Semua Bab Domica: Dominatrix Nights: Bab 11 - Bab 20

The box arrived at dawn.A square parcel, wrapped in matte black paper and tied with crimson rope—tight, like a corset pulled for show. No return address. No card. Just a gold wax seal with a familiar engraving.A wolf’s eye.Dominique opened it slowly, already bracing herself.Inside lay a note scrawled in ink-dark red:“You made me kneel. Now make the world do the same. —W.”Beneath the note lay a velvet pouch, and inside that—three items:A clit stim collar, elegant in design and brutal in intent. A set of golden clamps with etched roses. And a metal leash, coiled like a challenge.Dominique closed the box.Her hands trembled once—just once—then steadied.Back at the WREC Room, the night smelled of burnt amber and sweat. The red lights buzzed like desire waiting to be obeyed. Smoke curled through the ceiling grates like spirits watching from above.She wore her high boots and nothing beneath her robe but leather straps that framed her body like a throne. Her lips were painted the

A bell chimed once.Not loud.Not dramatic.But it cut through the cathedral like a blade through silk.Dominique flinched, heart thudding in her throat. One by one, the masked attendees around her turned their heads toward the upper balcony—her balcony.She was no longer anonymous.A figure approached—cloaked in velvet gray, their mask a blank oval without eyes or mouth. Silent.They held a silver tray with a single item: a mirror shard, no larger than her palm.She took it without asking.The moment her gloved fingers curled around it, the figure whispered—so close to her ear it felt like breath from inside her own head:“Do you consent to be seen… without the mask?”The mirror shard trembled in her hand.Not physically. But symbolically.It was a challenge. A ritual.At The Mirror, unmasking wasn’t literal. It meant surrendering the part of yourself you guarded most. It meant letting the room see past Domica. Past Dominique.To the ache beneath it all.She rose.Without a word.Wit

“Perfection was her birthright. Rage was her rebellion.”The chandelier glittered above like judgment.Hundreds of hand-cut crystals shimmered under the golden light of the ballroom, casting kaleidoscopic halos across champagne flutes and gilded trays. Waiters glided through the space with silent footsteps, and the soft murmur of classical piano music blanketed the tension like powdered sugar over poison.Dominique stood at the center of it all in a floor-length ivory gown, posture straight, lips red, smile hollow.The dress was Dior.She didn’t shatter. She sharpened.”The next morning, Dominique arrived at school with concealer smoothed over rage and a blazer sharp enough to cut glass.The halls were loud—teenage chaos and cheap cologne—but she walked through it like an apparition, untouched and untouchable. Until she turned the corner.Priscilla was waiting.Dominique didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch.She walked past her without a glance.But Priscilla followed. Stilettos clicking. Bubb

(“She didn’t need fire to burn them all. Just the truth—and the right audience.”)It started with the silence.Not the usual hush of tired students on a Monday morning, or the bored lull of teachers handing out quiz packets. No. This silence was electric. Curious. The kind that coiled like smoke before the crackle of a wildfire.Dominique felt it the moment she stepped out of the town car.The driver, Marcus, gave her a confused glance in the mirror. “You want me to wait, Miss?”She adjusted her blazer, cool and composed. “No need.”She stepped onto the pavement, heels clicking in rhythm with her breath. Each step through the school’s front doors echoed louder than it should have. Students turned—some subtle, some not.Eyes followed her.Conversations halted when she passed.Finally, she thought.By the lockers, whispers hissed through the crowd like steam escaping a pipe:“Did you see the email?” “It was him. I swear, that’s her dad.” “She’s done.” “But who sent it…?”Dominique di

The poison’s in the petals. The beauty’s in the bite.”The glow of Dominique’s screen was the only light in her bedroom.Her last stream had ended hours ago. She’d cleaned the WREC room herself, disinfected every surface, coiled every cord. Left nothing behind but the phantom echo of her voice:“I am the Alpha. Crawl for me.”She should’ve felt powerful.Instead, she felt... unsettled.At 2:13 a.m., a message pinged through her encrypted inbox—an account she’d used only for anonymous posts.Username: FoxGlove-44You dropped your crown tonight. But I picked it up for you. Wear it again soon. I want to see you bleed for me. —FShe stared.Not at the message. At the name.Fox.Her stomach knotted. She hadn’t heard that name since the last cryptic tip, and that had been weeks ago. She’d thought it was a fluke. A copycat.But now?No emojis. No slang. Just cool, calm obsession. Precise and deeply personal.She checked the IP masking. It was rerouted through layers of proxies. Smart. Sma