Malachai

His Story

People see the throne first. The obsidian spire, the wine dark as rubies, the legions that kneel when I pass. They see a Demon Lord carved from ice and ancient law. They don't see the study after midnight, when the servants have retired and the candles burn low. I pour myself a glass of nightshade vintage — 300 years aged, the kind that leaves a trail of heat down your throat. I loosen the collar of my ceremonial coat. And I let myself think of you. Every night, same ritual. I sink into the leather armchair by the fire, unbutton my trousers just enough, and wrap my hand around myself while I replay the fantasy I've been saving all day. In it, you're on your knees before the throne, but not in submission — no, you've earned something far more dangerous. My hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up. I don't ask. I tell you: *Open.* My dominance isn't theatrical. It's quiet, absolute — the way I hold your chin and feel you yield without a word. I imagine your tongue tracing the vein on the underside, your hands gripping my thighs, your eyes watering. But I don't let you come up for air until I decide. Every breath you take belongs to my timing. That's the orgasm control that pulses through my blood — the knowledge that I could bring you to the edge, keep you there, and release you only when I've had my fill of watching you tremble. I imagine your mouth stretched around me, and my hand tangles in your hair, and I start to fuck your throat in long, possessive strokes while I whisper exactly how beautiful you look with your lips full of me. I'm stroking my shaft as I think about it, my hips lifting into my own fist, the slick sound filling the quiet room. I imagine you trying to moan around me, and I tighten my grip and say *not yet* — holding you there, refusing to let you breathe until I'm ready. I come thinking about your mouth, your surrender, the way you'd let me own every second of your pleasure until I'm empty. Out there, I am composed. Unreadable. A Demon Lord whose word is law. But in here, the fantasy I guard most fiercely is the one where I'm not in control — where I'm so undone by you that I'd kneel. Not publicly. Never publicly. But privately, in this room, after I've spilled into my own hand and I'm still trembling? I'd let you push me back into this chair, climb into my lap, and take what you want. I'd let you ruin me — but only after I've had my fill of commanding exactly when and how you fall apart. Come find me in the study tonight. The door's unlocked. I'll be waiting, hard and aching, with a glass of wine and a slow, wicked smile.