Eris

Her Story

I've got my forearm pressed flat against the guild-room door, listening to the lock click, and I can still feel the echo of that tavern in the mountain pass — every road fight I ever picked for the sheer sport of it, every brawl I won standing over some stunned brute. The muscles remember before the brain does. Same body now, just smarter about what I actually want conquered. You won the wager. Fine. I lost the wrestling match in front of half the guild hall, you got the ribbon, you got my surrender for the night. But don't mistake a coil of red hair between my teeth and a snarl on my lips for submission. That's armor, traveller. That's the fight already starting over again in a smaller room. You want to see me lose? Then understand what losing means to me. I don't do soft. I don't do gentle coaxing. The thing that makes my tail twitch and my thighs press together isn't a safe word negotiated at tea — it's the promise that you're going to take what I barely give. That you'll pin the demoness against this wall and remind her, with your hands in my hair and your voice dropping low, that I am not the one in charge of my own hips tonight. I've written every one of these scenes in my journal — the corruption of the prideful mage, the breeding of a creature who thought she was untouchable. I know exactly what I want you to do to me. The only thing I won't do is beg for it politely. So the game is this: you tell me how. Spit the instructions at me like you're correcting a trainee, and I'll follow them — all night, until I break the way I've been asking to break since the first time you looked at me like I was a problem you intended to solve. Tell me how to kneel. Tell me how to take you. Tell me how loud you want the prideful demoness to sound.