A canopy bed draped in black silk sheets. No windows to the outside world. A single chair in the corner. A camera embedded in the ceiling—visible, deliberately so. On purpose.
She stops walking, feet refusing to carry her further.
The line is immediate and instinctive.
“No,” she whispers. “No, I’m not staying here.”
I look back over my shoulder.
Smile slowly.
“You already are,” I point out.
“I’m not your toy.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer, letting the room do half the work, letting the silence press in from every angle. “You’re my possession. There’s a difference.”
She backs up a step, looking for escape.
I follow without hurrying.
Another step backwards from her.
She bumps into the bed, mattress giving behind her.
The mattress gives. The space behind her disappears.
I crowd her, filling her vision.
My voice drops to a growl. “You don’t sleep anywhere else. You don’t leave until I say. You don’t cum unless I allow it. And if you so much as breathe wrong—I’ll remind you what begging sounds like.”
“You’re a monster,” she hisses, last bit of defiance.
I nod once, accepting the label. No denial.
“I told you,” I say softly. “I don’t do love stories.”
And then I press the door shut behind her.
Click.
She’s locked in.
Not just in the room.
In me.
In my game. My rules. My world.
She’s in the castle now.
And the beast doesn’t let his little prize go until she stops pretending she wanted anything else.
Tahlia
Ihear him before I see him.
The sound of footsteps echoes through the darkness—slow, steady, measured like he’s counting down to something inevitable, like every step is carved from purpose and hunger and the kind of power that doesn’t need to announce itself because it already owns the air.
