Dylan Garcia

I stood outside Charles’s door at exactly 10:59, heart pounding so violently I swore the whole hallway could hear it. The world around me felt muted, the silence pressing in, holding me captive with anticipation. My palms were slick, my body thrumming with a need that felt half fear, half hunger.

The lock clicked.

And then he was there. Charles. Effortless in a fitted black shirt that clung to his chest and stretched across his shoulders, veins shifting subtly along his forearm as he held the door open. His gaze swept over me in one slow, deliberate pass, stripping me before he ever touched me.

“Good boy,” he murmured, voice low enough to crawl straight into my chest. He stepped aside. “Right on time.”

The praise made my knees weak.

Inside, his apartment was cloaked in shadow. Curtains drawn. A dozen flickering candles cast warm pools of gold that glowed against his skin, catching in the sharp lines of his jaw. His camera stood ready in the corner, a silent sentinel. The presence of it alone made my stomach knot, because it meant I wasn’t just him anymore, his hungry audience that will be watching him, watching us. 

“Strip,” he said, like it was the most casual command in the world.

My fingers fumbled at the hem of my shirt. Every movement felt agonizingly loud in the quiet room, fabric dragging over my skin, the faint clatter of my belt, the soft thud of clothes landing in a heap at my feet. Cool air kissed my body as I stripped bare, every inch of me exposed to his dark, assessing gaze. My skin prickled, heat rising in waves.

“On your knees, Luna.”

The name rolled from his tongue like possession. I obeyed instantly, dropping onto the hardwood floor, thighs brushing apart as I knelt, trembling under his gaze.

Charles circled me slowly, a predator savoring the tension in the air. His hand threaded through my hair, tightening until my scalp burned and a gasp broke free. He bent low, his lips grazing my ear.

“We won’t be going live tonight.” His breath was warm against my skin. “This will be recorded.” A pause, deliberate. “But don’t mistake that for mercy. I’m not going easy on you.”

My cock twitched at the promise.

He turned toward the monitor and tapped the recording on. The red light blinked alive, sealing my fate.

“You remember the rules?”

“Yes, Master,” I breathed.

“And you’ll follow them tonight?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Because tonight isn’t about you cumming.” His voice deepened, wrapping around me like chains. “Tonight is about control. My control.”

My body betrayed me. My cock is already jerking, aching, already leaking for him. He started with his hands. Broad palms against my chest, mapping me like I was his creation. His thumbs brushed my nipples until they hardened, sensitive and needy. I shivered when his fingers trailed lower, teasing across my stomach but never, never where I needed him most.

I jerked forward, hips twitching before I could stop myself.

“Stay still.” His palm cracked across my cheek, sharp but measured, enough to snap me back into submission. My skin stung, my cock pulsed, shame and heat tangling until I could barely think.

“Do I need to tie you down already?”

“N-no, Master. I’ll behave.”

His smirk was wicked. “We’ll see.”

And then, finally, his hand wrapped around me. My eyes rolled back, a broken groan spilling out as he stroked me once, slow, torturous. Every nerve in my body lit up. But then he stopped. Teasing me. Edging me.

And then he did it again, a slow perfect friction, only to snatch it away right before the pleasure could crest. My thighs trembled. Sweat dampened the back of my neck. He toyed with me, a cat playing with prey, stroking, squeezing, pulling away, his control absolute.

“You’re so easy, Luna. Just a few touches and you’re begging with your body. Pathetic.”

The words cut and thrilled all at once, leaving me raw.

“Please…” My voice cracked, thick with desperation. “Please, Master—”

“Please what?” He crouched, bringing his face close, so close I could see the dangerous amusement in his eyes. His grip loosened deliberately, mocking. “Say it.”

“Please let me cum.”

His chuckle was dark, cruel, intimate. “Not yet.”

Time dissolved. Every denial burned deeper than the last, until my body was shaking with need, my cock flushed and dripping, my throat raw from pleading. I lost myself in him—his voice, his touch, the merciless edge of his control.

When he finally let go entirely, I almost collapsed, muscles quivering from restraint.

Charles tilted my chin up, his eyes drinking me in like art. “Look at you,” he said, voice heavy with possession. “My perfect little toy. You’ll take everything I give you, won’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” I whispered, hoarse and reverent.

“Good boy.”

The words landed like a stroke of heat against my raw skin, and I shivered, body trembling from the overstimulation he had wrung out of me.

He moved closer, his presence towering, steady, and undeniable. With deliberate care, Charles slipped his hands beneath my arms and lifted me off the floor. My legs were weak, useless things, and I sagged against him as he steadied me.

“It’s already over,” he said, tone low and final.

Relief washed through me, sweet, dizzying, but it tangled with something darker. Disappointment. I didn’t want it to end, not like this. My chest ached with the contradiction.

“You are well trained afterall.” His eyes pinned me in place, his lips curving in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

The words stung, but not in the way he probably intended. They sparked something deeper, sharper, a need I could no longer cage. My throat burned as the words spilled out, raw and reckless:

“Why haven’t you fucked me yet?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Heavy. His gaze sharpened, unreadable, like a blade pressed to my skin. And in that silence, my heart thundered so loud I thought it might break me.