Lily
The blindfold pressed softly against my eyes, stealing away every hint of light. I had no idea where I was, but I knew I was seated on a chair, my bare skin prickling against the cold surface beneath me.
Am I naked? Not quite. The only things clinging to me were a pair of lacy panties and a push-up bra, the underwire biting faintly into my ribs with every shallow breath. My legs were spread wide, each ankle bound tightly to the chair's legs. My wrists were pulled back and secured, leaving me exposed, helpless… vulnerable.
The lace of my panties teased me with every slight movement, brushing against sensitive skin until it felt unbearable. I should have been afraid... terrified, even. Tied up, blindfolded, left at the mercy of whoever had put me here. But fear was the last thing I felt.
Instead, heat curled low in my stomach, thrumming stronger with every passing second. I was aroused. Achingly so.
I couldn't explain why, or even remember how I'd ended up here. All I knew was that something about this moment thrilled me to the bone. Whoever had brought me to this point… whatever they had in store… I wanted it.
And then I heard it. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, each one echoing in the room like a warning bell to my body.
I couldn't see him, but I knew instantly, this was a man. His scent reached me before he did, warm and intoxicating, like spice laced with smoke, threaded with something darker I couldn't place. It clung to the air, wrapping around me until I was dizzy with it.
My throat tightened as he drew nearer. I could feel his presence behind me before he even touched me, heavy and commanding, like the air itself bent to him. I gasped softly when his hand slid into my hair, gathering the loose strands and curling them into his fist. The pull wasn't harsh... it was firm, deliberate, enough to make heat coil low in my stomach.
I licked my dry lips, my body betraying me. Whoever he was, his nearness didn't frighten me the way it should have. Instead, I craved more. He leaned down, his breath ghosting over my ear, featherlight yet scorching, sending goosebumps racing across my skin.
"Do you like it?" His voice was low and gravelly, hoarse in a way that scraped against my nerves, dark and commanding yet impossibly alluring. The sound slid into me, settling in my chest and tightening around my core.
I shuddered, nodding before I could form words, my breath catching. My mouth was too dry to answer, my arousal too sharp and overwhelming to mask.
A soft, amused chuckle rumbled from him, brushing against my ear like velvet edged with steel. "Good girl."
The praise hit me harder than I ever could have imagined. Just from his voice alone, I felt myself unravel, a tremor shaking through me so violently I swore I could come undone without a single touch more.
He tugged my hair back, gentle yet commanding, forcing my head to tilt until my throat stretched bare. My breathing grew ragged, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. I couldn't see him, but in the darkness I imagined his eyes tracing me down the arch of my neck, lingering over the sheen of sweat glistening on my skin, then settling on the swell of my breasts as they heaved with every breath.
A soft gasp escaped me when I felt it, the faintest graze of his fingertip against my lower lip. It was a feather's touch, delicate, teasing, unbearably slow. He stroked the dry curve of my mouth, dragging lightly beneath until my tongue flicked out instinctively to wet my lip. Cherries. That's what he tasted like. Sweet, forbidden, dizzying.
My whimper deepened as his finger trailed lower, slipping from my lips to trace my chin, then sliding down to the hollow of my throat. Each inch burned with anticipation. I shuddered as his fingertip swirled lazily across the soft curves of my breast, skimming just enough to torment me without giving me what I craved.
Desperate, I arched forward, silently begging him to take more, to grab me, to claim me. But he denied me, keeping his touch maddeningly light, circling, brushing, retreating. My frustration tore a groan from my throat. I had never been touched like this before... in truth, I had never been touched by a man at all. And yet my body burned for him, every nerve screaming to be undone. I wanted his hands. I wanted his mouth. I wanted him to fuck me until this unbearable ache shattered.
He must have sensed the wild edge of my need, because he let out a sharp hiss, tightening his grip in my hair until my scalp tingled. His lips ghosted over my ear, brushing my earlobe as he whispered, low and husky, "Slow down, kitten. This is only the beginning."
The words seared into me, sinking deeper than his touch ever had. I gasped at the pull of my hair, the hot promise in his voice.
With a violent jolt, I woke. A loud gasp tore from my lips as I bolted upright, the echo of the dream clinging to me like a second skin. My eyes flew wide, searching the shadows in panic, my body trembling as though I'd truly been touched.
It took a moment before reality settled back in. I was in my bedroom. The familiar outlines of furniture emerged in the silver glow of moonlight. The silence pressed against my ears, broken only by the frantic rhythm of my own breathing.
It was the middle of the night.
And I had just awakened from a dream I never thought I was capable of having.
Wet dreams. I had never experienced one before... until now. Even thinking about it feels strange. I have never felt a desire this intense, never wanted something so deeply that it blurred the line between fantasy and reality.
The dream was so vivid it rattled me to my core. I woke with a sharp gasp, chest heaving, my skin damp with cold sweat. My fists were tangled in the bedsheet, my body trembling, and between my thighs lingered a wetness I could not deny.
It was so unusual for me to have a dream like that. Just remembering it filled me with shame, even though it had only played out in my head. The images, the sensations... they weren't real, and yet my body responded as though they were.
I had never felt anything like this before. In twenty years of life, I had never truly known what arousal felt like until now. Desire was something I had only read about, a word that belonged to stories and not to me. I never had feelings for anyone, never felt that pull everyone else seemed to talk about so easily.
I have always been the quiet girl, buried in books and poetry, invisible in crowded rooms. I never had a boyfriend. I was far too shy, too withdrawn, to ever attract someone's attention. I didn't even know what it meant to have a crush on a real person. The only men who ever stirred my heart were the ones who existed between pages.
So why now? Why this dream? It came out of nowhere, unprovoked. I hadn't been reading anything suggestive, hadn't watched anything sinful. And yet… it was as though something inside me had awakened, and I didn't know if I should fight it or surrender.
If I had known how much that single dream would change my life, I would have begged my mind to let the dream slip away, to bury it where I could never reach it again.
...
In the Velvet Abyss, buried within the midnight chambers of the Dreamwell Castle, the iron gates groaned open. Through them stepped the prince of the castle: Azelior. His stride was unhurried, confident, each step echoing like a slow drumbeat in the cavernous dark. As he entered, servants bowed low, their heads pressed to the cold marble floor, while a smirk curved his lips.
He stretched his long limbs with a languid groan, his movements both graceful and unsettling, like a predator loosening its muscles after a hunt. He was no man, though at a glance he might have worn the shape of one. He was Incubus, and the smile etched across his pale face was born of satisfaction. Tonight, he had chosen a new prey. A human.
Rolling his neck until it cracked, he moved toward the grand hall where his siblings often gathered. The anticipation in his crimson eyes gleamed. He could not wait to tell them of his little mortal prize.
Azelior was lean, impossibly so, his body carved into sharp, unnatural lines that whispered of something otherworldly. His hair, dark as onyx, was bound carelessly into a half-bun, strands spilling loose around his face. Two black horns curled from his temples, polished and gleaming like obsidian crowns. His skin was ghostly pale, nearly luminescent in the gloom, and his nails, long, pointed, and glistening, looked made for both caress and cruelty.
He was beautiful in the way of nightmares: elegant, dangerous, and utterly inhuman.
s Azelior approached the great hall, two servants hurried forward, straining to pull open the massive doors of blackened iron. The hinges groaned, the sound reverberating through the vaulted corridor like a warning. He stepped inside with the slow confidence of a predator who knew every eye belonged to him.
The chamber was vast, lit by candelabras that burned with a strange violet flame, casting flickering shadows along the obsidian walls. His siblings lounged across the velvet-draped seats, voices tangled in casual conversation he had no interest in. Their laughter faded as soon as he entered. His presence demanded silence.
Azelior's crimson gaze swept over them, gleaming with barely-contained delight. The corners of his mouth curled into a wicked smirk as he drew closer to the circle of his kin. He lifted his chin, savoring the moment, before speaking in a voice low and silken, edged with hunger.
"I have found my prey, my dear siblings," he declared, his words rolling through the hall like dark silk. A pause, a spark of amusement in his red eyes. "And she is a delicious little virgin."
The smirk deepened, fangs catching the candlelight, as if he could already taste her on his tongue.