The Parlor of Sighs Pt. 01

I found it online.

The reviews were glowing -- five stars across the board. "Life-changing," they said. "Transcendent. You will come back." "Better than a threesome with 10/10 twin sisters."

But strangely, no one ever described what actually went on inside. Just cryptic praise and a knowing silence.

Some called it "the last place you'll ever need." Others warned, "Ruined all other sex experiences for me." One review simply read, "She made me beg for things I didn't even know I craved."

"This isn't a massage parlor," another wrote. "It's a temple. She made me devoted to unknown pleasures. I don't even look at other girls anymore."

And the one that stuck in my head: "I used to be proud of being irresistible to girls. She completely broke me. And I thank her for it."

One thing they did make clear, though -- you were strongly advised to arrive after at least a week of abstinence.

That part nearly broke me. I'm used to emptying my balls into a mouth or pussy every couple of days -- sometimes more -- whether it was my girlfriend, a quick side fling, or even just a lonely evening with my favorite pornstars and headphones.

Though I rarely needed porn -- real pussy was always within reach and willing -- but even I had my insatiable moments, the kind where I needed some friction and quick relieving release and couldn't wait.

So when the instructions said seven days, it hit hard. I'd never gone dry that long -- not since I started fucking. I edged. I worked out more. I took cold showers. I avoided adult social networks. And the cravings roared.

I even had to cancel a date -- not just any date, but the date. A stunning, leggy blonde who just started at the office.

The kind of girl everyone drooled over in the break room.

Flawless skin, phenomenal tits, impossibly long legs, fuck-me heels, fake-innocent smirk.

And since company policy strictly forbade sex between employees, every glance we stole, every flirtation we shared, felt dangerous -- and dangerously arousing.

I'd finally convinced her to a motel meet. She was ripe for picking. I'd spent days fantasizing about her trembling under my tongue, twitching on my cock, losing it completely.

I felt a sharp sting of irritation.

Because now that I'd canceled, those perfect thighs would be squeezing someone else's head, her long legs resting on his shoulders while she took it hard, that mouth sucking jizz from another cock -- probably some annoying coworker who'd spend the next few weeks bragging about it at the water cooler, making sure everyone knew exactly what he'd scored.

I repeated it again in my head: This. Week. Nothing.

And my girlfriend? The one with the perfect smile, the Ivy League charm, the delicate manners that made people say "wife material" -- she adored me. Worshipped me. I was her world.

But I was never faithful for long. I took her for granted, slipped away now and then for something wilder, sluttier, more thrilling.

No, not even the usual routine sex with my girlfriend -- the kind that was dependable, sweet, even satisfying in a safe, predictable way. She'd wanted me, like she always did. Curled up next to me in bed, kissing my neck, offering herself in that gentle, loving way she thought I liked best.

And normally, I would've taken it. Let her ride me slowly, her moans soft, rhythmic -- more for me than for herself. Maybe pull her hair a little near the end just to feel something. It would've ended the usual way: her slipping down to worship my cock, eager to finish the job.

I'd come in her mouth or across her pretty doll face, depending on my mood. Whether she came or not was never really the point -- she never complained. She always took my decisions submissively, like she understood her role was to serve, not to ask.

But not even that this time.

I told her I wasn't feeling well. A stomach thing.

She bought it -- she always did.

She kissed my forehead and brought me tea, not suspecting I was skipping sex on purpose. That I was saving it -- hoarding my lust for someone else.

For something else.

So yeah. This week? I went without everything. No girlfriend. No office blonde. No porn. Just me, my straining cock, my bursting balls -- and the unfamiliar, unbearable ache of denial.

And I hoped -- I prayed -- it wouldn't be in vain.

***

All I had was an address -- an unassuming frosted glass door in an unmarked part of town, wedged between a spa and an obscure nonprofit. No signage. Just a symbol on the door: a golden crescent wrapped in silk.

Inside, the hush was thick. Velvet-lined walls. Dim lighting. A stunning, Asian girl receptionist dressed all in black smiled and handed me a sleek tablet.

I checked her out shamelessly -- young, slim, gorgeously put-together in that sleek, no-nonsense way. Then I turned the tablet on.

It lit up with my detailed psychological and sexual profile form. Days ago, during the required initial screening, I filled it out honestly, each question peeling back layers I hadn't even admitted to myself. Preferences, limits, fantasies, triggers--everything laid bare in clinical, precise detail.

I had an opportunity to review it and once again confirm everything which I did.

The screen then presented a waiver: "I consent to psychological and sexual play. I am here voluntarily. I understand and accept all risks. Etc, etc." I signed it with a little grin, clicking every box without reading or hesitation. How bad could it be?

The receptionist smiled knowingly as she reviewed the results. Then she looked me dead in the eye and said, with a slow, ironic smile, "Based on your profile and what you think you want..." -- the emphasis sharp, like she knew exactly how wrong I was -- "we found the perfect match for you. She's waiting in the room whose number is on this token."

I couldn't help myself. I turned on the charm, gave her a grin, let my eyes linger a little too long on her perfect cheekbones and tight silk blouse. I even let my fingers brush hers a moment longer than needed when I took the token.

She didn't react -- just smiled politely, cool and unreadable.

I'd half convinced myself she might come visit later, maybe sneak in something extra, a little reward for a handsome man deservedly used to special attention.

Then I stepped into a soundproof chamber fragrant with sandalwood and rose.

She was waiting.

Not what I had expected. No cliché.

She was older -- a dragon woman, exuding power in human form. Her skin was a deep, golden-bronze -- unmistakably Southeast Asian -- way darker than any of the pale, airbrushed blondes I'd casually fucked in the past. Where they were all smooth porcelain and filtered selfies, she was raw heat and shadow -- sun-kissed and sovereign.

Her hair was twisted into a high knot, with a striking velvet-dark purple streak in the coal-black strands -- not asking for attention, commanding it. It hinted at a no-nonsense temperament, and the kind of strong, unapologetic sexual presence that never left a bed unchanged.

A deep plum silk robe clung to her hips, but couldn't hide the sculpted, incredibly hot body beneath -- a frame carved from discipline and dominance, with subtle muscle lines that flexed even in stillness. She had to work out daily -- her physique wasn't just maintained, it was forged.

Her long carved legs ended in sharp black heels that extended her stance and emphasized the chiseled calves beneath -- adorned with subtle but sexy tattoos, including winding Chinese kanji characters that seemed to hum with mysticism and command.

And then, just above her left ankle, a delicate strip of black lace hugged her skin -- not ornamental, but suggestive, like a mark of ownership or ritual. Her almond-shaped eyes locked onto mine and didn't let go.

"I knew you'd be a good-looking, athletic white boy," she said, her voice low, laced with dark amusement. "Rock-hard abs under that shirt, groomed for female gazes, irresistibly encouraging their mouths to go down..."

She stepped closer.

"But I love breaking cocky white boys -- the kind who are worshipped by silly, plasticky white blonde sluts with shaved peaches. We, Asian women..." -- she dragged a single finger down my cheek -- "we're expected to be delicate, submissive. But we know better. And we punish that expectation... And you? You're going to learn your place today, white boy."

"Now strip. Lie face-up. Hands at your sides."

Her voice was soft -- but absolute. I obeyed, breath shallow. She quickly tied my wrists and ankles with silk rope -- smooth, but inescapable.

Bound and fully exposed, I scanned the velvet-draped room again, my eyes catching the faint red glint of multiple cameras tucked into the corners -- discreet, professional, silent witnesses to whatever came next.

My heart thudded harder. Were they for her private archive? For review? For select patrons?

I imagined some poor, underpaid security guy watching this from a dark booth, trying and failing not to touch himself, tormented by a show he could never afford.

Or maybe -- even better -- a uniformed smoking hot security girl!

Sharp, beautiful, quietly perverse.

Watching me enjoying being tied up, desperate, devoured, worshipped.

I imagined her leaning into the screen, cheeks flushed, legs clenched, wanting to join us. Wanting to double up on my body. If she only let her--

"You're already cheating on me in your head," she said suddenly, her voice slicing clean through my fantasy.

I jolted. She hadn't even looked up.

"Maybe imagining some sweet little security girl watching us? Getting wet behind her desk?" She stepped forward and grabbed a handful of my hair, tilting my head back.

"Don't flatter yourself. She's watching me. And you? You're just background noise -- a shaking toy tied to a table. But hey..." Her mouth curled into a wicked smile. "Maybe next time I will let her in. Just to make you watch us come on each other's tongue while you beg."

She then began to work my body with agonizing, surgical slowness -- her oiled palms gliding over my skin like warm silk soaked in command. Every stroke was intentional, each pass over my chest, arms, and thighs like she was mapping me, not massaging.

Her thumbs pressed with just enough force to make me gasp, her fingers traced maddening lines along my obliques and hips, hovering just millimeters from where I burned most. I could feel the occasional cold kiss of her rings dragging across my skin, leaving a trail of electricity in their wake.

She made sure I felt every contour of her strength -- her firm grip, the tight lines of her forearms, the hardness of her body brushing against my torso as she leaned in, her perfumed breath grazing my neck with every calculated exhale.

But she never touched my cock. Not even once. Not even accidentally.

It stood there -- aching, throbbing, straining upward, desperate for attention -- and she moved around it like a predator circling prey, intentionally ignoring it, knowing the silence of that space was louder than any moan.

"You want me to stroke that, don't you?" she whispered, lips brushing my ear but never kissing."Just one glide of my oiled palm... or maybe a squeeze of those bursting balls..."

She pressed her muscular naked leg between mine just enough to make me gasp -- then pulled away again.

"But no. Not yet. You don't deserve it. I want you starving. I want you on the edge of madness when I finally do let you feel what I know you need, not what you think you want."

Then, in a voice that slid under my skin: "You'll beg for orgasm by the time I'm done with you. And if I'm generous... you'll get a ruined one."

I was wriggling and squirming, tightening the ropes, my hips betraying me, trying to lift, to grind, to find friction where there was none. She looked down and smirked -- that cruel, quiet satisfaction that said she'd already won the first round.

"Just keep flexing those muscles, pretty boy," she said, voice low and amused. "Flex all you want -- tied up and helpless. They don't impress me."

Her eyes ran down my torso, then flicked back up with a smirk. "Although... I will admit, they are cute. But I won't fuck your body tonight," she continued, stepping closer, fingers grazing my cheek with mock affection. "I will fuck your mind. That's where the real fun is."

As her oiled hands slid over my chest, I again noticed the rings -- thick, elegant bands on both her thumbs and pointer fingers.

Something about that drove me wild.

Women who wore rings like that always radiated sexual inventiveness -- confident, a little dangerous, usually the ones who took control in bed and knew exactly what they were doing.

I swallowed hard, fearing but silently hoping she was exactly that kind of woman -- or even more.

Without a word, she climbed onto the table, straddling my chest. Her robe parted -- revealing perfect, perky tits and a rock-hard, flat stomach that made me forget to breathe. She had abs.

Not soft definition, but real abs -- sharp enough to catch the light, impossibly carved, the kind of midsection I'd only seen on elite athletes, and almost never on women. It was... astonishing.

Just below, her navel was pierced, and not with some dainty ornament. No -- this was a gleaming, heavy piece of dominant body jewelry, shaped like a tiny black serpent coiled around a gold ring -- its tongue flicking toward her skin, as if claiming it. It didn't decorate her -- it announced her.

And then I noticed something more: she wore a thin band of black lace around her thin muscular waist -- like lingerie turned into a talisman. Hanging from it, almost casually, was a small key-shaped pendant, delicate but deliberate.

My heart stuttered. Was someone out there locked by that key?

Some poor -- or perhaps ecstatic -- soul in chastity, owned by her completely?

She caught the flicker in my eyes and grinned.

"Ah yes," she murmured. "You noticed. Maybe, if you please me tonight... I'll let you feel what it means to be chosen. My keys don't just lock--they also unlock pleasures most men aren't strong enough to survive."

Everything changed.

"You came expecting a quick release?" she asked, her fingers teasing down my torso.

"No, no. Here, tonight -- you will suffer and serve me."

Before I could respond, she produced something from a tiny compartment under the table.

I stared at the silver nipple clamps in her hand joined by a wicked-looking tiny chain -- delicate but dangerous -- with a strange mix of horror and anticipation.

Part of me feared the bite, the loss of control. The other part welcomed the challenge, eager to prove I could take it.

"Oh, these?" she said casually, catching the flicker in my eyes. "They break even the proudest clients."

She leaned in, brushing the chain along my chest. I shivered.

"But they also produce explosive unforgettable orgasms that blow one's mind... or so I hear. From the selected few who actually earn the right to come for me."

With teasing precision, she then applied them -- one, then the other. The bite was exquisite. I let couple of moans. I flinched and strained, but the ropes held firm.

"Perfect," she purred. "You belong to me now. Let's see how obedient your mouth really is."