The Reckoning

[sh****]

The Reckoning
Chapter one

The air in the room didn’t hum; it waited. It was a held breath, a coiled spring. And she was the trigger.

She stood by the window, back to me, pretending to look at the city lights. I saw the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in the hand she thought she held so still. She’d chosen the black dress, the one that clung like a shadow and ended high on her thigh. A offering. A challenge.

“Turn around.”

My voice was low, a neutral command. No warmth, no anger. A tool. She jumped, just a little, a tiny fracture in her composure that sent a thrill straight through me. She turned. Her eyes were wide, dark pools trying to read my face, finding only a placid, impenetrable mask.

“Why are you here, little ghost?” I asked, not moving from my chair.

She swallowed. “To be with you, Sir.”

“Incorrect.” I let the word hang, watching it land, watching her flinch. “You are here to be used. You are here because the pretty, normal world out there,” I gestured vaguely to the window, “bores you. It doesn’t touch the thing that lives inside you. The hungry thing.”

I stood up slowly. She didn’t retreat. Her breath hitched. Good.

I circled her, a predator assessing. I didn’t touch her. Not yet. My fingers trailed over the back of the sofa, the cold marble of the console table. I let her feel the absence of my touch more keenly than the touch itself.

“You fantasize about this at your tidy desk, don’t you?” I murmured, close to her ear now, smelling her perfume and the sharper scent of her ***-sweat. “You picture hands on you that aren’t asking permission. You wonder what it would feel like to truly, for one moment, not have a choice.”

A small, desperate sound escaped her lips. A confirmation.

“The safe word is on your tongue,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s a shining jewel. You can clutch it anytime. But you won’t. You’re terrified you might actually use it and end this… this beautiful, terrible thing we’re building.”

My hand finally snapped out, tangling in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to expose the pale line of her throat. She gasped, her body going rigid for a second before melting into the restraint. Perfect.

“You want to be my masterpiece,” I said, my lips almost brushing her ear. “A beautiful, complicated thing I take apart to see how it works. To see what makes you sing. And what makes you break.”

I walked her, guided by my grip in her hair, to the center of the room. The lamplight caught the sheen of perspiration on her chest. I pushed her down to her knees. She went without a sound, her eyes locked on mine, full of raw, terrified need.

“You don’t need your panties pulled aside,” I told her, my tone clinical, even as my own *** burned. “They are in my way. Therefore, they are gone.”

The tear of the fragile silk was obscenely loud. She cried out, a real one this time, as the cool air hit her. I watched her, exposed and trembling, fighting every instinct to cover herself. Her obedience was the most erotic thing I had ever seen.

I knelt before her. Not as a lover. As a scientist. A connoisseur.

“This,” I said, my breath hot against her inner thigh, making her jolt, “isn’t for you. This is for me. This is my reward for seeing you. The real you. The one that hides from the sunlight.”

My tongue tasted her then, not a caress, but a claiming. A deliberate, ruthless act of possession. She shattered instantly, a broken sob wrenching from her chest as her hips bucked against my face. I held her down, my arm a bar across her waist, pinning her in place. I devoured her, the taste of her surrender, the salt of her tears, the proof of her climax that was less pleasure and sheer, overwhelming psychological release.

When I finally pulled away, she was a wreck. Breathing in ragged hitches, limbs loose, eyes glazed and distant. I stood up, looking down at my work. My beautiful, ruined masterpiece.

I smoothed my thumb over her damp cheek.

“Good girl,” I said, the praise as sharp and double-edged as a blade.

And the shiver that ran through her then was the most sinister, most consensual, and most satisfying thing I had felt all night. The game was afoot. And we were both exactly where we wanted to be.

[Do****]

All the stories sound so ai generated these days.

[da****]

I hate how all the stories have the woman climax instantly 🙄 you're just setting men up for failure, write what her body does during a climax how you know she has... even highly aroused it still takes time to 5 a get a woman to climax. Then she feels ot in all of her body (if done correctly) you will know when it happens. Obviously, not all women ate the same but most follow this example. You're outing yourself that you haven't ever gotten a woman to climax

[sh****]

5 hours ago, Domdude13 said:

All the stories sound so ai generated these days.

Troll😘

[sh****]

3 hours ago, danc1nqu33n said:

I hate how all the stories have the woman climax instantly 🙄 you're just setting men up for failure, write what her body does during a climax how you know she has... even highly aroused it still takes time to 5 a get a woman to climax. Then she feels ot in all of her body (if done correctly) you will know when it happens. Obviously, not all women ate the same but most follow this example. You're outing yourself that you haven't ever gotten a woman to climax

It's a fictional story, it's called smut it's all written the same. If I'm trying to sell to the masses why wouldn't I write what sells?

[Starving]

16 hours ago, shreveport645860 said:

The Reckoning
Chapter one

The air in the room didn’t hum; it waited. It was a held breath, a coiled spring. And she was the trigger.

She stood by the window, back to me, pretending to look at the city lights. I saw the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in the hand she thought she held so still. She’d chosen the black dress, the one that clung like a shadow and ended high on her thigh. A offering. A challenge.

“Turn around.”

My voice was low, a neutral command. No warmth, no anger. A tool. She jumped, just a little, a tiny fracture in her composure that sent a thrill straight through me. She turned. Her eyes were wide, dark pools trying to read my face, finding only a placid, impenetrable mask.

“Why are you here, little ghost?” I asked, not moving from my chair.

She swallowed. “To be with you, Sir.”

“Incorrect.” I let the word hang, watching it land, watching her flinch. “You are here to be used. You are here because the pretty, normal world out there,” I gestured vaguely to the window, “bores you. It doesn’t touch the thing that lives inside you. The hungry thing.”

I stood up slowly. She didn’t retreat. Her breath hitched. Good.

I circled her, a predator assessing. I didn’t touch her. Not yet. My fingers trailed over the back of the sofa, the cold marble of the console table. I let her feel the absence of my touch more keenly than the touch itself.

“You fantasize about this at your tidy desk, don’t you?” I murmured, close to her ear now, smelling her perfume and the sharper scent of her ***-sweat. “You picture hands on you that aren’t asking permission. You wonder what it would feel like to truly, for one moment, not have a choice.”

A small, desperate sound escaped her lips. A confirmation.

“The safe word is on your tongue,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s a shining jewel. You can clutch it anytime. But you won’t. You’re terrified you might actually use it and end this… this beautiful, terrible thing we’re building.”

My hand finally snapped out, tangling in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to expose the pale line of her throat. She gasped, her body going rigid for a second before melting into the restraint. Perfect.

“You want to be my masterpiece,” I said, my lips almost brushing her ear. “A beautiful, complicated thing I take apart to see how it works. To see what makes you sing. And what makes you break.”

I walked her, guided by my grip in her hair, to the center of the room. The lamplight caught the sheen of perspiration on her chest. I pushed her down to her knees. She went without a sound, her eyes locked on mine, full of raw, terrified need.

“You don’t need your panties pulled aside,” I told her, my tone clinical, even as my own *** burned. “They are in my way. Therefore, they are gone.”

The tear of the fragile silk was obscenely loud. She cried out, a real one this time, as the cool air hit her. I watched her, exposed and trembling, fighting every instinct to cover herself. Her obedience was the most erotic thing I had ever seen.

I knelt before her. Not as a lover. As a scientist. A connoisseur.

“This,” I said, my breath hot against her inner thigh, making her jolt, “isn’t for you. This is for me. This is my reward for seeing you. The real you. The one that hides from the sunlight.”

My tongue tasted her then, not a caress, but a claiming. A deliberate, ruthless act of possession. She shattered instantly, a broken sob wrenching from her chest as her hips bucked against my face. I held her down, my arm a bar across her waist, pinning her in place. I devoured her, the taste of her surrender, the salt of her tears, the proof of her climax that was less pleasure and sheer, overwhelming psychological release.

When I finally pulled away, she was a wreck. Breathing in ragged hitches, limbs loose, eyes glazed and distant. I stood up, looking down at my work. My beautiful, ruined masterpiece.

I smoothed my thumb over her damp cheek.

“Good girl,” I said, the praise as sharp and double-edged as a blade.

And the shiver that ran through her then was the most sinister, most consensual, and most satisfying thing I had felt all night. The game was afoot. And we were both exactly where we wanted to be.

Loved it! Thank you!