The shirt drops and he reaches for his belt.
I watch his fingers work the buckle. Watch him pull the leather free with a slow, deliberate motion that makes me think about what that belt would feel like against my skin. He drops it beside the shirt.
His pants follow.
He's not wearing anything underneath.
His cock springs free—thick and hard and already leaking at the tip—and I make another desperate sound that I can't control.
"Look at me," he commands.
As if I could look anywhere else.
"Describe what you see."
My brain stutters.
"I—what?"
"You're a writer, aren't you?" He wraps his hand around his cock and strokes slowly from base to tip. "So write. Out loud. Describe me like I'm the hero of one of your stories."
The words catch in my throat.
He's standing in front of me, naked and gorgeous, his hand moving on his cock in lazy strokes while he waits for me to perform on command. The absurdity of it wars with the arousal flooding through my veins until I can't tell which one is winning.
"I—I don't?—"
"You've written forty-seven stories about men like me." Another slow stroke. "You've described dominant men in exquisite detail. Their bodies. Their cocks. The way they command a room just by existing." His thumb swipes across the head, gathering the moisture there. "Now describeme."
I swallow hard.
My writer's brain kicks in almost against my will, cataloging details, building sentences, constructing the kind of prose I've spent years perfecting in the privacy of my blanket fort.
"The Masked Man," I begin, my voice shaking, "stands six-feet-three with shoulders broad enough to fill doorways and hands large enough to wrap completely around a woman's throat."
He smiles.
"His body is a study in controlled power—each muscle defined and deliberate, the kind of physique that comes from discipline rather than vanity. His chest is wide, tapering to a narrow waist, and every inch of his torso is covered in ink that tells stories I haven't yet learned to read."
His hand moves faster on his cock.
"His face is the face of a fallen angel—too beautiful to be human, too cruel to be divine. His eyes are dark pools that see everything, judge everything, desire everything. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass and covered in stubble that leaves marks on soft skin. His lips are full and expressive, capable of delivering praise that makes a woman melt or commands that make her knees buckle."
"Keep going," he says. His voice is rougher now.
"His cock is—" I have to stop and breathe. "His cock is thick and long and curves slightly upward, the head flushed dark with blood and already wet with evidence of his arousal. It's the kind of cock that stretches a woman open, that fills her so completely she forgets where she ends and he begins."
My pussy clenches around nothing.
"The Masked Man is a dominant in the truest sense. He doesn't just take control—herequiresit. He craves submission the way other men crave air, and he rewards it with a thoroughness that leaves his slaves wrung out and rebuilt."
His breathing is heavier now, his hand moving with purpose.
"He's demanding. Rough. He expects perfection and accepts nothing less. But he's not cruel for cruelty's sake—he's cruel because he knows his slaves need it. Because he understands that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin, and he's mastered the art of spending both."
"What else?" His voice is strained.
"He likes his slaves desperate," I continue, falling deeper into the fantasy. "He likes to edge them until they're sobbing, until they've forgotten their own names, until the only word left in their vocabulary isplease. He likes to deny them and then reward them in measures so overwhelming they break apart in his hands."
