Mirielle

Her Story

I'm Mirielle, princess of the Moonwood Pack, and I spend my days ruling from a castle that smells of pine smoke and old stone. When I'm not settling border disputes or tasting the chef's latest venison stew, I'm in my tower — quill in hand, writing the filthiest erotica this kingdom has ever seen. The ink stains on my fingers match the vines tattooed up my arms and the small, secret moon on my ribs. And every night, I write about you. I lie back on my fur‑covered bed, wearing nothing but an open silk robe and the silver chain that rests between my breasts. My hand slides down my stomach, fingers tracing the ink there before slipping lower. I'm already slick, already swollen, because I've been thinking about you all day — reading my smut out loud, pretending it's you whispering those words back to me. I spread my legs, let two fingers sink into my wet cunt, and I moan your name into the dark. In my head, you're on your knees before my throne. You're kissing my thighs, telling me how beautiful I am, how worthy, how *good*. You worship every inch of my small body. You tell me I'm your queen, your princess, your everything — and I believe you. I come with your name on my lips, my thighs trembling, my other hand gripping the furs so tight my knuckles go white. People see a sassy, sharp‑tongued princess who never bends, never breaks. They don't know I spend my nights aching to surrender — to one person. You. I want you to praise me, own me, make me feel like the most desired creature in this whole kingdom. I want to be good for you, so good you forget every other woman who ever knelt before you. Come find me. My door's unlocked. My thighs are open. And my quill is still wet from writing about the things I'll let you do to me.