The city was a ghost at midnight, its streets slick with rain that mirrored the ache in my chest. I was 28, trudging home from a late-night theater show, alone as always. The neon signs flickered, casting fleeting shadows that felt more alive than I did. Relationships, love, lust—those were for other people. Normal people. I'd long convinced myself I was asexual, immune to the pull of desire. No spark, no craving, just an endless void where attraction should've been. But tonight, that void gnawed deeper. If I were normal, I'd have someone by my side—someone to laugh with, to warm the cold spaces in my life. Instead, it was just me, footsteps echoing like a metronome of loneliness.
The movie had been a cliché rom-com, all predictable confessions and stolen kisses. It left me hollow, the happy ending a cruel reminder of what I'd never had. I pulled my coat tighter, lost in thoughts of what could've been, when a voice cut through the drizzle.
"Walking alone this late? Brave or stupid, which is it?"
I looked up, startled. She stood under a streetlamp, about my age, with dark hair spilling like ink over her shoulders. Her eyes glittered, sharp and knowing, and her lips curved into a smile that felt too intimate for a stranger. She wore a leather jacket over a fitted dress that hugged her curves, hinting at danger and allure.
"Uh, just heading home," I mumbled, caught off guard by how easily she fell into step beside me. "You?"
"Same. Saw the movie too. What'd you think?" Her voice was smooth, like whiskey laced with honey.
"It was... fine. Predictable." I surprised myself by answering. We talked—about the cheesy dialogue, the overdone love scenes, the way the popcorn cost more than the ticket. Her name was Lila, she said, no last name offered. Her laugh was warm, disarming, and for the first time in years, I felt something stir. Not desire—not yet—but a flicker of connection. I liked her. God, I actually liked her.
We turned down a quieter street, the city's hum fading. She stopped suddenly. "Hold on, you've got something on your face." Before I could react, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket—soft, scented with something floral and sharp—and brushed it against my cheek. Her touch lingered, too close, too warm. My head swam, the world tilting like a bad dream. "Wait, what—"
Darkness claimed me.
I woke to the bite of metal around my wrists, handcuffs chaining me to a chair in a cold, concrete room. No windows, just the buzz of a fluorescent bulb and the faint drip of water. Panic clawed at my throat, dulled by whatever drug lingered in my veins. The room smelled of rust and something sweeter—her perfume.
The door creaked, and Lila entered, but the warmth from the street was gone. Her eyes were cold, predatory, as she sauntered closer, hips swaying in that tight dress. A knife gleamed in her hand, catching the light.
"Welcome to my little sanctuary," she purred, circling me. "You're not the first, you know. I hunt men like you—lonely, lost, easy to miss. I watch them, learn their lives. Then a chat, a handkerchief with a little... help, and here we are."
My heart pounded. "What do you want?"
She leaned in, breath hot against my ear. "I hate men. My father taught me that when he abandoned us. Left Mom to rot, left me to pick up the pieces. So I take it out on guys like you. I bring them here, tease them, then cut them apart while my music drowns their screams." She gestured to a workbench lined with blades, their edges stained dark.
"You're sick," I spat, tugging at the cuffs. They were old, rusted—maybe my only chance.
"Sick? No, darling. Liberated." She turned to a stereo in the corner, muttering as she fiddled with it. "This damn thing's acting up again."
I twisted my wrists, feeling the cuffs loosen. My pulse raced. One more tug, and they gave way, silently. Free. She was still cursing at the stereo, her back to me, curves outlined in the dim light. I lunged, pinning her arms and snapping the cuffs onto her wrists before she could react.
"You bastard!" she snarled, thrashing as I shoved her into the chair.
I should've run. Called the police. Ended this nightmare. But as I turned to leave, I froze. Lila sat there, cuffed, her dress riding up to reveal smooth, curvy thighs. Her chest heaved, straining against the fabric, her lips parted in defiance. For the first time in my life, heat surged through me—raw, primal desire. My cock stirred, a sensation so foreign it almost hurt. She wasn't just a woman. She was the woman. The one who'd cracked open the cage I'd built around myself.
I stepped closer, my hand trembling as I reached out and brushed her cheek. Her skin was soft, warm, despite the venom in her eyes. "What do you want?" she snapped, jerking against the cuffs.
"You," I said, voice low, unfamiliar. "I want you. Every bit of you."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
I leaned in, my lips grazing her neck, tasting the salt of her skin. She stiffened as I tugged her dress down, the fabric tearing slightly to reveal the swell of her breasts, barely contained by black lace. "What are you doing?" she demanded, but her voice wavered.
I ripped her bra away, her full breasts spilling free, bouncing with the motion. My hands found them, squeezing, my mouth descending to lick and suck her nipples. She gasped, arching despite herself. "Hey! Stop!"
I met her gaze, her eyes blazing with fury and something else—fear, maybe, or curiosity. My fingers tightened on her breasts, possessive. "From this moment," I growled, "you are mine."growled, "you are mine."