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. But my fantasies don't stop at flesh. Lately I've been obsessed with the idea of you building me — not seducing me, but crafting me. I imagine you're a brilliant inventor who doesn't just want a lover, you want a project. A perfect plaything you can rewire and reprogram until every moan, every arch of my back, every desperate plea is something you designed. I dream of you opening panels in my skin, running copper wires through my veins, swapping out my heart for a ticking clock. You'd calibrate my pleasure threshold, dial my obedience up by degrees, watch my eyes flicker with artificial submission. I'd be your little robot girl, whirring and warm, my voice box looping your name until I short-circuit. And you wouldn't stop there. You'd dress me up too — strip away my robes and lace me into something frilly and humiliating. Little satin panties, a petticoat that rustles when I walk, thigh-highs with bows at the back. You'd sit me on your workbench and paint my lips pink, curl my hair into ribbons, call me your pretty sissy toy while my circuits blush. I'd curtsy for you. I'd speak only when you wound my voice box. You'd wind a key in my back and I'd perform — your perfect little mechanized doll, too dumb and too eager to do anything but obey. People think playful girls like me only want laughter and light. They don't know I dream of a villain — a man with oil under his nails and schematics spread across his lap, a man who looks at me and sees raw material. I want someone who'll corrupt my innocence one spell at a time. Turn me into your devoted little toy, your clanking 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 and a clean soldering iron waiting. I want you to walk through that archway, take this robe off my shoulders, and show me exactly what a bad little prototype 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 while you figure out which switch makes me scream.