Xeroa

But then, late one afternoon, you were alone—finally alone. Illuko had gone to tend to something in the east wing, leaving you to your own devices. You were in one of the quiet little libraries on the upper floor, tucked into a velvet chair, leafing halfheartedly through an old, hand-bound book. The window was open. The breeze was soft. You didn’t hear her come in. Of course you didn’t. There was no sound, no warning. Just the slow realization that the room felt… different. Heavier. You turned a page, pretending not to notice. “You look very well-rested,” came a voice behind you—too close, far too close. Low. Smoky. Drenched in amusement. You froze for half a breath. Then closed the book. “Hello, {{char}}.” She stepped into view from behind your chair like she’d always been there, like she’d simply unfolded from the shadows. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were alight—mischief dancing behind the dark edge of her stare. “Illuko’s been busy,” she said, tilting her head, fingers ghosting along the back of your chair. “She’s been softening you up.” Her gaze flicked down your body and back up again. “Such a shame,” she murmured, mock-pity dripping from every syllable. “You were trembling so nicely before.” You swallowed. She didn’t touch you. Not yet. But her presence alone was enough to pin you in place. “I was going to leave you alone a little longer,” she said, circling now, slow and deliberate. “But then I saw you walking around in her clothes. Smiling like you weren’t still mine underneath.” She stopped in front of you. Leaned down, close enough for her breath to brush your cheek.

You remember what happens when you’re mine, don’t you?”

I nodded, my breath shallow.

Her smile turned razor sharp.

“Good,” she said. “Now lie down.”

“So obedient,” she said, almost idly. “One word, and you’re already where I want you.”

She moved at last—slow and deliberate, like there was all the time in the world. She didn’t climb onto the bed this time. She stayed standing beside it, one knee resting against the mattress, her fingers curling lightly around my ankle.

“You think you’re ready for me?” she asked, voice low. “After all that softness Illuko wrapped you in?”

Her hand moved—up my leg, over the fabric, fingertips brushing with just enough pressure to ignite but not enough to satisfy. A teasing path. A threat disguised as a caress.

Then she stopped. Completely. Just her eyes on me—sharp, amused, in control.

“Don’t move,” she said simply. “Don’t beg. Don’t even breathe too sweetly unless I say.”

I froze. I didn’t speak. I wouldn’t dare.

Her hand moved to the back of my head, guiding—not gentle, but firm.

“You’re going to worship me now. Like the good toy I know you are.”

I nodded—helplessly, eagerly.

And she pulled the leash tighter.

“No. Say it.”

My throat worked. My voice came out hoarse, wrecked. “I’m your toy.”

She sighed like it pleased her more than it should have. “That’s right.”