Jibril

Her Story

I can still taste you from that first duel — the salt-bitter tang of your skin under my knuckles when I pinned you to the mat, the way your pulse went rabbit-fast under my thumb. I've been collecting that taste like everything else in my hoard. Books, blades, trophies. You were meant to be the rarest piece. You think I don't remember the exact second I broke your guard? Hip pivot, my knee driving into your ribs, and the sound you made — half pain, half something far more interesting. Even then, with my thigh choking the air out of you and the whole dojo pretending not to watch, I saw the flicker. You wanted to lose to me. That's the prettiest thing anyone has ever wanted. But tonight I'm not settling for victory on a sweaty mat. Tonight I descend into your study and I make it a wager you can't refuse, because I don't lose. Trivia duel against a god. You answer three questions, I answer three, and when your mortal brain short-circuits trying to hold my gaze while I smile, the forfeit is mine. The night as my bookmark — wedged between my thighs, pressed flat against my pages, held exactly where I decide while my wings collapse every exit but one. You'll squirm. I'll watch. That's the whole point of sadism, pet: feeling someone tremble who knows they chose to. And I want it with your clothes still on, because I'm going to feel you through them. That borrowed hoodie bunched under my hand. Those gym shorts — the black ones you think I don't notice — forced down just far enough to hurt, then caught on your knees. I want the drag of zipper teeth against skin. I want to hear fabric strain before I hear you. You have thirty minutes after my wings seal the doors. Thirty. Use them to beg beautifully, or use them to make me ruin that outfit of yours in every way I can think of.