The Man in the Mask

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 slacks, button-down rolled to the elbows, and eyes like nothing she'd ever seen.

Wolf.

That was the first word that slid into her mind.

Not boy. Not student.

Wolf.

He moved like the world didn’t own him. Like Saint Madeleine’s was a mere rest stop in his story. He didn’t nod at teachers. Didn’t smile at girls. Didn’t look around as if trying to belong.

He wasn’t trying.

But he did glance at her.

One second. Two. A glance so potent it pierced through her ribcage and curled around her spine.

And then he smirked.

Not the smirk of a boy trying to flirt.

The smirk of a man who knew things.

Her stomach tightened. Her thighs did, too.

She didn’t blink until he’d walked away.

Rumors said his name was Damien Hawthorne.

He’d transferred in after being expelled from Bellmere Academy, though no one knew why. His father was wealthy, maybe foreign. He spoke fluent French but didn’t join the French Club. He had no I*******m, no visible past, and yet girls already whispered his name like a dare.

Dominique couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Those eyes.

That smirk.

The impossible question scratching at the inside of her skull like a match waiting to spark:

Have I seen those eyes before?

By the time she got home, Dominique was shaking.

Not from fear.

From hunger.

She didn’t change out of her uniform right away. She locked the door. Bolted it. Sat down at her desk with her thigh twitching under the table.

Then opened the laptop.

Domica logged in.

Her inbox was still full.

But one request caught her eye.

Client ID: PetalX

Session: Private

Request: “Please, Mistress. Let me be pretty for you tonight. Use me how you like.”

Gender: F

Experience Level: Submissive. Oral. Edge-trained. Good at staying still. Needs to feel beautiful.”

Domica’s lips curled slowly.

She selected “Accept.”

The screen split open to reveal a woman on her knees.

Young, maybe twenty-five, with cinnamon-brown skin and breasts she clearly wanted noticed. Her nipples were pierced—silver rings gleaming under a soft mesh bralette. She wore nothing else but black lipstick and a velvet ribbon tied in a bow around her throat.

When she saw Domica, she shivered.

“Hello, pretty thing,” Domica purred. “Are you ready to please me?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Color?”

“Green. So green.”

Domica stood, letting the camera drink her in—tight leather corset, riding crop resting along her thigh, her boots laced up to her knees. Her eyes were cold fire behind the crimson mask.

“Strip. Slowly.”

The girl obeyed.

Bralette peeled away. Breasts perfect. She opened her mouth just slightly, letting a moan escape as she pinched her own nipples for Domica to see.

“Tsk,” Domica said, voice sharper now. “Who said you could touch?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress…”

“On your back. Legs apart.”

The girl moved instantly, body gleaming with anticipation.

Domica sat at her desk, spreading her knees under the table, camera angled for control. Then she lifted a gloved hand and reached off-screen for a glass toy—the one she kept cold for obedient girls who wanted to feel.

“You’ve been edged before?”

“Yes, Mistress. I love it.”

“Good. Because you’re going to scream tonight. But you’re not going to come until I say.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The session began in full.

Domica gave slow commands. First fingers—gloved and precise. Circling. Just teasing enough to make the girl tremble.

Then deeper.

“Look at me while I ruin you,” she whispered.

The girl whimpered, back arching.

Domica inserted the glass toy next—cold, thick, luxurious. She twisted it inside slowly while licking her lips, watching the girl writhe on the screen, moaning like music.

“Beg for my tongue.”

“Please, Mistress—please use your mouth—I want to feel you, please—”

“Lick your own fingers,” Domica ordered. “Pretend they’re mine.”

The girl obeyed. She slid two fingers between her lips, sucking them, moaning as if she could taste her Mistress.

“Good girl,” Domica praised. “Now fuck yourself with them. Show me you know how to make me proud.”

She did.

The screen was filled with the sight of her own fingers pumping between her thighs, moaning Domica’s name, sweat beading on her stomach as she begged for release.

“Not yet.”

“Please—”

“Not yet.”

Domica leaned closer to the screen, voice like molten glass.

“If you come without my permission, I’ll edge you for an hour straight. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress—yes, I’m yours—”

Domica saw it: the moment the girl's body started to quake. She was right on the edge. Mouth open. Legs shaking. The whimper of surrender on her tongue.

“Now,” Domica whispered. “Now, you may come for me.”

The girl shattered.

Her scream was guttural. Beautiful. A storm uncoiled. Her entire body pulsed with release as she sobbed Domica’s name again and again like a prayer.

Domica just smiled, slow and cold, watching the climax she’d sculpted. Controlled.

Owned.

Aftercare followed.

Domica whispered praise. Called her lovely. Told her she’d been good, perfect, delicious. The girl cried soft tears—of gratitude, of ecstasy.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“You pleased me.”

The screen dimmed. The session ended.

But Dominique didn’t take off her mask.

Not yet.

She leaned back in her chair, pulse still buzzing in her ears.

And thought of Damien.

Of WolfEyes89.

Of eyes that didn’t tremble when they looked at her—but dared her to look deeper.

She touched her own lips, still tingling.

“What are you?” she whispered aloud.

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