, anonymous, blind to what I’m about to give it.
The robe slips loose when Marcus comes behind me. He pushes it open with one hand, the other firm at my waist. My breasts spill into the night air, nipples hard from the chill. He bends, pressing his lips to my neck, then lower, kissing the hollow between my shoulder blades.
Justin and Clyde hover at the doorway, shadows in the light, watching. I spread my hands across the railing, lean forward, and push my ass back into Marcus. His cock is already hard again, pressing against me, urgent. I nod once, and he doesn’t hesitate.
The stretch makes me gasp, sharp against the night air, then settle into a long groan as he fills me, slow and steady. My robe falls completely, pooling at my elbows. The city looks up at me, my body bared, my cunt spread, Marcus driving into me from behind with heavy thrusts that rock me against the rail.
I moan loud, shameless, knowing anyone below could hear if the wind carried it right. The thought makes me wetter, makes me grind harder. Marcus groans at my ear, fingers digging into my hips as he pushes deeper, as his pace turns brutal.
The others step closer, watching me be taken against the city’s gaze. My moans echo off the glass. The night air steals my breath. My orgasm tears through me, shuddering, gripping his cock tight as he pounds into me and finally groans, spilling hard inside, grinding deep until I’m dripping down my thighs again.
I laugh once, ragged, pressing my forehead to the cold steel rail. The city watches. I let it.
I leave the balcony door open, the night pouring into the suite, carrying the smell of rain and streetlight. My body hums, stretched and spent, slick between my thighs. Marcus is still behind me, his breath heavy, his cock softening where he left himself inside me. When he pulls free, cum runs down my legs, hot against the cool air. I do not hide it. I walk back through the curtains, bare, marked, laughing softly under my breath.
The bed is ruined, sheets damp and tangled, pillows pushed to the floor. Justin is already sprawled there, chest rising fast, hair plastered to his forehead. Clyde has gone to the small table in the corner, returning with bottled water, a plate of fruit left by the hotel. He presses a cold bottle into my hand before he touches me anywhere else. I drink greedily, water spilling at the corners of my mouth, running down my throat.
They gather me between them without asking. Justin kisses my shoulder, slow now, not teasing. Marcus drapes a towel across my lap, wiping me gently, his eyes dark but softer. Clyde feeds me a grape between his fingers, smiling when I bite it from him, juice dripping onto my chin.
For a while, none of us speak. Just breath, touch, the quiet weight of bodies well used. Their hands trace me like I’m something precious. My skin sings under every stroke, every kiss, even as exhaustion pulls me heavier into the mattress.
I reach for my phone, snap a picture of our hands tangled together — four men’s, one woman’s — all slick, all strong, no faces, just truth. Proof that tonight happened. Proof that I came here, and I took exactly what I wanted.
When I finally stand, I tie the robe properly, cinching it tight at my waist. My thighs ache. My lips are swollen. My whole body feels claimed, satisfied, undone and remade.
I lean down, kiss each of them once more, softer than before, then pick up my shoes from where I dropped them at the door.
The hall is empty when I step out. I close the door behind me with a quiet click, and smile at the silence I leave in my wake.
You dripped. You moved. Now burn.
The first archive bled through the sheets. Motel Drips gave you the mess, the slick, the slip. The second one pressed harder. Motel Moves dragged you from wall to counter to floor, showed you what happened when the bodies would not stay still.
Now the third arrives, and nothing survives it.
Motel Burns is where the bleach takes hold. Gem stripped of her voice. Gunther’s eye turned cruel, cold, relentless. Every moan flattened into notes, every choice stolen into record. What you loved as hers is fed to the fire until nothing is left but marks on a page.
Early 2026, the archive opens again. Plain Smut does not flinch, it does not soothe, it does not save her.
You dripped. You moved. Now burn.
Motel Burns. The Bleached Palms Archives, Book 3.
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