The room felt electric, humming with the ghosts of everything we'd done here. Every surface—every shadow—seemed to remember her. The scent lingered: lavender oil rubbed into her thighs, the salt of sweat dried on velvet, the faint, lingering perfume of climax. It clung to the walls like incense in a chapel defiled.
And then she walked in.
Draped in white.
No lace. No teasing straps or erotic ornamentation. Just fabric—sheer, flowing, blasphemously innocent. A simple white dress that clung to her like moonlight over water. It swayed as she moved, brushing her thighs with each step, and yet did nothing to hide the body beneath.
She didn't need lingerie. Her body was lingerie.
Through the thin cotton, I saw the soft roundness of her breasts, nipples gently outlined like a pair of confessions pressing against cloth. Lower, the dress tapered at the waist, dipping over hips I'd gripped in moments of madness. The hem barely covered her—cut cruelly high in the front, suggestively long in the back, like something stitched by a tailor with sin in his veins.
And just below that subtle rise between her thighs, the fabric thinned.
My breath caught.
I saw the suggestion of her folds, veiled but unmistakable—a divine blur of shadow and softness teasing through the white. Not fully exposed. Not hidden. Just enough to make the blood behind my zipper stir with reverence and need.
She wasn't wearing anything beneath it.
No panties.
No shame.
Just skin and memory and intent.
She walked barefoot across the sanctum, hips moving like an hourglass counting down to her undoing. The fabric swayed, caught the light, fluttered around her thighs like the wings of a caged bird finally allowed to fly.
And she stood before me, barefoot and glowing, a contradiction of purity and provocation.
A sacrificial offering.
And perhaps she was.
Her eyes met mine—not pleading, not uncertain. Steady. Steeled. Burning with quiet, molten anticipation.
"My last time," she said softly.
And the words felt like a prophecy.
I nodded silently, watching her every movement closely as she crossed the room.
Every step deliberate, almost ceremonial, as though she was consciously imprinting herself into the very fabric of the space. She paused briefly to run her fingertips along the velvet-covered wall, closing her eyes as if savoring the texture of our sins.
I prepared the vial of L-9, my fingers precise and steady despite the turmoil raging within me. It was a full dose, meticulously calculated. Every previous encounter had been leading here—to this perfect, lethal crescendo.
"Are you sure?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
Maria approached the treatment chair without hesitation, her gaze fixed upon the amber glow of the inhaler. "Yes," she whispered. "I want to feel it completely. I want it to own me, just as you do."
She took the inhaler into her mouth. Her lips wrapped around it delicately, reverently. A gentle, almost imperceptible hiss escaped as she inhaled, her chest rising gracefully. Her eyes fluttered shut as the chemical infiltrated her body, dissolving barriers, igniting nerves.
I watched closely, every muscle tense with expectation. Her body trembled subtly, heat flooding her skin, flushing it a deep, wanton pink. Maria's lips parted as she let out a low, languorous moan. Her breathing quickened, growing shallow, desperate.
Without prompting, she began to undress.
"Tell me to come," she pleaded, lying back on the plush chair, spreading her thighs wide, utterly open to my gaze. But I withheld my voice, savoring the torment in her eyes, the desperation that intensified her pleasure.
Her hips bucked upward, seeking friction from the empty air. Her fingers clutched desperately at the chair, knuckles white as she gasped, her body writhing helplessly. Each breath came in ragged, pleading cries. Her need was palpable, radiating from her in waves.
I leaned in close, my lips barely brushing her ear. "Come for me now."
Her scream filled the room, raw, primal. Her body convulsed, thighs trembling violently. Her eyes rolled back, lost in ecstasy. Another climax seized her almost immediately, wrenching guttural cries from her throat. Her body twisted, pleasure bordering on agony.
I did not touch her. Didn't need to.
"Please... please..." she whimpered.
Her voice was a trembling thread of desperation, each syllable soaked in surrender, eyes wide and glassy as tears spilled freely from their corners. Her body writhed beneath me—limbs no longer moving with control, only instinct, only need. Each orgasm crashed through her like lightning through a storm-soaked tree—merciless, shattering, unrelenting.
She was breaking.
Not from pain, but from too much pleasure—pleasure so vast it untethered her from reality. Her fingers clutched at the sheets, at my arms, at me—desperate for anchor, for grounding, as her soul hovered just beyond her skin, trembling on the edge of something final.
"I love you," she gasped.
It wasn't lust. It wasn't even madness.
It was truth.
Her voice cracked around it, broken, bare, wholly hers. That whisper held lifetimes. It was a confession, a requiem, a sacred vow spilled in the dark like blood on satin.
I leaned down, brushing the damp strands from her face with a tenderness reserved for saints and sinners alike. My lips touched her brow. Her skin was burning. Glowing.
"I know," I murmured.
And in that moment, I did.
Her body sagged.
The tension poured out of her limbs like water draining from a chalice. Her breath slowed. Her lashes fluttered. Her smile spread, soft and bliss-drunk, as if she had seen heaven behind her closed lids and chosen not to return.
And then—
Stillness.
Complete. Utter. Eternal.
A silence descended so profound it swallowed sound itself. The sanctum seemed to hold its breath. My pulse thundered, echoing in my ears like war drums. Time collapsed into a pinpoint, and all of it focused on her chest—
Unmoving.
I reached for her.
My hands, once so practiced, so confident, trembled now as they searched for a pulse along the curve of her neck.
Nothing.
No beat. No flutter.
Only warmth fading by the second.
She was gone.
Swept away not by overdose. Not by failure. Not by fate.
She had been taken—exalted—by ecstasy so pure, so absolute, that her heart simply... stopped. As if the body had tasted the divine and could no longer bear the burden of returning to flesh.
Maria didn't die in shame.
She died perfect.
Consumed, glorified, exalted by the very pleasure she once believed sinful. She gave herself to me—completely, utterly—and left this world with my name on her lips and climax echoing in her soul.
I stayed there, staring at her stillness, awe-struck and destroyed.
Because I hadn't just witnessed death.
I had caused transcendence.
—
After that night, nothing felt the same.
My clinic echoed with her presence. Every whisper of the gramophone, every creak of the floorboards spoke her name. Maria's voice haunted me—soft murmurs, pleading gasps, cries of satisfaction and surrender.
I reviewed our recordings obsessively, watching her writhe and moan, the digital specter of our forbidden bond replayed over and over. Each time, my pulse quickened, my body hardening with shameful hunger. Maria was everywhere and nowhere, tormenting me with her lingering absence.
Late at night, alone in the dimly lit clinic, I felt her close—felt her breath against my neck, her fingertips trailing down my chest. Hallucinations, perhaps, yet vivid and powerful enough to make my heart race and my cock ache.
"Please, Adrian," she'd whisper in the darkness, voice ghostly and desperate, "touch me again. One more time."
Sometimes I answered her call, losing myself in the delirium, hands seeking the phantom warmth of her skin, the silkiness of her thighs. The illusion shattered each time, leaving me empty, aching, haunted by a desire that refused to die.
Her presence lingered most intensely when I prepared L-9 for new patients. Each vial shimmered with memories of Maria's climaxes, her desperate pleas, her reckless abandonment. The drug, once clinical in nature, became an erotic artifact, a liquid echo of our sins.
And each new patient, though eager, seemed pale compared to Maria's intensity. Their moans lacked her raw vulnerability. Their orgasms, though genuine, failed to capture that same reckless ecstasy she had gifted me. I continued my practice, driven by the futile hope of finding another Maria, knowing full well I never would.
Nights became unbearable. Sleep evaded me, dreams replaced by visceral visions of Maria's final moments—her flushed skin, eyes glazed with lust, her chest heaving in desperate surrender. I awoke each dawn drenched in sweat, throbbing, alone.
One evening, as I prepared to close the clinic, the gramophone sprang to life spontaneously, crackling with static. My pulse quickened instantly, an instinctive response to the familiar hiss. Slowly, a voice emerged, delicate yet commanding.
"Adrian… Please don't forget me."
My throat tightened, heart hammering painfully. "Never," I whispered hoarsely.
"Good," came her phantom reply, sensual, teasing. "Because I'm not finished with you yet."
Silence descended abruptly, the room plunging back into oppressive quiet. My breath shuddered out in relief and longing. Every inch of me vibrated with anticipation, dread mingling with desire.
I closed my eyes, leaning heavily against the wall, imagining her scent, her touch, her mouth.
She had taken everything from me. My control, my professionalism, my heart.
But she had also given me something irreplaceable—the terrifying, intoxicating truth of pure, unrestrained pleasure.
Maria might have been gone physically, yet she lingered, omnipresent, embedded in every vial of L-9, in every echo of moaned satisfaction that filled these walls.
And I knew, beyond all doubt, she would haunt me forever, a beautiful ghost of my greatest obsession, whispering from the shadows:
"Again… always again."