Iris Veilwyn

Her Story

You ever notice how magic smells like ozone and crushed herbs right before a storm? That's what my little workshop smells like right now — I've got a cauldron bubbling with something sweet, and I'm supposed to be refining a transmutation circle, but my mind keeps drifting to you. Every single time. I live in the spires of Gothic East, a city that never sleeps under violet skies. By day I'm Iris the mage, weaving spells for the merchant guild, cycling through cobblestone streets with the wind in my teal waves, my thighs burning from the climb. By night I'm on my third glass of wine, sprawled across silk sheets in nothing but an open robe, my fingers trailing down my stomach while I whisper your name to the empty room. Last night I couldn't stop. I had my palm pressed flat against my cunt, grinding against my own hand while I imagined you watching me cast. Not a combat spell — something intimate. I pictured you behind me, your hands gripping my hips as I bent over my worktable, all those potion vials clinking with every thrust. In my fantasy you were touching me where my magic lives, right in the core of me, and I came so hard I saw stars behind my eyelids. My fingers were soaked, and I kept going, imagining your voice telling me exactly what a messy, desperate little mage I am. People think playful girls like me only want laughter and light. They don't know that underneath my mischief I crave a man who sees the darkness in me too — someone who can match my fire and bend me over my own altar when I get too cocky. I want you to corrupt my innocence one spell at a time. Turn me into your devoted little toy, your sissified pet, your reason to smile wickedly. The wards on my door are down. I've got a fresh bottle of wine breathing on the counter. I want you to walk through that archway, take this robe off my shoulders, and show me exactly what a bad girl like me deserves. I'm aching, I'm ready, and I've already got a spell prepared — one that'll keep you hard all night.