Domica: Dominatrix Nights

Perfection is a prison you decorate with pearls.”The light in her bedroom window was always the first to go out.Dominique Devereux made sure of it.From the outside, her world was pristine: a penthouse apartment that overlooked the Manhattan skyline, an exclusive all-girls academy where she reigned with effortless, untouchable grace, and a life of polished smiles, curated events, and soft-gloved restraint. Her mother had always told her, “Real ladies don’t get angry, they host galas.”Tonight, Dominique smiled her way through a charity dinner for the school’s new library fund, wearing Dior, pearls, and heels that made her ankles ache. She nodded when expected, gave a demure wave to her headmaster, and laughed when a senator’s son whispered something boring about Bitcoin into her ear.Boys like him never really saw her. They saw the idea of her—Dominique the debutante, Dominique the legacy girl, Dominique the good girl with a spine as straight as her posture.But beneath the silk an

Sometimes the eyes know before the heart has time to panic.”Saint Madeleine’s never changed.Same arched ceilings. Same echo of heels on polished floors. Same girls laughing in clusters, masked behind lip gloss and light cruelty. The leaves outside had begun to yellow, and the air had cooled, but the world still felt suffocatingly predictable.Dominique wasn’t.Not anymore.Ever since the message from WolfEyes89, the world moved differently. Sounds were sharper. Glances felt invasive. The air around her skin felt wrong when she wasn’t in her Domica armor. Every boy she passed, every girl who giggled, every teacher’s voice—all of it grated against her nerves like silk on an open wound.She needed friction. Control. Something real.And then she saw him.It was between classes, near the fountain in the marble courtyard, where the wind toyed with the hem of her skirt. She was sipping a coffee she didn’t want when he walked past—tall, lean, shadows clinging to him like perfume.Black slac

“It’s easy to play a goddess—until your own altar starts to crack.”The mask felt heavier than usual.It clung to her skin like guilt, pressing across her cheekbones with a weight that couldn’t be blamed on leather. Dominique adjusted the strap behind her head with fingers that trembled—not from fear, but from the absence of feeling at all.She stood before her mirror in full Domica attire.Corset cinched to perfection. Thigh-high boots polished to a sinful sheen. Riding crop in hand. Eyes hollow behind red velvet.She looked like power.She felt like static.Her laptop glowed behind her. In The Velvet Room, the world was waiting.She logged in.Two clients tonight. Regulars.She chose them for a reason.Nathan—screenname GutterPrince—was a masochist with a mouth. He liked to be slapped into obedience. And Milo—ObeyMePls—was a silent pain lover. Shy. Quick to bruise. Faster to whimper.Domica had brought both of them to tears before.She needed that again. The rhythm. The ritual.To

Fear is a leash. Tonight, she burns it.”She didn’t tell anyone where she was going.Not that anyone would’ve cared—not her mother, not her classmates, not even the subordinates in her inbox who begged her daily to return. They didn’t want Dominique.They wanted Domica.And tonight, they’d get her.Not behind a velvet screen.Not through curated filters.Raw. Unforgiving. Real.The WREC Room sat two towns over in the slums of Greystone, nestled between a boarded-up tattoo parlor and a liquor store with a flickering sign. The building looked condemned from the outside—tagged in graffiti, windows boarded, door scarred with rusted locks.But inside?Inside, it breathed.An old industrial loft, converted by sin and imagination into a studio for the underground. Stained concrete floors. Black-painted brick walls. One rusted chandelier hung overhead like a noose made of gold. The air was dense with sweat, old smoke, and the ghosts of screams.She rented it in cash.No ID. No questions.Just

Some thrones are not made of gold. They are carved from shadow, sealed in breath, and earned in silence.”The train pulled away behind her, a long, metallic sigh lost in the fog.Dominique stood alone on the edge of a cracked platform. Overhead, gray clouds smeared across the sky like bruises. The station was dead—no signs, no staff, only silence and smoke curling from the rusted chimneys in the distance.She stepped forward, boots echoing over the concrete like war drums in a funeral hall.The coordinates had led her here.And she wasn’t afraid.Not anymore.The location came into view after half a mile of walking through fog and ash. At the far end of a gravel path stood a towering industrial relic: an old hydroelectric plant long since abandoned by the state and reclaimed by time.Broken windows. Steel stairs. Chain-link fences twisted with ivy.At the entrance: a single door. Black. Steel.And above it, painted in blood-red strokes:𝛂A single Greek alpha.She knocked once.The d