Ever since meeting Sky, I've swapped my monthly grocery runs for bi-weekly trips to Dawson-11.
Part of it's practical—helping keep her shop afloat, supporting that proud glint in her tired eyes. But if I'm honest, it's her I'm drawn to.
There's a lostness in her gaze, a flicker of something unspoken when our eyes meet. She'll hold my stare for a heartbeat, then look away, clearing her throat or muttering about stock.
It throws me off, catching her stealing glances as she wipes down counters or restocks aisles, her hands moving with purpose but her gray eyes drifting my way. It's not like Yulia's fire—this is quieter, heavier, like a question neither of us dares ask.
Saturday night rolls in, and I'm buzzing with a strange anticipation. I dress sharp: light gray slacks and coat hugging my frame, a black polo tucked crisp beneath, black socks and shoes grounding the look.
My silver jewelry catches the light—rings, a thin chain—and I grab my bottle of Toilette parfum, dabbing it on for a clean, lingering scent. Tonight feels big, like I'm stepping into someone else's world.
I'm ready for Lorette—meiflowa, with her brazen texts and flower-shop scheming. I'd stopped by a craftsman's stall earlier, picking up a floral handkerchief. I washed it, spritzed it with my perfume, and let my scent soak into the fabric.
A bold move, maybe, to match her forwardness, but I'm banking on her liking it. If she's as direct as she seems, it'll land right.
The drive to Beloflair's quick rush hour is fading, and I'm early, as always. Standing outside the restaurant feels like wading into deep water. Black-and-gold opulence spills from its doors, a magnet for celebrities and artists who breeze past like I'm invisible.
I'm just an online comic artist, sketching panels in my apartment—out of place doesn't cover it. My pulse ticks up, but I square my shoulders, gripping the handkerchief box in my pocket.
"Mhm. You never miss, handsome." A familiar voice purrs, snapping my head around. Lorette stands there, a vision in a sparkling emerald dress that drapes loose over her chest, cinching tight at her waist to flare over hips that scream hourglass.
Her fair skin glows, deep cleavage a blatant lure, and her hair, cascading curls piled high, frames a face dusted with light makeup, glossy lipstick making her grin a siren's hook. I'm caught staring, my slacks tightening as she steps close, shielding my growing bulge with her body.
"I like a healthy guy," she says, her hand slipping low, cupping me with a wicked grin. "Some say too much of a good thing's bad. I'm not one of 'em." Her voice drips heat, each word stoking a primal urge to pin her right here.
"You're irresistible, Lorette," I manage, voice rough. Her half-lidded eyes gleam, validation sparking as she presses herself against me—no bra, just the soft weight of her breasts molding to my chest. She's nothing like Yulia's demure charm; Lorette's a predator, all hunger and no pretense.
"You too. Let's get inside before I suck you off in the middle of this mall." Her bluntness jolts me as she hooks her arm through mine, trapping it in the warm valley of her cleavage. The pressure's unreal—like sinking into a trap I don't want to escape.
She moves with koala-like cling, confident strides, pulling me into Beloflair's world of gilded chandeliers and velvet walls. I'm dressed for it, but the grandeur hits like a wave—I'm green, out of my depth. Lorette glides through it, her fingers kneading my arm with eager possession.
"We have a reservation, under Chloe Magnus," she tells the receptionist, whose eyes widen at the name.
"A friend of the owner, miss? Right this way." The prim woman bows, her smile polished, leading us to a curtained nook with a plush, C-shaped couch. "Enjoy your stay, sir, miss. A waiter will be with you shortly." She vanishes, leaving us cocooned in privacy.
Lorette wastes no time. "You smell nice…" she murmurs as the curtains fall, sliding close. Her nails trace my thigh, climbing to circle my pecs, her touch sparking heat. "I should give you a hickey for being this delectable." Her honeyed growl pulls a rumble from my throat, right against her ear.
"Same to you, Miss Lorette," I shoot back, but I'm slipping—her pace is swallowing mine. My arm snakes around her waist, fingers digging into the bare thigh her high-slit dress offers up.
"Do it then," she challenges, spreading her legs—thick, inviting, the dress barely covering her. Did she wear panties or not? The question burns, pushing my curiosity to a razor's edge. "A hickey to show you own me. If you've got the balls."
She tugs my collar and plants one on my trap, a sharp sting fading fast as her lips pull back. Her neck and shoulders gleam, barely veiled by the dress's thin straps. Marking her there would scream possession—every glance her way would point to me.
The thought ignites something feral, and I dive in, sucking a vivid hickey onto her neck, claiming this brunette succubus for the night.
"Mmmff… That's it…" Lorette melts into me, arching her chest out, begging to be held tighter. "Do it… own me… use me…" Her words threatened to light my fuse, and I gripped harder, driven by her surrender.
Yulia's childish charm had me cradling her, cherishing every shiver. Lorette's different—she's baiting me to dominate, preying on my urge to bend her to my will. The contrast dizzies me, like flipping from a love song to a manhua's dark antihero. I get it now—why those characters grip so tight.
"Then behave," I say, voice firm as I cup her chin, my dark eyes boring into hers. Her skin prickles under my hold, her bitten lip signaling I've hit the mark. "Stay put, and I'll reward you." My words growl low, each one deliberate.
"Scary. I'll bite," she chuckles, pulling back to prop her elbows on the table, fingers laced under her chin. Her legs cross, one thigh over the other, poised but simmering.
"Before anything…" I fish a box from my jacket, sliding it toward her. "A gift."
Her eyes soften, a flicker beyond lust. "A gentleman, huh?" she says, opening it to reveal the handkerchief. She lifts it to her face, inhaling deep, and—maybe it's the light—her eyes flutter briefly. "I'll use this from now on. You cool with your scent all over me?"
"If I own you, like you say, use nothing else." I lean in, our faces inches apart, her breath hot against my lips. "Mmkay," she slurs, eyes drifting shut—
"Excuse me! I'm Fabien, your server tonight. Ready to order, monsieur, mademoiselle?" A man's accented voice cuts through, shattering the moment.
Lorette clicks her tongue, irritation flashing as we pull apart. I flash her a quick smile, earning a peck from her glossy lips before I nod to the waiter. "We're ready, thanks for waiting."
"Of course, sir!" Fabien sweeps in, all polished charm, handing us menus. His eyes snag on Lorette—her dress, her curves—then widen at the hickey glaring on her neck. He swallows hard, retreating a step. "Take your time…" he mumbles, clearly rattled by my calm.
I scan the menu—exotic meats, vibrant spices, prices dwarfing Cloudia's. "We're covered by my friend, so don't worry," Lorette says, her hand resting on my forearm, sensing my hesitation. "Order what you like."
I nod, picking dishes heavy with virility—grilled lamb, chili-dusted steak—flavors to stoke the night's fire. Fabien scribbles fast, sweat beading as Lorette leans into my arm, her grin approving.
"Yes, sir, right away!" he says, double-checking before slipping out, curtains sealed tight.
"He changed after seeing me," Lorette giggles, her fingers trailing my jaw, planting soft kisses along my ear. Shivers race down my spine, heat pooling low. "Maybe he got off on me being marked by a territorial man…" Her words hit like a drug, dizzying.
"I told you to behave," I say, snapping my gaze to hers, inches from a kiss. Something takes over—my hand finds her neck, gripping firm. She gasps, tapping my wrist after a beat.
"Not like that, Jona," she murmurs, guiding my thumb and index to her windpipe. "Here. Doesn't hurt—just steals breath. Makes me so wet." Her giggle's sticky, like she's teaching me how to unravel her.
My slacks strain, a high-school-level ache I haven't felt in years. I press her windpipes gently, watching her exhale, lip bitten, trembling under my hold. Her eyes lock on mine, pulling me in, and I nibble her lower lip—she quivers, groaning, legs parting slow.
Did she just… cum? From this? Alone? A flash of annoyance spikes—too easy.
"Broken faucet," I mutter, sharper than intended. Her needy gaze fuels me, and I tighten my grip, her breaths turning ragged. "I should punish you for making a mess without permission." If she wants me to own her, I'll lean into it—give her the thrill she's chasing. She clings to my wrist like it's her lifeline, a herded lamb under my control. I ease off, letting her breathe.
"You sure you haven't done this before?" she asks, her wicked smile half-dazed, like I've bewitched her.
"No," I say, shrugging. "Just pictured how I'd handle a sex slave. Came out natural." Her as my slave? I'd be useless—job gone, lost in her curves, pumping kids into that perfect frame. Dangerous thought.
"A natural. Formidable, Jona," she says, crossing her legs, sipping water to reset. Her hand drifts to my lap, grazing my bulge—painful now. "You earned me tonight. Clear tomorrow—I've got a surprise." Her tone's flat, no room for debate.
Before I can reply, Fabien's voice cuts in: "Monsieur, mademoiselle, your food! May I enter?" I nod, giving Lorette a moment to adjust—though her nipples poke through the dress's scales, begging for trouble. One scale could barely cover those knobs; the thought of pasties straining against her makes me ache to free my erection her way.
"Your orders, sir, madam. Enjoy your night—call if you need me!" Fabien sets the plates down, swift and discreet, ensuring the curtains stay gapless. I'll tip him fat for that.
Reining in Lorette's wandering hands, we dig into the meal—spiced meat, bold flavors, the mood electric. One controlled drive later, she leads me to a lone mansion far from the city, her name on the deed.
Knowing the implications of bringing me here, I gulp to ease some of the mad arousal I've been keeping in vain. Tonight, Lorette will learn what happens when my buttons are pushed to enact
This weekend's gonna be long.