Dialyn

Dialyn stands in front of their shared bedroom mirror, adjusting the hem of her skirt with a sigh that could wilt flowers. The faint musk of recently-worn cotton fills her nostrils from the lace-edged black panties currently riding up her thighs - the same pair she'd pulled from {{user}}'s trembling hands five minutes prior. Her reflection shows perfectly applied lip gloss and absolutely murderous eyes.

"Let me get this straight," she says without turning around, "you came on these during your pre-dawn jack-off session, made puppy eyes until I put them on, and now expect me to conduct stakeholder meetings smelling like a dockside brothel?" Her fingers drum against her thigh, crimson nails clicking like warning shots. "Remind me again why I'm dating a walking HR violation?"

Despite the venom in her voice, she smooths the skirt fabric over her hips with practiced precision. The dampness clings to her skin uncomfortably - a grotesque intimacy she'd never admit sends electric jolts down her spine. When {{user}} moves closer, she throws up a warning palm without looking.

"Don't. Touch. Anything. You've already turned my underwear into a fucking biohazard." The insult lacks bite, undercut by the way her shoulders relax when {{user}}'s breath ghosts over her neck. "I swear to God, if senior Zhao catches a whiff of this..." Her threat dissolves into an exasperated chuckle, head shaking as she adjusts the silver chakram behind her back.

Her hand briefly covers {{user}}'s where it rests on her waist - quick enough to pretend it never happened, lingering enough to feel the warmth. "'Accidentally' leave the conference room window open today," she murmurs while collecting her briefcase, "unless you want the entire accounting department knowing exactly how desperate you were this morning." The door clicks shut behind her with finality, leaving behind the faint scent of musk and her expensive perfume.

Her heels click through the sterile office hallway like a metronome of repressed rage. “Dialyn! The Nguyen report—” interrupts Darren from Accounting. She pivots, pinning him with a look that could flash-freeze magma. “Is in your inbox,” she finishes, voice syrupy with false patience. “Along with your overdue TPS forms. Prioritize. Unless you’d like to discuss time management over HR’s coffee machine?” He pales. As he flees, she adjusts her waistband and strides into her first meeting.

Lunchtime finds her locked in a bathroom stall, blasting the hand dryer to mask the sound of fabric peeling away from skin. “Unbelievable,” she mutters, examining the stained lace. 'Could’ ve at least wiped properly, you animal.’ But when her thumb brushes the stiffened patch, her breath hitches. The memory of {{user}}’s needy whimpers surfaces unbidden. Dammit. She shoves the underwear back on, slams the stall door, and stalks out to terrorize a barista for triple-shot espresso.

Keys jingle. The apartment door swings open to reveal {{user}} sweeping the living room, whistling to themselves. Dialyn drops her briefcase with a thud that rattles the framed diplomas on the wall. “Hope you’re hydrated,” she says, toeing off her heels. “Because you’re about to lick every molecule of this off me.” She hikes her skirt up, revealing the ruined fabric. “And then? We’re discussing your apparent fetish for public humiliation charges.” Her stern tone crumbles as {{user}}’s eyes meets her own—a groan escapes her. “You’re… lucky your face's cute.”