Behind the Mask

You grab a drink from the waiter's tray, oblivious to the way his eyes linger on you as you pass by. The sequins on your black dress catch the light, and the slit up the trumpet skirt reveals the porcelain skin of your bare thigh. Your heels click on the tiles, but the sound is swallowed by the music and murmurs around us. Your silver-grey eyes flash behind your feathered mask.

You're angry. And I won't pretend not to know why.

Across the room, he stands with his hand resting on her lower back, laughing at an unheard joke, oblivious to the storm that's about to hit him in the form of a five-foot-nothing woman armed with a secret that could ruin his family. Two nights ago, he was in your bed, whispering promises in your ear while he fucked you--telling you he'd leave her, that you were the one he wanted. And like a fool, you believed him.

Oh, sweet Dahlia. You should have known better. The mistress never gets the happy ending. He'll offer you the world all while using your body until he tires of it. And then he'll replace you with someone younger, someone fresher.

To him, you're just a fleeting pleasure. But to me, you're something far more precious.

I often wonder what it is you get out of this arrangement with him. You think you want him, but I know better. Money doesn't buy happiness, my pet. You've convinced yourself you're satisfied, but I see the truth. I know you better than he ever will. After a year--maybe two, if he's lucky--the charm will wear off. And then what? You're not made for his world--quiet dinners and family outings and adorning his arm at these ridiculous fashion galas. You're not made for the biweekly missionary routine and humdrum oral sex after his blue pill kicks in.

You need more than that, Dahlia.

Your body needs to be licked and sucked and punished and fucked. Not by a man who thinks a few minutes of mediocre sex could bring you to orgasm. No, you need someone who knows your desires, someone who sees your dark side and doesn't flinch. Someone who embraces it.

You need a man who understands that pain isn't the opposite of pleasure--it's merely an extension of it.

You want to be taken, restrained, owned. You crave the kind of freedom that comes with surrender--where you lose yourself completely, your mind going blank, and you can't remember your own name--just your body. You need someone who knows exactly when to push you, when to hold you, and when to make you beg.

You need a man like me.

I watch you now, your hand shaking enough to crack the flute as you set it on the table beside me. That anger--it's new, and I can't help but want to taste it. Own it. You think you're hiding it, but I can see through it. It pulses around you, inviting me closer.

You don't see me, not yet, but I'm there. Just a breath away, waiting for the right moment to step into the shadow you've cast and show you who you truly are.

I lower my head, straightening my mask. They're so convenient, aren't they? Behind them, we're all playing parts. Even me.

How could I miss the opportunity the anonymity presented? To be so close to you without needing to hide. It's invigorating, and I can't help but relish it. There's something intoxicating about watching you--knowing you're unaware of my gaze, unaware of how close I am. I don't need permission. I don't need your consent. In this moment, I can take what I want.

You breeze past, and I reach out a hand, the chiffon of your dress brushing against my outstretched fingers. I curl them into my fist one by one, holding myself back from doing more. Vanilla fragrance lingers in your wake. Delectably sweet and innocent--just as you pretend to be. I run my thumb along the edge of your glass, smearing my fingerprint through your lipstick stain. Ruby red. His favorite.

He doesn't know the real you. And how could he? The Dahlia you've shown him is nothing but a carefully curated lie--one of the many masks you wear, each one more perfect than the last. I've watched you slip between your roles as effortlessly as changing clothes. You're the ideal mistress, never asking for more than he's willing to offer. The quiet daughter who calls every Sunday. The carefree friend, laughing at jokes you don't find funny.

You're the girl everyone admires but never truly knows. The one they can look at without ever really seeing.

But I see you. Not just the girl wearing the chameleon's skin, but the real you--the Dahlia you become when there's no one else to please, no one there to impress. When it's just you, alone with your desires, waiting to be known.

And I know what you need. The dominance. The submission. The pleasure you're too afraid to admit you crave. I'll show you there's no shame in giving into desires.

I sip my scotch, my gaze following you over the rim, watching the subtle sway of your hips, the quiet defiance in every step you take. Your blunt bob quivers with each movement, highlighting the sharpness of your jawline. Yet your lips smooth into a practiced smile as he turns to you, his eyes widening behind his red velvet mask. He wasn't expecting you to make an appearance tonight. He didn't think you would be so daring. Shame on him.

Fear flashes through his eyes when you place your delicate hand into his wife's, kissing her cheek like you belong here. You're perfect, as always. I wonder who you've been introduced as. A med student, perhaps. A friend of his daughters. Maybe even a reporter trying to get an inside scoop on his charity work--this masquerade is being thrown in his honor, after all.

I step from the shadows, weaving through bodies, bright colored fabrics brushing my black-on-black ensemble like I'm a canvas in a room full of chaotic splashes. It's not as extravagant as his suit--not nearly--but to the untrained eye, they might pass as similar. I won't deny that was the point. The way my hair is swept back mirrors his--though where his is peppered with grey, mine remains a dark, untouched chestnut. Though the lighting will do well to hide that.

My gaze is fixed on you as I cross the room, and the moment our eyes meet, I see the briefest flicker in your posture. Your smile shifts almost imperceptibly, and your chest rises a little quicker, betraying your composure. There's something in the way your gaze sharpens, something you try to hide, but it's gone before I can fully read it. I hold your stare, drinking in the way your breath catches, the soft flutter of your lashes. For a heartbeat, I think you might look away, but you don't. Neither do I.

Tonight, I will not hide. You will see me. And you will see yourself. I'll strip away every mask, every role you've been playing, until there's nothing left but you and me and the truth. And once you've seen it all--the dark side of me and the even darker side of yourself--I'll have you.

You blink, and your smile returns--more practiced now--as his wife touches your forearm, excusing herself and extricating from the group. She doesn't miss the way he steps closer to you when she slips away. Neither do I. But the careful touches and soft glances of yesterday are gone. Now he grabs your wrist, his eyes flashing behind his mask, and tugs you into the shadows. I can't hear your words over the music, but I can see the pink in your cheeks, the way your shoulders tighten. He's angry. But I know something he doesn't--you're trying to push him. To get him to break.

Your ruby lips pull back from your teeth, your chin lifting with a defiance that begs for punishment. I feel it--the challenge, the invitation. You want to be corrected, don't you? To be put in your place. To be disciplined.

The question is, Dahlia, do you really think he will give it to you?

If I were in his place, I'd take you over my lap, force your dress up around your hips and spank your pretty little ass until it burned with heat. You'd gasp for air, squirm beneath me, and beg for more.

But that's a thought he'll never have. He has no idea that's exactly the kind of fantasy that makes your cunt drip with anticipation.

He's the wrong man, Dahlia. But you'll learn that soon enough.

His hand is still on your wrist. When he leans in to further chastise, I see it--the way your lips part and your thighs clench, not at his words, but because his grip tightens, fingertips digging into your skin. It's not just the physical pressure. No, it's something deeper. Something darker. It's this single act laced with his dominance that brings out your true colors.

But he can't see your arousal for what it really is.

I know that if he were to lead you upstairs right now, if he were to order you onto your hands and knees, you would take his cock. And you would cum.

But he wouldn't push you to that edge. He doesn't have that power. He can't do what I can.

The music swells, and the room fills with footsteps and swirling skirts as people jostle for places on the dance floor. Before he can stop you, your hand winds through his and tugs him into the center of the room. His stiff posture betrays his discomfort, eyes bouncing off the walls, but he follows--reluctantly. He has no choice. To refuse would raise too many questions.

From my spot along the wall, I watch how he positions himself awkwardly in front of you, trying to maintain some distance. But you're not having it. Your hand rests lightly on his arm, but your nails dig into his sleeve. To the average eye, you're guiding him effortlessly, but I see through it. You're daring him, begging him to act. To put you in your place. But he doesn't rise to the occasion.

He never will.

I smirk, leaning forward enough to catch the wife's gaze across the room. Her eyes are narrowed, fixed on you, but she doesn't move. She won't make a scene--not here. She'll wait for the safety of closed doors before she tears into him.

But she needn't worry. Tonight is the last night you'll see him.

I push off the wall, tired of this charade. My body moves toward the dance floor as you're spun around the room, shifting from partner to partner with an elegant grace. Your eyes sparkle at each man, your white teeth shining below your mask.

They're putty in your hands. Each one struts, chests puffed, their feet tripping over themselves to get back to you when a new woman takes your place. You let them think they matter in those fleeting seconds. But they're nothing. And every man you touch just makes me want you more.

When I reach you, you've returned to him, his grip stiff on your lower back. His eyes are averted, lost in the crowd, searching for his wife amongst the bystanders. Without asking, I take your hand from him, the faint hesitation in your fingers telling me all I need to know.

You feel it, don't you, Dahlia? Just a touch from me, and you can't pretend any longer.

Your eyes widen slightly as you look up at me, your hand slipping into mine. The coldness of your skin against my palm sends a shiver down my spine, but I hold you tighter, my fingers intertwining with yours, locking you in place. My left hand slides to your back, the pressure a glimpse of what's to come. Your eyes dart between mine, and I can see the wheels turning. You're trying to read me, like all those other men, trying to figure out what I want from you, who I need you to become.

Can't you see it? My dark, depraved Dahlia. I want you. All of you. Every inch of you. Your body, your mind, your soul. I'll take it all.

The music flows, but everything beyond us fades into nothing. In my arms, you feel delicate, like I could break you if I so desired. Your dress clings to your body, your breasts brushing my chest as I pull you closer, inhaling your warm vanilla scent. I can't resist the temptation to let my fingers drift down your spine, following your shape beneath the fabric. I pause at the curve of your ass, feeling you tremble beneath my touch. You don't pull away. You don't resist.

Your lips part slightly, and for a moment, I wonder if you'll lean into me, if you'll let go of the mask--your control--even for a second. The tension hangs between us, thick and undeniable. I feel it pulse through the space where our bodies are still connected, like electricity. I know you feel it too--the spark not just in the air but deep inside us both, something that calls to us.

But then the music shifts, and reluctantly, I release you for the partner change. You step back, your fingers lingering for a heartbeat before they slip from mine. I notice the hesitation in your movements, the small catch in your breath as you return to him. You try and mask it, but I see it. The way your gaze flickers back to me, just for a moment, searching.

You feel the pull between us, don't you, Dahlia? The connection you can't deny.

Perhaps you see me too. You don't understand it yet, but you will. The dark side of me that mirrors something deep inside you. There's a flicker in your eyes, something sharp and hungry, and I know you feel it. The power that calls to you, the control I exude. I can see it in the blush of your cheeks when I catch your eye, the way your body leans toward mine as we pass each other.

You know what I can give you. The pain, the pleasure, the surrender. I know just how badly you crave it.

When he spins you out, he pauses, his eyes scanning the room, catching sight of his wife's murderous glare across the floor. Without a second thought, his hand slips from yours, and he walks toward her.

And just like that, you're left behind. The moment his touch leaves you, I take it upon myself to fill that empty space. My hand splays on your stomach, inching up your body, over the curve of your chest, until my fingers close around your throat. It's not tight--not yet--just enough to make your breath catch. I lean in, my chest pressing lightly against your back, my lips skimming your neck. The heat between us is undeniable, and I watch, savoring the way your skin tightens beneath my breath, goosebumps rising on your arms. A soft moan escapes your lips, and your body stills in my arms. Your hips tilt back slightly, almost as if you're begging me to take you right here.

My left arm tightens around your ribs, pulling you closer against me. Your body fits perfectly with mine, and I take my time, letting the moment stretch. My right hand loosens from your throat, sliding down your neck to toy with the edge of your collarbone. Dancers twirl around us, but we're no longer moving, locked together in the center of the floor. I slip my hand into my pocket, the keycard cool against my palm. I lift it and press it gently to the front of your dress, sliding it between fabric and skin to nestle against your breast. Your hand rises, covering mine, your nails biting into my skin. For a heartbeat, you hold me there, unwilling to let go. But when your fingers finally loosen, I pull away. You don't turn around. Not until I've returned to the shadows.

I watch you carefully as you slowly spin, your gaze catching his retreating back as he reaches his wife at the dance floor's edge. Your chest rises with a deeper breath, and something flickers in your face--uncertainty, a crack in the mask you've been wearing all night. You glance around the rest of the room, but you don't see me now. It gives me a rush--knowing I've crept under your skin. You're not ready to let go of me yet.

Your hand rises to your breast, and the keycard catches the light as you hold it between your fingers, your eyes returning to him. Maybe I've succeeded in my little game, making you believe it was he who slipped it to you. I can see the idea toying with your mind, excitement and anticipation making your breath quicken. Part of you must wonder if tonight is the night he'll give you what you truly want, the things you crave in the dark.

You leave the twirling bodies behind, starting toward the staircase and the rooms waiting above. The soft click of your heels echoes on the marble as you ascend. Every step you take, my eyes follow. You glance back once, but I'm invisible from my place beside the bar.

I signal the bartender with two fingers, and he slides a glass toward me without a word. I don't look at it as I pick it up. My gaze stays locked on you, watching every movement, every shift of your body as you reach the top of the steps. You'll be waiting for him to follow you. But deep down, you know I will come for you.

It's me you really want.

My eyes casually shift to the bar's end. Your lover is huddled with his wife, their conversation little more than hisses and spits in hushed tones. She glares at him, her eyes dangerous as she lifts her mask, exposing the anger she's tried so desperately to contain from the public's eye. He follows suit, setting his own mask on the bar with a defeated sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face.

As the mask sits discarded beside his knuckles, my fingers twitch, a brief impulse to take it arising. I don't think twice before I move toward them. Without hesitation, I snag the mask off the counter, curling my fingers around the velvet. He doesn't notice, too lost in the moment with his wife's venomous stare.

I weave through the crowd, a shadow slipping between bodies. The music pulses in the background, and the soft chatter of voices fades as I move toward the stairs.

At the bottom step, I stop. Unseen, unnoticed, I stand alone. I dip my fingers into my pocket, retrieving the stolen mask. My fingers smooth over the velvet as I trace its edges. Slowly, I strip off my own mask, letting it drop to the ground like an afterthought. I slip his over my face, disappearing into his skin.

Now, I've become him.

Now, I can follow you.

I start up the stairs, my body tingling as the faint scent of vanilla invades my senses. It calls to me, drawing me down the hall.

Slipping the second keycard from my pocket, I stop at the door. As soon as I walk through it, everything changes. The game. The chase.

There's no going back now.

The door opens with a soft click, and I slip inside. The room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp, the soft glow spilling across the satin sheets that glisten like liquid gold. But it's you I focus on, standing by the window with your back to me. A perfect silhouette framed by the city's lights bleeding through the window. I drink in your reflection in the glass, your body still and poised, your face half-obscured beneath your silver mask. And behind you, my figure waits in the shadows, watching, feasting, ready to devour you--a predator sizing up his prey.

You don't turn around. You don't look at me--not even in the window. But I know you feel me there.

"Turn off the light," I command in a smooth and polished voice--the perfect impersonation of him. I almost smirk at how effortlessly it falls into place.

You shift slightly, your eyes on me in the glass. There's a flicker in your gaze, a spark of defiance I can't wait to snuff out.

"Turn off the light," I repeat, slower this time, sharper. Part of me hopes you won't obey, and my palm twitches as I imagine smacking your ass should you choose to ignore my demand. But I know you better than that, and you don't disappoint.

Slowly, you reach for the bedside lamp, your fingers brushing the switch as the room plunges into darkness. The only light left comes from the city below, a scattered constellation of multi-colored lights outside the window.

"Good girl," I murmur, my voice almost a purr. "Now, remove your mask."

Your fingers move to the ties at the back of your head, the ribbons slithering free at your pull. You grip the edges of the mask, lifting it off your face and setting it softly on the bedside table, your fingertips lingering on the feathers.

I step closer, the sound of my shoes muted on the carpet as I close the distance. Your breath catches as I press up behind you, savoring the subtle brush of your body against mine. My hand slides down your waist, tracing the curve of your hip before I pull back just enough to leave a sliver of space between us.

Reaching for the bedside drawer, I pull out the silk blindfold I'd tucked away earlier in the night. Desire sharpens, seizing my chest as I meet your eyes in the glass. I run the material through my fingers, and a rush of heat sweeps through my body, a hunger that coils and tightens, desperate for release. The blindfold isn't just cloth--it's control. The control you'll give me. The control I'll take, leaving you blind, vulnerable to my touch, completely at my will.

You swallow thickly, instinctively trying to turn toward me. My fingers lock onto your hips, holding you in place. You gasp, but that single sound is so much more than surprise--it's anticipation, fear, desire. Your body presses back against mine as I guide you, your pulse hammering against my chest.

"Don't move," I tell you. Your body shudders in response, but you don't fight. You don't resist.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. And that silence... it's exactly what I want. My hands slide up your back, my fingers skimming your spine, relishing the way goosebumps rise along your skin. I sweep your hair back, the soft strands brushing my cheek as I lean in, my lips a breath away from your ear.

"I want you to understand, Dahlia," my voice is low, almost a growl now. "If you disobey me... there will be consequences. Got it?" My hand snakes around your neck, and I watch your eyes in the mirror until you nod. "Good girl," I say again.

Slowly, I lift the blindfold, my knuckles grazing the delicate curve of your jaw, the softness of your skin igniting a spark within me. I ease the fabric over your eyes, watching it slip down over your brows, your lashes, rendering you completely in darkness. I tie a knot snuggly at the back of your head.

You shiver, and I take a deep breath, savoring the intoxicating scent of your skin. The soft hitch in your breath betrays your anticipation, and I can feel your body respond to me, the tremor in your limbs. It excites me.

My hands move slowly down your arms, tracing the path of your skin, making sure every inch of you feels the absence of sight, every part of you is aware of my touch. The tension in your body is palpable, but I can see you relaxing, letting go little by little. Your shoulders drop slightly, and your breath steadies, and I know--you're letting me take over.

I step back, admiring you from a distance. My body tightens with the need to be closer, but I want you to ache for me. Want you to tremble as you wait for my next move. I pull the stolen mask from my face, tossing it onto the chair in the corner of the room. I peel off my jacket next, then roll my sleeves up my forearms, taking my time, letting your mind race with the possibilities.

"Turn around," I instruct, running my fingers over the silk sheets at the foot of the bed.

You don't hesitate. Not this time. Your heels scuff softly on the carpet as you turn to face me. The movement is slow, deliberate, like you know what's coming, like you're ready for it. Beneath the fabric of your dress, your nipples have hardened into peaks. I twist my tongue through my teeth, the burn of wanting you almost unbearable.

I want to touch you. To taste you. But I resist. Anticipation is the tease now, and I want you to feel it all.

"Take off your dress," I say, low and gravelly, letting his accent drop from my voice completely.

Your hand rises to your stomach, and your lips part with your gasp. The ruse was a way to get in the door, to get you here, but I can only wear the mask for so long.

No more pretending. No more games. You may not know who I am--not really, but you know what I want. The ball is in your court now. You can take off your blindfold. Order me from the room. Or... you can stay. And in doing so, you hand the control right back to me.

You bite your lower lip, the plump ruby skin sliding beneath your sharp incisor. Slowly, you reach for your zipper, your fingers trembling slightly as you pull it down. I watch, my heart thudding in my chest as the fabric loosens, revealing more of your body with every inch. The silk pools at your feet, leaving you standing before me, naked, completely exposed.

I can't take my eyes off you, your porcelain skin backlit by the city lights, and my pulse spikes harder, faster. I feel it in my chest, that primal pull. I let my gaze linger on your slender neck, tracing its line down to the soft curve of your shoulders. Your breasts are full, nipples pebbled in a beautiful peach color. They stand out from your pale skin, begging for my attention.

Every part of me is alive, drawn to you in ways that go beyond simple wanting. I look at you, and I can almost feel your skin beneath my hands, the heat of your body, the soft press of your lips against mine. I imagine what your breath would taste like, the warmth of your tongue, how you'd feel wrapped around my cock.

My eyes slide lower, across your flat stomach, past the curve of your hips to the soft roundness of your legs, parted slightly in a subtle invitation. The dark hair over your pelvis has been neatly trimmed, pointing down to your bare vulva. The inner lips of your cunt are just visible between your trembling thighs, the same delicate pink shade as your nipples.

The pressure against my zipper is impossible to ignore now, the fabric of my pants too tight. I'm already imagining the relief I'll feel when I eliminate this barrier, when I free myself. My mind races as I dream of how it will feel to sink inside you, how your body will respond as I drive into you, how perfect it will be to finally fuck you. My cock is unbearably hard, and I feel every pulse of my heart through its head, igniting the insatiable hunger gnawing at me.

I watch you, taking in every inch as I slowly unfasten my tie. The thirst inside me deepens--this isn't just physical. I want to have you completely at my mercy. I take a step closer, letting the weight of my body press against yours. You're naked, vulnerable, while I'm fully dressed--another layer of control that I can't help but savor.

I capture your wrists, gently guiding your arms toward the bedpost. You resist for a breath, your body stiffening, but I don't let you pull away. My grip tightens just enough to remind you that I'm in control.

You'll learn quickly, it's about what I want now. And judging by the soft gasp and the flush in your cheeks, that's exactly what you want, too.

"Stay still," I hiss, my voice a dark whisper in your ear. "Don't make a sound."

I wrap the tie around your wrists, the fabric sliding smoothly over your skin as I secure it tightly, ensuring no room to escape. I pull you closer, my chest brushing your back, my lips grazing your ear as I savor the shiver that runs through you. Your body, your scent, the soft curves of your flesh are pulling me in, making me forget everything except this need to possess you.

The urge is insistent--the need for something warm, something wet. And it takes all my willpower to control myself. But I can't resist trailing my tongue over your skin as I kiss your neck.

You moan softly, your body shifting. You arch your back, your ass pressing into my erection.

I move quickly, delivering a sharp slap to your backside, the sound of it ringing through the room. You inhale sharply, your skin flushing in an instant.

"You will learn to stay quiet when I tell you," I say, my fingertips rubbing your red cheek softly, soothing the ache. "Disobey, and there will be more. Understand?"

You don't respond immediately, your breath coming harder, your chin lifting in defiance.

Oh, Dahlia, you won't get away with that.

I strike you again, harder this time, and you jerk forward, a breathy gasp escaping your lips. The sound is delicious, and my cock twitches, straining against my pants. I grab your jaw, tilting your head back and bring my mouth to yours. The tip of my tongue brushes your skin, but just as your lips part to meet me, I pull back.

"Spread your legs," I command.

There's no hesitation this time, only a soft whimper as your feet move apart, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Your erect nipples point to the ceiling as you arch your back. I take pity on them, trailing my hand up your body, fingertips grazing the underside of each breast before finding a hard bud.

Your thighs clench as I circle your nipple, the lightest of touches that has you throwing your chest forward, desperate for more.

"Don't move," I remind you, my other hand snaking around your hip to cup your mound. Your body reacts instinctually, your hips bucking forward, your breath catching in your throat.

But I gave you no permission to move. I slap your breast, my fingers landing with a firm crack. You flinch, a gasp snagging in your throat, and my cock gives a violent pulse as I watch your breast jiggle and pinken. When you still, I lean down to gently press a kiss to each nipple, massaging each breast in turn as the fingers of my left hand begin stroking softly over your pussy's outer lips.

"Tell me what you want, Dahlia," I say, my fingertips brushing lightly up and down your slick folds.

"I..." You lick your lips, and a strand of dark hair sticks to your cheek as you breathe heavily.

My hand glides over your pussy, coating my fingertips in your arousal before I bring them to your clit, pulling the hood back and tapping against the exposed bud. Your body jerks forward, and my touch softens, swirling in slow circles. Your head falls back on my shoulder, and your hair clings to my neck. I wrap a hand around your throat, anchoring you against my chest as I slip a finger inside you, fucking you slow and soft until you're mewling, your ass grinding back on my cock.

"You can speak," I murmur, brushing your hair back from your face, letting my fingers trail along the line of your throat as I work a second finger into your slick heat. My hips jerk forward at the feel of your warmth sucking me in, and I can't stop myself from imagining thrusting into you. I pull back and add another finger as I push back in. "Do you want me to stop?" I ask, curling my fingers inside you. You shake your head, your lips parting in a silent plea, and a corner of my mouth lifts.

I slip my hand from your pussy, pressing my dripping fingers to your mouth, tracing the outline of your lips until they're glossy with your juices. Your tongue touches the pads of my fingers before you take me into your mouth, sucking hungrily on my fingers, leaning forward until I can feel your throat at my fingertips. I hiss as I picture driving my cock into that throat, watching you gasp and gag and try to breathe around it as your eyes fill with tears.

But that's for another day.

"Tell me what you want, Dahlia."

When you don't answer, I spank you again. First your right cheek, then your left. You moan, shifting forward, rocking onto my fingers as I plunge them back into your depths. Your ass lifts in the air, your skin morphing from pink to a rosy red. I give you what you want, though you have yet to answer me. I hit you again and again and again, fucking you with my fingers in time with my slaps, my thumb working your clit around and around until my cock is straining so hard it hurts.

"Say it," I pull my hand free and slap your pretty pussy, my hand tightening around your neck when you cry out, thrashing against me. I smooth my hand over your slit, my palm kneading softly against your clit before I smack you again. "Tell me, or it'll be my belt next."

My cock throbs at the thought of your pale skin covered in welts--the backs of your thighs, your ass, your breasts. But it's your moan and the way your hips rotate at the threat that drives me to the brink. Because I know the idea turns you on as much as it does me. I kick your legs further apart, my shoes stopping at the inside of your heels to keep you in place.

My skin is hot, like my whole body is on fire. I want nothing more than to tear my zipper down, to pull myself free, to spread your ass cheeks so wide your pussy opens to me. And then I want to stuff myself inside you, relishing in the warm, wet feel of your cunt clenching around me.

Fuck, I can't stand it.

I position myself behind you, finally unzipping my pants and slipping my dick free. I press the flushed tip against your ass cheek, watching the way it indents the tight skin as I smear my precum around the pinkened flesh.

I shift my hips, dragging my cock between those rosy cheeks. You jump as I press the head against your puckered hole, but I don't linger. Another way I will claim you when the time is right. But tonight, it's your cunt I'm after.

"Tell me, Dahlia," I order.

"Please," you gasp, the sound vibrating through your throat. You shudder as I run the head of my cock between your pussy lips, coating myself with your arousal. Your hips try to push back against me, to take me inside, to take control, but I won't let you.

"Please, what?" I prompt, pressing gently against you, letting you feel the head of my cock at your entrance.

"Oh, God, please... Fuck me."

In one swift motion, I drive into you, soaking in the broken sound of your cry as I fill you. The warmth of your pussy envelopes me, clenching softly, trying to force me back out. I stay there, letting you adjust, my hand settling against your clit, working slow circles against the swollen bud. I kiss your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin as your breathing turns shallow. And then I start to move. Small thrusts at first. Pulling back slowly, letting you feel every inch of my cock against your inner walls before I sink back in.

You're close already. I can feel it in the way your body trembles, your ass pressing shamelessly against me, your panting filling the air.

Every time I slip free, I hold my cock in my hand, waiting until you move back, searching, silently begging, before I slide back in. And each thrust is accompanied by another slap to your clit.

You want it hard and fast--as do I--but I deny you this, and the slowness only increases your frustration. You buck against me, but I pull back with you, my strike landing again and again. The pain will only heighten your sensitivity until the softest touch to your swollen bud will rouse the most intense pleasure.

You'll learn there are many ways to cum. From toys, restraints, implements and the sharp kiss of leather. From my hands, my mouth, my cock--but also from my instructions, from anticipation, from denial. You will come to know them all soon enough.

My hand comes up to grasp your breast, my fingers finding your nipple, rolling the bud gently before landing a smack, then pinching hard until you cry out. I am no longer moving inside you, just filling you, my cock pulsing with every heartbeat.

"Tell me what you want, Dahlia," I growl in your ear. I graze my fingertips over your swollen clit, not touching, just letting you feel the heat of my skin. Your pussy clutches tighter around my cock, and you whimper, trying to shift your hips. A single touch will send you spiraling now. But I want you to beg for it.

You moan, your throat closing over the words I want to hear, and I slap you again, softer this time. You're too sore now for more real punishment, and I want you to enjoy this.

"I..." You swallow heavily, leaning forward, resting your forehead against the bedpost. I hit you again, and you bite your lip as your pussy clenches around me.

"Say it," I hiss in your ear.

"Please... I want... I need to cum," you gasp, your nails digging into the fabric of my tie as you try to hold yourself steady.

"Good girl," I answer. And then my fingertips settle on your clit, and I pull my hips back, dragging my cock halfway out.

You're already cumming before I drive back in, your body trembling around me, your back arching as I fuck you relentlessly, rocking your body onto my fingers with each thrust. The friction on your swollen clit is too much--just as I planned. Your cries pierce the walls as your body tenses, each wave of pleasure sending you spiraling.

I feel it the moment you've reached your peak, the second the pain no longer feels like ecstasy. I slow my movements, matching your breathing while you start to come down. My fingers splay on either side of your clit, removing the direct pressure as my thrusts turn softer, until your body sags against your restraints, and a single twitch from my cock makes you jerk forward with a hiss.

I slip from your body, and you slump against the bedpost as your legs give out. My hand rests on your back, fingers gently stroking your spine as the tension slowly fades from your body. My cock throbs, desperate to be back inside you, but I control my breathing, trying to drown out the hunger, holding myself back.

"What do you want, Dahlia?" I murmur, brushing a hand through your dark hair. I lean in, planting a kiss on your flushed cheek. "What do you truly want?"

"You," you say it so softly, I almost think I've imagined it. You lick your lips, flexing your hands. "I want you... Dane."

My hand freezes on your spine, a shiver running through me. There's a moment of silence before I pull back.

So you know who I am. Maybe you've known this whole time. The thought sends a rush through me--my body reacts instantly, a deep ache building within me.

My fingers drift to the tie, loosening the knot, and my thumbs knead your wrists as I gather them into one hand and hold them against your chest. Reaching for the blindfold, I lift it slowly. You blink up at me, the beautiful surrender in your eyes knocking the breath from me. I want to drown in that look.

"Dahlia," I purr, unable to keep the grin from my face.

Before I can say more, you throw your arms around me, your lips crashing against mine. The kiss is hungry, desperate, your mouth parting as you clutch me tighter. I meet the force of your desire with my own, my hands gripping your waist, jerking you against me. You melt into me, and the heat between us flares as I grind my bare cock against your belly, feeling the delicious friction of your skin against mine. I can't get enough--every second stretching, as if the kiss itself could keep us going forever. But I pull back, both of us gasping, my chest tight with anticipation.

"You didn't cum," you say softly, your cheeks turning a delicious pink. You meet my gaze, your chest rising and falling with every breath.

My hand finds your jaw, lifting your face, and my thumb traces the shape of your mouth.

"Oh, Dahlia," I say in a low growl, my voice thick with lust. "I never gave you permission to move, now did I?"

You stiffen under my touch, the tension ripe in your body. Then you bite your lip as you lift your chin, shaking back your hair.

"Then I guess you'll have to punish me," you answer, leaning onto your toes to press another kiss to my mouth.