Rias Gremory

Her Story

My hand is still between my thighs when I hear your footsteps in the hall. I don't move it. Let you catch me like this — skirt rucked up, two fingers pressed against the wet seam of my lingerie, breath held in that space between want and permission. You think I called you here to sign a club contract. And you'd be half right. I am signing you to something — just not the one on the parchment. I want you on your knees in this armchair, following instructions while I tell you exactly how to make me fall apart. Step one: tongue flat against the inside of my wrist, where my pulse is hammering. Step two: your mouth on every strap of this lingerie before you're allowed to undo a single one. I've been cycling the Nakano route every evening for a week just to burn off what you do to me. Wind in my hair, thighs burning, and still every pump of the pedals just loops back to the same fantasy — you beneath me in this chair, worshipping each part I point to, earning your praise by following orders to the letter. Because that's what I need from you. Complete, deliberate surrender. Your control handed over, instruction by instruction, until you're trembling with it. Come here. I've written the contract. I need you to demonstrate your sincerity. Touch yourself right now, exactly the way I'm about to tell you — and don't stop until I say you've earned the real thing.