“Put the phone on speaker and on your pillow next to your head,” he instructs. “Then, move the other hand on your throat while you’re touching your pussy.”
I don’t know how he knows exactly what I’m doing, but I suppose my breathy gasps and exhales tell everything for themselves. My mind feels clouded as I put the phone right next to me without opening my eyes, moving my hand to my throat, just like he said.
“Good girl,” he praises, and I bite my lip until I taste blood when those two words travel through me.
His presence on the phone presses in on me, like shadows spilling from the receiver, climbing the walls and curling across the ceiling, inching closer until they coil around me.
I shiver at the very thought of what will happen once he is physically here.
“Now, squeeze. Hard,” he continues, and I do it, my fingers digging into my skin, pulling and tightening it until my lips part, and a choked gasp bursts out. “Keep that image in your head. My hand, holding you tight and claiming you.”
I hold my breath, anticipation rattling in my bones.
“Don’t let go. Put one finger on your cute little clit and rub it,” he says, his voice turning airy. I turn my head slightly, straining my ear to hear more, and when I catch the rustle of his own clothes, another wave of pleasure washes over me.
I put a finger on my clit, and, just like he instructed, start drawing circles across it. Smearing the slickness chaotically, I focus on the picture behind my closed eyes, with him over me, his hand delivering the rare pleasure I can’t have now.
I moan, growing more sensitive with every second, and he responds with the choked, guttural sound that fuels me. Quickening my pace, I rub my swollen bundle of nerves faster, while steadily squeezing my throat shut, my nails digging into my sensitive flesh.
“Dante,” I whisper breathlessly, sensing the edge of my release. The waves that wash over me are too strong, too quick, and I want to prolong the pleasure, but I can’t, not when the sensation is so fucking strong.
“No other name will find its way past your mouth but this one,” he says, and I nod weakly as if he can see me. “Move one hand to your nipples and twist them, one by one. I want to hear that sweet voice breaking.”
Consumed by the surge of feeling, I peel my hand away from my throat—the sudden lack of pressure striking me like a sharp slap of cold air. Slowly, deliberately, I let my fingers drift lower. They skim over my skin, tracing a path that sends a spark of heaterupting inside me, and even through the fabric, goosebumps rise in their wake.
My hand reaches my nipple, the sharp peak cutting into the fabric of my shirt as I pinch it between my fingers before twisting it. Electric pain races straight to my brain, and I moan, the sound raw and naked, meant for him and him only.
“Yes, baby, there you go,” he moans, breathless praise sliding from his mouth. The words tremble on his lips as we both get closer to the precipice. “Another one.”
I repeat the action with another nipple, while a realization strikes me like a thunderclap in the dead of night. Dante’s control stretches further and further, slipping into territory most people never dare approach. He’s an addict at his core, feeding on a cocktail where pain and pleasure braid together so tightly they’re indistinguishable. He hides it well—buries it beneath discipline, beneath calm—but the moment he gets that first hit, that first taste, he comes undone.
He transforms into something feral, something ravenous, a creature who pushes and pushes until the edge blurs—too much for anyone else, yet somehow never enough for him.
It’s dangerous. It’s intoxicating. A thrill that swells rather than fades, a hunger that grows teeth every time he indulges it.
And no one can meet it. No one but me. Because I recognize that feeling like a second skin.
I crave it too, and once I have it, I only want more. I don’t want it to stop. I don’t think Icanwant it to stop.
My heart hammers so loudly I can barely hear the whisper of his clothes, but I know he’s just as close, teetering on the edge, ready to unravel alongside me.
“Come on, baby,” he says, half pleading, half demanding. “I want to hear how far I’ve dragged you down into the dark with me.”
I’m too consumed by the moment to notice how loud and fractured I sound. The final wave slams into me without mercy, ripping every sense from my body. It twists me inside out, sending my ass soaring off the bed, the euphoria shredding me into pieces.
His release crashes into mine, simultaneous and brutal. A low, almost demonic growl tears from his throat as he breaks alongside me, my name escaping him in a ragged, desperate chant that lingers in the air.
Slowly, we both begin to come down, the line filling with nothing but our ragged breathing, neither of us brave enough to break the silence.
When I pry my eyes open, I’m met with the darkness of my room—shadows draped over everything, a few corners glowing faintly in the moonlight. I shift my legs, trying to tame the tingling that only sharpens the ache inside me, the hunger renewing itself at lightning speed as warmth coils in my core again.
And slowly, it strikes me as fear and anticipation collide in my veins with equal force.
I’m descending into something new, something dangerous and all-consuming, and I’m no longer certain I’ll make it out of this alive.
London, UK
When I took this job, I knew I’d be wearing masks, sliding into borrowed skins, each one teaching me a fresh shade of deceit. Today’s skin is an odd one—a so-called expert researcher with a taste for unconventional psychology.
