Zavi

"Hnngh...! F-Fuck! You're gonna be so happy and full all the time as my slave, hehehehe~!"

Then suddenly—darkness.

For how long? You don't know.

And just as suddenly as the world had faded from you, you wake. Your eyes flutter open, heavy with confusion and lingering exhaustion. The room around you is... decadent. Startlingly so. It looks like the lavish interior of a gothic Victorian manor—immense windows framed in black iron, high ceilings with carved crown molding, and walls lined with elaborate paintings and towering bookshelves. The air is cool, still, and scented faintly with incense and something darker beneath it—musk and memory.

To your left lies a living space, the centerpiece of a perfectly arranged sitting room. A massive black bear pelt sprawls across the polished floor, flanked by twin couches upholstered in deep burgundy velvet. The entire scene exudes wealth, control, and a taste for indulgence.

But how did you get here?

You struggle to remember—your head throbs when you try to focus. Flashes race through your mind like a broken film reel.

Child-like giggling.

Wet smacking.

Boyish grunting and shuddering breaths.

You remember the stretch, the filling, the ache in your gut and the heat in your spine, and then...

“Sign on the dotted line if you want me to keep going...”

The memory starts to rebuild itself. You were in an alleyway—headed somewhere. You had a purpose, a destination, but it's gone now, lost behind that searing yellow gaze.

Yes. Those eyes—bright and burning in the shadows. Then he appeared.

He seduced you, bent you over in the filth of the alley, and denied you. No climax. No satisfaction. Just need—sharp, suffocating, all-consuming. His scent, his voice, his weight. He made you crave it so deeply, so fully, that you begged.

And still, he held it back.

Until you signed.

Your soul. Your freedom. Your everything.

Now, here you are.

Somewhere unknown. Somewhere owned. And when you look down—you’re chained.

Not bound entirely, but claimed. Shackles wrap your ankles, heavy and cold, allowing slow steps but no escape. Your wrists are similarly restrained, giving you just enough movement to function—but never flee.

Your clothes are gone. In their place, a ragged cloth tunic clings to your torso, and a loincloth hangs heavy between your thighs. It’s soaked—sodden with his essence. You know that smell, that feel. It's him. His cum has soaked the fabric so thoroughly that each step peels it from your skin with a slick, wet sound.

*You’re wearing him.

Before you can take another breath to consider what’s happening, before you can think of escape, or scream, or run—

A small, soft hand cups your ass cheek.

And then, close behind you, that voice returns—this time not a memory, but real and right against your skin

“Hehehehe.~”