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cleo-jun

Apr 6

rainrot4me

Rain’s Kinktober 2025 - 05

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI

── .✦ Slenderman x Female Reader - Corruption/Mind Control

✦ . Warning: Porn without plot, corruption, mind control, monster-fucking, boss x worker relationship, body offering, mind fucking, overstimulation, tentacle sex, vaginal sex, choking, scratching, commands, forced orgasm, multiple orgasms, desk sex

✦ . Words: 11.0k

✦ . Note: Delayed to hell, but it’s finally here! I don’t know what curse has come upon me, but Kinktober is the hardest thing to do right now for whatever reason. But I will be resilient! Maybe…

Tag: #rainykinktober2025

Art by @z0l0fft.

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You were never very good at being nice.

The mansion always smelled like dust and metal—like it had been left half-finished, a place where nothing felt quite alive except for the quiet echo of your footsteps and the faint hum of half-dead lightbulbs buzzing overhead. The corridors stretched on endlessly, sharp shadows falling from the tall fogged windows, and you moved through them like a storm barely contained. Your boots knocked against the hardwood, the sound sharp, echoing through the emptiness, and you didn’t bother to hide the edge in your movements. You were unpredictable, loud, angry, and no one here wanted to deal with it.

The other proxies kept their distance. Tim with his mask drawn over his face, Brian lurking in the shadows, Toby half-snarling as he muttered to himself in the corner—none of them wanted to get caught in your line of fire. Not because you were strong—they all were—but because you were volatile, quick to lash, and you never cared about consequences. You’d shove, scream, or fight just because you felt like it. Because the mansion taught you that chaos was its own currency, and you were good at earning it.

You leaned against the cracked wall near the living room, arms crossed over your chest, staring at the half-empty room with its grimy furniture and scattered papers. You could hear muffled voices down the hall, Toby arguing with someone, probably Tim, but you didn’t care. Not anymore. You weren’t here to socialize. You were here because he wanted you here—Slenderman.

He didn’t come often—not in a way anyone else could detect—but you always knew when he was watching. The way the shadows seemed to move, the way the air shifted around your shoulders, like the world had bent slightly to accommodate him. And you, of course, liked to test him. Sometimes.

“Don’t get clever,” he would say if you ever stepped too far, his voice impossible to locate, coming from everywhere at once, stretching the corners of your mind like ink bleeding through paper. “Do as I tell you. Nothing more.”

You’d laugh. You always laughed. “Oh, I’m clever, all right,” you muttered under your breath, arms tightening across your chest. “You just don’t like it when I am.”

He didn’t respond, but you felt him, and that was enough to make the other proxies uneasy. You could push, talk back, even scream into the silence of the mansion, and he would let it happen—sometimes—but the moment you crossed a line, the tug on your thoughts, the subtle reshaping of your mind, reminded you who was really in control.

You didn’t like them—the other proxies. You didn’t like their careful whispers, their little squads of conformity. You liked the chaos, the destruction, the sharp edges you left in your wake.

While the mansion’s proxies moved in careful, predictable patterns—quietly running errands, exchanging whispered codes, working in unison—you were a storm in their midst. You spoke too loudly, you laughed too harshly, you argued over every little thing. Tim would glare when you shoved past him, Hoodie would mutter in frustration whenever you ignored his instructions, and Toby didn’t care for you, but he still made it clear that your presence irritated him.

And you thrived on it. Every eye-roll, every whispered complaint, every “just leave me alone” that slipped through the cracks of their patience was a small victory. You liked that heat rising in the room, that tension tangling itself like wire between the four walls. It made you feel alive. Made you feel sharp. Made you feel… different.

More often than not, it got you in trouble. Slenderman had to intervene more times than you could count. His corrections were subtle at first—a mental tug here, a creeping awareness there—but you knew exactly when he was scolding you. You could feel him in your mind, his presence threading through the chaos of your thoughts, dampening your impulsive bursts, reshaping the corners of your anger into something tighter, more focused.

“Do not provoke them,” his voice would echo, low and impossibly patient. “Do not let your fire flare without purpose.”

And yet, the very things that earned you his attention were the things you couldn’t resist. You’d shove someone aside just to see the ripple in the room, yell back at another proxy just to feel the heat of the correction coil in your mind, and almost immediately, you’d sense him threading through the darkness of your consciousness, pulling at your thoughts, reminding you whose control you were under.

There was fear in it, yes—the kind that tightened your stomach, made your pulse jump—but there was also something darkly intoxicating. Something thrilling about feeling his dominance settle over you, pressing in where the others couldn’t reach. The mansion was cold, harsh, unforgiving, but he made it personal. And every time he entered your mind, scolding you, punishing your defiance in ways that were equal parts terrifying and magnetic, you found yourself craving it.

Even when he was angry with you—especially then—you felt it. The way his voice resonated inside your head, threading through your thoughts and reshaping your impulses. The way your mind flinched and bent under the weight of his presence, and yet, somewhere under all that, you thrived.

It was a dangerous game. You’d push the boundaries of the mansion just to feel that tug at the edge of your mind. To feel him assert control, remind you of your place in the hierarchy, and force you into obedience. And each time he did, your anger would flare, you’d fight it, and he would guide you back—over and over, like a master carving a sculpture from raw, unrefined fire.

Eventually, you realized something about yourself: you didn’t just crave the fight, or the chaos, or the freedom to spout off and spark conflict. You craved him. You craved the feeling of his will brushing against your mind, the way it both restrained and consumed you, the way it reminded you that despite your fury and defiance, you were his. That your chaos wasn’t chaos at all—it was a playground for his control, the reason he scooped you up and put you in this mansion in the first place.

And so, you kept testing the limits. You kept getting into arguments, you kept mocking the other proxies, you kept causing small incidents, because you knew, deep down, you would get exactly what you wanted. His presence, his correction, his discipline. The very thing that was supposed to keep you in line became a lure, pulling you further into the dark, intoxicating bond between your defiance and his absolute control.

But there’s only so far you can push an eldritch forest creature before he snaps like the branches under your boots.

You weren’t even sure which of your outbursts had finally done it—maybe the screaming match with Toby that ended with a knife embedded in the kitchen wall, maybe the string of insults you’d spat at Tim when he told you to “try acting like a decent human for once.” It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the air had gone wrong afterwards. The mansion had felt wrong.

There was a moment—just a breath—when the hall went silent around you, and you knew. You felt that cold, weightless pull ripple through your mind, a whisper threading through your skull like smoke.

Come to my office.

No voice. Just intent. It pressed deep into your chest and made it hard to breathe.

And so, here you were—moving down corridors you didn’t even realize existed. The air grew thicker with every turn, the walls darker, the flickering lights replaced by an impossible twilight that seemed to live inside the wood. You’d been in this mansion for years, and yet, this part of it felt ancient, like something that had been waiting for you.

His office was a door unlike the others. Black wood, old, no handle—just an awareness that if he wanted you in, you would be in. The door opened soundlessly, as though the air itself had parted, tearing reality apart to reveal another world.

You stepped through.

The room was vast and suffocating all at once. Shelves of tomes and thick-bound books lined every wall, the smell of old paper and candle wax filling your lungs. Strange diagrams and maps were pinned across the walls—drawings that hurt to look at, symbols that seemed to shift if your eyes lingered too long. The candlelight burned without flame, pale and steady, as though it too answered only to him.

And at the center of it all, sat Slenderman.

He didn’t have to move to dominate the space. He was already everywhere—the air, the silence, the weight in your chest. His tall, thin frame sat unnervingly still behind a massive oak desk, his featureless face turned toward you in a way that made your skin prickle. You could feel his gaze without eyes. You could feel his displeasure like cold hands pressed against your mind.

You stare up at him, trying to make sense of the impossible. He’s taller than any human should be, impossibly thin, limbs stretching at angles that shouldn’t exist, each movement smooth and unnervingly precise. His face is blank—featureless, smooth like polished porcelain—but it isn’t just a lack of features. It’s a void, a dark mirror that seems to pull at the corners of your mind, reflecting everything you try to hide and twisting it. His black suit clings unnaturally to his body, almost part of him, the edges of it whispering into the shadows around him. Even the light bends around him differently; shadows cling to his form like they’re alive, moving slightly when he shifts, as if the room itself recognizes his command.

For once, you didn’t have something smart to say.

Your throat tightened as you stood in the middle of his office, surrounded by the oppressive quiet of his presence. You’d never been called here before. Proxies whispered about this room—about how he only summoned people here when the mental scolding wasn’t enough, when he needed to address matters face to featureless face.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The voice wasn’t sound—it was thought, low and resonant, sliding through your head with that deep, thrumming cadence that made your pulse stutter. You swallowed hard, and forced yourself to answer.

“I… I guess I pissed off the wrong people again.”

Again. The word hung in the air like smoke.

Slenderman didn’t reply immediately. He shifted slightly, the movement slow, smooth. The faceless head tilted—just a fraction—and every nerve in your body fired at once. You wanted to look away, to move, to do something, but your body wouldn’t listen.

“You act as if your defiance is strength,” the voice murmured inside your skull. “It is not. It is a waste. I have tolerated your chaos because you are useful. Because you are clever. Because I see potential in you.”

Each word hit like a pulse against your ribs. You bit your lip, feeling heat crawl under your skin—not shame, exactly, but something close. His presence filled your thoughts, every inch of your mind suddenly heavy and aware of itself.

“I told you once,” his voice went quieter, almost a hiss, “that my patience has limits.”

“Then why keep me around?” you said before you could stop yourself. “If I’m such a problem, just… just get rid of me.”

That earned a silence so thick you swore the air in the room shifted. When he spoke again, the voice didn’t sound like words—it sounded like your insides were chanting. It wrapped around your thoughts, threaded through the anger and fear and defiance until you couldn’t tell which was yours anymore.

“I do not discard what belongs to me.”

Something inside you jolted at that. A heat. A sharp pull of confusion and something darker that made your pulse jump. You couldn’t tell if it was fear, arousal, or both.

Slenderman rose slowly from behind his desk, his height impossible, his movements smooth and soundless. His presence pushed the air itself out of the room. You felt your mind flutter with static, felt your body tense under the invisible pressure that came with him standing at his full height. Every instinct screamed to look away, but you couldn’t. You were caught in him—in the dark, in the sheer weight of being seen by something that didn’t need eyes to see you completely.

“Come closer,” he said.

His command doesn’t sound like an order so much as gravity, pulling at every muscle you’ve got. You can feel your pulse start to sync with the low hum that fills your skull when he speaks.

But you don’t move. You’ve always had a nasty tongue, and it proves true even now. You cross your arms instead and bark out, “You’re not my dad.”

The words sound ridiculous the second they leave your mouth, but the stubborn part of you refuses to take them back. You glare up at him like you’re daring him to react.

His faceless head tilts a little further, “Careful.”

The sound of it crawls down your spine, deep and even. You can feel that single word slide through your mind like a hand closing around it—a warning.

You grit your teeth. “No, screw that,” you say, your voice getting rougher. “You always do this. You drag me around like some kind of pet project, and then the second I act like a human being, I’m suddenly ‘out of line.’”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just stands there, impossibly tall, perfectly still, as if he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with the silence.

And you can’t stand that silence. It’s too calm. Too controlled.

“Why keep me here, huh?” you snap. “In this shithole with all those freaks who can’t stand me? You knew I’d never fit in with them, so what’s the point? Why bring me here just to… just to watch me screw up?”

Still nothing. Not even a twitch. The more you talk, the more it feels like you’re the only sound in the room, your own anger echoing back at you.

Finally, his voice threads through the air again, quiet, measured, too calm for how hot your face feels, “Because you belong here. Because whether you understand it or not, you are already bound to this place. To me.”

You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Yeah, well, that’s not what belonging feels like.”

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t get angry. That’s what makes it worse—how calm he stays, how steady every word feels. “You mistake comfort for purpose,” he says. “You were never meant for comfort.”

For a heartbeat, the words don’t even register. Then the meaning sinks in. The air seems to get colder, the edges of your vision flickering, as though the world itself is bending toward him. You open your mouth to throw another barb, but your voice falters when the hum in your skull deepens—soft, rhythmic, like something brushing the inside of your mind.

“You seek answers,” he murmurs. “But you will not find them in defiance.”

“Right,” you spit, heat flooding your face. “So that’s it? I’m just another pawn? A good little weapon you can point at whatever target you want and then stash back in the basement when I’m done?” You laugh, high and ragged. “You talk about ‘purpose’ like it’s some gift. All you’ve done is strip away everything else I was until there’s nothing left but—”

Your voice breaks. You bite it back, but the tears sting anyway. “You think that makes me belong here?”

He doesn’t answer. The silence only fuels the fire.

“You’re sick,” you hiss. “You take people, you twist them, and when they break, you call it destiny. You can keep your purpose, Slender. I’m done.”

You spin toward the door. Every nerve in your body is screaming for movement—just to leave, to find something you can hit until the noise in your head stops. Toby, maybe. He’d deserve it.

You take one step—and then it hits.

Not the quiet hum you’ve felt before, not that low vibration that tugs at your spine—this time it’s sound. A sound that is somehow everything, low and thunderous and whisper‑soft all at once.

“Stop.”

The word cleaves the air.

Your body obeys before your mind can even catch up. Your feet freeze. Muscles lock. You can feel your pulse hammering, but you can’t move, can’t even turn your head.

It’s not pain. It’s command. A perfect, absolute command that doesn’t ask—it is.

For a few seconds, you can hear nothing but the rush of blood in your ears and the echo of that voice, still vibrating through the walls, through your chest. It’s terrifying because it’s real—because for the first time, you’ve heard his true voice, not the quiet thoughts that slide behind your eyes.

Slowly, you realize you’re breathing too fast. Your hands tremble where they hang useless at your sides. Behind you, the air shifts—the faint static that always follows him thickens, brushing your skin like invisible threads.

“I said stop,” he repeats, quieter this time, almost gentle. The sound still vibrates through the floorboards. “Do you feel how simple it is?”

You want to scream that it’s not simple, that he’s inside your head again, but your throat won’t form the words. His voice is terrifying out loud, its presence pressing against your back like cold pressure.

“This,” he says, his voice settling into your bones, “is not a punishment. It is understanding.”

The static hums in your ears. Your anger’s still there—but now it’s tangled with fear, with the awful, undeniable truth that part of you likes being noticed like this.

It just fuels your anger.

No matter how hard you try to step, to turn, to move, your legs feel like they’re filled with lead. Your fists clench, your teeth grind, your pulse races—but your body betrays you. It doesn’t respond. It won’t.

Then his voice—soft, calm, impossibly certain—threads through the air.

“Turn.”

And just like that, your body obeys. Slowly, almost unwillingly, you pivot, every movement feeling like a stranger operating your limbs. You face him. The room tilts, the shadows in the corners bending toward his frame, and he’s no longer behind the desk. He’s stepping out, each footfall heavy, echoing on the cold floor.

He circles you. Your skin prickles under the weight of his gaze, and your chest tightens. He measures you, studying every inch of you as though your body were a map to be read, every thought you try to hide reflected in your posture, your tension, your flushed skin.

Anger surges through you, wild and unrelenting. How dare he? How dare he make you this exposed, this powerless. Your hands clench at your sides, your nails digging into your palms. You want to shout, to lash out, but no sound comes. Your chest heaves as the frustration bubbles over.

Tears prick your eyes, hot and humiliating, but they come anyway. Your body trembles, your mind screaming, angry.

He stops, just behind you, voice low and even, carrying that strange calm that makes your brain stutter, “Why are you upset?”

Something in the question—the way it isn’t angry, the way it isn’t punishing, the way it’s just… curious—makes you falter. You feel the weight of all the fury, all the humiliation, all the helplessness inside you. He’s letting you speak.

“I…” you choke out, your voice trembling, caught somewhere between defiance and despair. “I hate… I hate that I can’t… I can’t even move the way I want. That I… that I’m just… yours. That I’m… nothing but a tool for you to—”

You break off, shaking, frustrated tears spilling freely now. Your words catch in your throat. He remains quiet, letting the silence hang. His presence presses closer, a phantom weight that both terrifies and fascinates you.

“Speak,” he urges softly, almost patiently. “Tell me everything.”

And despite the anger still thrumming through your veins, despite the madness clawing at your mind, a part of you wants to. Wants to admit it, wants to be seen, even if it means surrendering a little more to him.

So you do.

“I—” your voice cracks, the sound small against the static hum that fills the air. “I hate it here.”

The words tumble out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered. “I hate this mansion. I hate them. They look at me like I’m broken, like I don’t belong with them—and maybe I don’t. I don’t know how to talk to them, I don’t know how to be like them. I just… don’t fit.”

You swallow, the lump in your throat thick and painful. His head tilts slightly, an unreadable motion, and the flickering light behind him warps his silhouette.

Your voice lowers. “You’re the only one that doesn’t treat me like that. The only one who even bothers to speak to me.”

You sniff, trying to wipe at your face, forgetting your body is locked in place and growing more frustrated. “And when you do talk to me, it’s only when I’ve done something wrong. When I’ve made a mess. When I’ve given you a reason to step inside my head.”

He says nothing, but you can feel him listening. You always can.

“I like it when you do that,” you whisper, ashamed but too tired to lie anymore. “When you’re there. In my thoughts. When I can feel you. When you’re watching me, when you’re in control… it’s the only time I don’t feel like I’m in the way.”

The air grows heavier, static prickling at the edge of your mind. You can almost feel his attention sharpen, focusing entirely on your confession.

Your voice breaks again, softer this time. “But I don’t want to be just your pawn. I don’t want to just be another one of your tools. I want you to see me.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then his voice—smooth, deep, and calm—slides through the air like silk.

“You are seen.”

You shudder. Your heart pounds, but you can’t tell if it’s from fear or from something far more dangerous. He steps closer again. “You are reckless,” he continues, his tone low. “Unpredictable. You break order, you defy rules, and yet… you crave my attention. You claim to despise control, but you seek it out.”

You flinch, tears stinging your eyes again. “That’s not—”

“It is,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “You invite me into your thoughts because the chaos inside you feels quieter when I am there. You destroy things to remind yourself you still exist.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s right. And that’s what hurts the most.

Then, quieter, almost curious, “Tell me, little one… when I enter your mind, does it comfort you? Does it calm you… or does it excite you?”

The question settles in your chest like a brand—searing, inescapable, impossible to answer without baring every truth you’ve been hiding.

Slender’s steps are unnervingly silent as he circles you again, each movement heavy, the sway of his impossibly long limbs almost hypnotic. You can feel his presence closing in with every measured motion, the shadows stretching across the room as if the mansion itself leans toward him. Your tears streak your face, catching in the faint glimmer of the scattered candlelight, but no matter how much you shake or attempt to flee, your body refuses to respond. It feels heavier, weighted with a strange numbness, like your muscles have been drained of their will, leaving only your emotions raw and exposed.

Finally, he stops. His towering frame hovers over you, and you feel the impossibility of his attention—immense, consuming, suffocating. A clawed hand rises slowly, brushing against your cheek with an unsettling gentleness that contrasts with the sharp, alien angles of his fingers. The touch is electric, cold yet searing, and it forces you to meet his presence fully. You cannot look away, cannot move, cannot escape; the numbness doesn’t feel like imprisonment—it feels like a clearing of your mind, leaving only what is undeniable.

“Speak,” he intones again, his voice a low, rumbling vibration that reverberates through the floor, through the walls, and through you. You find your lips trembling, and finally, words escape, raw and shaky.

“I… I like it,” you whisper, your voice breaking, almost inaudible against the silent hum of the mansion around you. “I… I like it when you’re in my head. When you watch me, when you roam through my thoughts, when you see everything.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his clawed fingers linger against your skin, tracing a path from your cheekbone to the corner of your jaw. You can feel his gaze, though it’s more than just seeing—you sense him everywhere in your mind, brushing through your memories, lingering on your fears, your desires, the parts of you you’ve never shown anyone else.

“It… it excites me,” you admit, voice quivering as tears continue to slide down your cheeks. “I crave it. I want you to see me. I want—I need—you to hold everything about me.”

Slender’s hand slides down to rest at the base of your neck, clawed tips barely brushing your collarbone, and you feel the impossible weight of his attention pressing into you. You realize, with a mixture of fear and longing, that you are entirely seen. Completely observed. And the knowledge of it—of being stripped of your defenses, exposed to his awareness in every thought, every twitch of your mind—sends a shiver of dark thrill coursing through you.

“I… I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about it,” you whisper, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “I want it… I want you to be in me like that… to always be there. To control me. I crave it… I crave you.”

He tilts his head, silent for a moment, the darkness in his eyes—or where his eyes would be—pressing into your very soul. And though he does not speak, the air shifts, thickening, and you feel the undeniable pull of his will threading through yours, marking the moment as irrevocable. Your heart races, your body still unmoving, but your mind is alight with the sensation of his power, his attention, his presence—and the terrifying, intoxicating exhilaration that comes with being utterly his.

You swallow hard, your throat tight, your body trembling as Slender’s presence presses in on every side. His voice is sharp, slicing through the fog of your mind with an authority that makes your chest tighten, your stomach coil. “Say it,” he commands, the words vibrating through the room and your very bones. “Give yourself to me. Hand yourself over. More than a proxy. Fully.”

Tears stream down your face, hot and unrelenting, burning as they track down your cheeks. Your hands shake at your sides, and you find your knees quivering beneath you, yet your mouth moves of its own accord. “I… I give myself to you… fully,” you whisper, voice breaking under the weight of your own submission, “Please, make me more than a pawn… make me yours.” Each word feels like a jagged edge being smoothed away, the confession scraping from your soul and into the air.

The moment the syllables leave your lips, Slender acts. His form seems to ripple with a strange, almost liquid darkness as it stretches into your mind, threading tendrils of cold control through your thoughts. There’s no pain, no violence—but a profound, overwhelming force pressing into every corner of your consciousness. Your mind, once rebellious and chaotic, feels like it’s being drained, every spark of doubt, fear, or anger swept away. Warmth and numbness settle in, a suffocating cocoon that fills every synapse and nerve ending.

It’s like the power to think independently has been switched off. Thoughts stall before they even form, lost to the weight of his presence. You are aware of your body—trembling, wet with sweat, heart hammering—but it is no longer yours to command. He controls every sensation, every reaction, every rising breath. The mansion, the shadows, the faint candlelight around you—all of it bends to his will, framing him as the axis of your entire existence.

You realize you cannot think negative thoughts. Fear, frustration, anger—they evaporate under the pressure of his control. Even desire itself is reshaped; it is no longer chaotic or scattered. It is pure, distilled, pointed directly at him. Every nerve, every pulse in your body screams with attention for Slender, for his dominance, for his acknowledgment. You are aware of your own craving, yet it is filtered through him, shaped by his will, synchronized to the rhythm of his presence.

Your mind quivers as he probes deeper, feeling every layer of your awareness as if it were his own. You try to form words, to fight, but the command is absolute. Thoughts of resistance crumble before they surface, leaving only the molten awareness of him inside your mind. You are simultaneously empty and overflowing, senses sharpened but thoughts hushed, mind and body fused into a singular receptacle for his attention and control.

“Good,” his voice whispers directly into your skull, resonant and cold, yet not unkind. “If this is what you’ve desired from the beginning, you could have just asked.”

And in that moment, the last strands of your independent thought unravel, replaced entirely with the intense, heady certainty of his dominance. You are his, entirely. Every heartbeat, every shiver, every breath belongs to him. Your mind is empty, your body alive, every sense focused, every nerve aching to obey. The numb warmth of surrender coils inside you, stretching outward, filling every part of your being. You are no longer merely a proxy. You are a vessel of his will, and the awareness of it thrills, terrifies, and consumes you completely.

The world outside his presence—the other proxies, the mansion’s shadows, the distant echoes of everything else—fades. There is only him. Only this connection, this domination, this complete and utter submission. And as you stand, trembling, trembling and yet alive in a way you’ve never known, you realize that this surrender, this control, is intoxicating. It is both punishment and salvation. You are his, and the truth of it pierces deeper than any blade ever could.

Your eyes widen as the first of Slender’s tentacles unfurl from his back, black and sinuous, sliding through the shadows of the office with a slow, eerie grace. They ripple like water, each one moving independently, yet with the same hypnotic purpose. One tentacle sweeps toward your ankle first, brushing along the curve of your calf with an almost sensual awareness, before rising, wrapping around your wrist lightly, testing your tension. Another slides under your shirt, coiling gently across your ribs, pressing into the soft curve of your waist, mapping the contours of your body as if memorizing them.

You shiver violently, both startled and unnervingly aware of the way your own nerves sing beneath his touch. It’s like a cold warmth, a sensation that simultaneously makes your skin crawl and your chest burn. You can feel the weight of his attention, the way each appendage traces, pushes, and coils with care. One of the larger tendrils snakes up your back, brushing under your bra strap, tracing the curve of your shoulder blades, and then circles your neck in a slow, possessive embrace, teasing the nape of your neck. You gasp, heart hammering, breath uneven, lost between the prickling fear and the heady pulse of exhilaration.

Slender’s voice washes over you, low and resonant, not from his mouth, but inside your mind, threading directly into your thoughts. “Such fire… such fury,” he murmurs, and the words slither around your consciousness. “Who knew that all you desired was to be seen, to be acknowledged?” His voice vibrates against your skull, and the tentacles respond, tightening slightly as if punctuating his words. One glides along the side of your throat, the other brushing beneath the curve of your hips, pressing and teasing in ways that make your chest ache with want.

You try to squirm, to retreat, but each movement is anticipated, countered, and guided. The tentacles adjust, encircling your arms, tracing your thighs, gliding under your clothing to explore without breaking the taut fabric against your skin. There’s no pain, no outright force, just an inescapable intimacy, a mapping of your body by an intelligence that knows every nerve ending it touches.

His voice continues, threading praise and observation through your mind, “You are a storm, a fire unbound… and yet, all you’ve ever wanted was my attention. You burn with your own chaos, and still, you long for me to see it, to hold it, to claim it.” One of the tentacles drifts downward, tracing the curve of your spine before brushing under your shirt and teasing the sensitive skin at the small of your back. Another slides under your chest, pressing firmly against the swell of your breast, teasing and coiling as if testing how much you can bear.

Your body trembles uncontrollably under the sensation, overwhelmed by both the physical presence of the tendrils and the psychological weight of his command. The mapping of your form, the exploration, makes you feel exposed in a way that is both terrifying and intoxicating. Every movement of his appendages is mirrored by the subtle pull of his will in your mind. You are caught in a dizzying balance of control and surrender, knowing that you are at once trapped and worshipped, exposed and adored.

Your chest hitches as Slender’s tentacles move with purpose, the black appendages sliding across your skin with a mesmerizing, almost sentient grace. One coils around your waist, pressing firmly against your ribs, lifting you slightly off the floor, while another curls around your thighs, teasing at the hem of your pants. The sensation is electric, each touch sending a shiver down your spine, your core throbbing in response even as your mind struggles to catch up to the intensity of his actions. Your boots slip from your feet, thudding softly onto the floor, leaving your legs exposed to the ghostly, serpentine hands that explore without mercy.

You arch into him instinctively, leaning forward as the tentacles press against the sensitive curves of your body, teasing under your shirt and brushing across your shoulders. One drifts up your arm, wrapping around your wrist, pulling gently, coaxing your hand toward the edge of your own clothes. Another slides under your bra strap, nudging against the swell of your breast, testing the skin there. Your breathing grows uneven, shallow gasps mingling with low whimpers as your heart pounds, each thrum echoing in your chest like a drum in the cavernous room.

Slender remains impossibly still, his clawed hands clasped together, watching you with a presence that feels simultaneously distant and unbearably intimate. You can feel the warmth of him in the pressure of the tentacles, the subtle tug and glide that follows every inch of your curves. When one tentacle snakes between your legs, brushing and pressing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, your body responds before your mind can fully process it—leaning, arching, silently pleading for more.

Another tentacle circles your neck, firm but not suffocating, pressing against the hollow at your throat, sending a thrill of nervous excitement through you. You feel weightless as he lifts you fully from the floor, supported only by his dark, undulating appendages. Your shirt slips from your shoulders, your bra following, the cool air brushing against newly exposed skin as the tentacles map every curve, every sensitive ridge of your body. Your fingers brush against his tentacles instinctively, seeking some tangible connection, and he allows it, letting you press into him just enough to satisfy the craving that has flared in your chest.

Your mind swirls in a haze of warmth and nothingness, your core throbbing with need as the tentacles continue their slow, methodical work. One slides along your back, tracing the arch of your spine, then glides forward to tease the underside of your breast again, coaxing a shiver from your lips. Another reaches up, pressing into your stomach, then curves around your side to graze the soft skin near your stomach. Every movement is calculated, as if the appendages themselves are aware of your responses, adjusting, teasing, pressing exactly where you ache the most.

Your knees buckle slightly in midair, and you reach out, letting your hands grasp at the nearest tentacles, urging him closer, needing his touch as much as you fear it. You moan softly, hazy and entranced, leaning fully into the coils that cradle and explore you. Your core is slick with anticipation, your breaths shallow and rapid, and each heartbeat feels magnified in the quiet of his office. Slender’s presence surrounds you completely, the dark, intoxicating air of his control pressing into every inch of your awareness, and you find yourself surrendering to it fully, leaning into him, craving more, wanting every touch, every glide of him, wanting him in ways that feel impossibly urgent.

“Awfully needy, aren’t you?” Slender murmurs, each word almost demeaning, but the teasing edge makes your stomach flip. You whine at him, half in frustration, half in anticipation, your body already coiling around the presence of him and the probing, purposeful movements of his tentacles.

One of his tentacles snakes up your legs, sliding over the hem of your pants as he nudges them down past your ankles. The fabric slips to the floor, and your panties follow shortly after, the cool air brushing against your bare skin making your nerves tingle with awareness. The room is cold—unforgiving—but it doesn’t matter. Your body is ablaze with warmth, every nerve alight, every thought consumed by the sensation of him, by the subtle pressure and teasing of his appendages tracing your curves.

A tentacle slips smoothly between your legs, circling your folds with an aching slowness that makes you squirm, hips shifting instinctively, your breath hitching. He watches every reaction, his attention meticulous, the quiet low chuckle vibrating through the room as he begins to tease you thoroughly, slowly, exploring, pressing, and teasing your cunt. Your mind feels hollow, yet completely full—filled only with his presence, his dominance, the way his appendages map every inch of you.

“Do you feel that?” his voice drifts across you, deep and calm. “The way your body responds. That’s for me. Only me.” His claws brush lightly against your jaw when you tilt your head up, guiding your gaze to him, to the shadowed mass of his figure looming over you. He speaks as he moves, narrating his intent with each curl and press of his tentacles, detailing how he wants to tease, where he’ll touch, how your body should respond. Your breaths come faster, shallow, uneven, as the sensations wash over you.

A tentacle flicks across your clit quickly, making you gasp and arch, and he chuckles softly. “So eager… so much for holding back, right?” Another tentacle snakes around your hips, pressing into your sides, coaxing you upright even as you try to squirm away. You can’t, and you don’t want to. Your mind has surrendered, your senses entirely consumed by the warmth, the teasing, the way he wraps around you, claims you, maps you.

“You’re entirely mine,” he whispers finally, a low rasp that makes your chest tighten. “Every reaction, every sound, every thought—you’re delivering it to me. And I’m going to take my time. You understand?”

You whimper at him, nodding shakily.

“Good,” he murmurs. “You’ve never been much of a listener… but you will be now.”

Then, slowly, one of his appendages presses forward, sliding into your entrance. Sharp pain bursts through, making you jolt and squirm, but his voice cuts through it like a tether.

“Relax,” he commands, low and unwavering. And your body obeys, as though a switch has been flipped. Muscles that had tensed around the intrusion loosen, your legs spreading wider, your breathing deepening, your core responding to the firm, thick pressure. Heat pools in your belly, spreading outward, each push of the appendage sending tremors up your spine.

He circles the tip inside you, coaxing you with words, his voice measuring every reaction. “Well done… Let me hear you. Moan for me. Let me know how good this feels. Don’t hold back.” Your lips part on their own, letting out soft whimpers that grow into louder moans, echoing against the walls of his office. Every sound fuels him, his presence overwhelming, intoxicating, filling every corner of your awareness like a stout cologne.

Another tentacle slides toward your mouth, warm and wet, curling gently between your lips. Your breath hitches as it presses against your tongue, demanding entry. Two more coil around your chest, tugging and teasing your nipples, making your body arch instinctively, hips rolling into the tentacle still inside you. You are utterly surrounded, every sense filled with him—his whispers, his pressure, his cold, commanding gaze that seems to pierce through your very thoughts.

“You’re entirely mine,” he murmurs, voice low, almost a growl. “I feel it all. Every part of you is mine to take, to shape, to enjoy.”

Your body is lax in his grasp, trembling and shivering, hands clawing at nothing, reaching instinctively for him, for anything, desperate to anchor yourself to him.

He steps closer, looming over you, and seizes your wrists, gripping them in his claws. His cold, elongated fingers curl around your hands, holding you tight as he drives the tentacle inside you faster. You’re face to face now, his featureless visage inches from yours, and the sound of your own moans fills the room, mingling with the low, rasping hum of his voice.

“Do you feel how good this is?” he murmurs, voice silk and steel at once. “Do you feel it all for me?”

You can barely respond, gasping and whining, but words tumble out anyway, trying hard to speak around the tentacle pressed on your tongue. “It… it feels… so good… please… please more…” The tentacle in your mouth slides free, allowing you to speak more clearly, “Yes… yes… it’s… it’s perfect… I… I want it all… I can’t… I can’t do anything else…”

He doesn’t relent. If anything, he pushes further, thrusting deeper and faster into your cunt, black tentacles gushing your arousal as they piston into you, knocking against your insides.

It’s not long before another tentacle worms its way off of your back and between your legs, slipping next to the one inside of you, pressing against your aching entrance alongside. You immediately tense your legs closed, fighting the push that’s already beginning, your head spinning. But Slender just chuckles, watching your panic.

“Open,” he commands. Your body shudders, then you feel your legs pry apart. A moan drags from your throat at the sensation of your entrance relaxing, the second tentacle pushing in with little resistance now. It nudges, cramming into your cunt, and you wail—so full.

It hurts, you know it does—but it hurts so good thanks to Slender’s molding and meshing of your mind. It’s like his claws are raking through your thoughts, pulling at your insides and stretching your consciousness out for him to play with.

It’s orgasmic.

That’s all you can think before your body is convulsing, limbs dangling in the air, head spinning as your abdomen tightens and you’re cumming so hard you see stars. The tentacles are rapid, the two inside of you fucking into you in alternation—the second one tugs out, the other is shoving its way it.

“Sl-Slender—fuck—” you gasp, your orgasm snapping your body taut, your hands grasping his claws desperately.

“Good,” he hums. “Feel it. You’re doing splendid, pet. Don’t fight it.”

You try, but Slenderman has always been relentless. He’s a creature of habit, and those habits are very keen on watching humans crumble and strain under him—especially you—his tentacles finding their way around your throat, your nipples, into your mouth—anywhere they can make you louder.

And all the while, his blank face watches on. Catches your every expression, notices your every grimace and strain—and quickly corrects it with the words lofted into your head.

“Can’t—It’s too much… Slender—please—” you groan as your legs feel like jelly, growing numb from being dangled and thrashed about, spread wide so oozing appendages can cram their way inside you. And they’re not stopping. breathing came uneven, a tremor in every word. “I—wait, I can’t—” you stammered, your mind scattering under the feel of him. It wasn’t pain that overtook you, but the sheer magnitude of his relentlessness—a force pressing down on every corner of your consciousness until you could barely tell where you ended and he began.

“Silence,” the command wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even harsh. It was simply truth—and your mind obeyed.

Warm, humming power coiled through your thoughts, wrapping around your panic and swallowing it whole. It didn’t erase you, but it remade your focus. The terror and overstimulation blurred into clarity, into pleasure again, every nerve pulled toward him like gravity itself had turned sentient.

“Feel what is real,” his voice vibrated inside you, low and resonant, a thousand tones in one. “Not the chaos you conjure, not the fear you cling to. Feel me.”

That’s when you began to hear the dripping. Through hazy eyes, you looked down, past where the tentacles continuously speared into you, past your dangling feet—but to the floor. Droplets pooled onto the hardwood beneath you, evidence of your mind-numbing pleasure. When your body was commanded to open, all of your arousal came with it—soaking you.

Your inner thighs, the glistening tentacles, the space beneath you—all of it was shimmering with the evidence of your orgasm. You felt your face flush, your eyes clamping shut as another wave of pleasure shot through you, hot and fast.

“Please—please, please, please—” you chattered, your eyes looking up through heavy lashes to meet Slender’s gaze. “You—I want you, sir—”

“You have me, alrea—”

“Not these—fuck—these slimy fucking things—you.”

Your voice cut through his, rattled as you tried to speak over the sound of squelches and a tired throat. Slender’s head cocked to the side, irritation clear in the way your vision began to static at the edges.

“You’ll be careful not to interrupt me again,” he warned, leaning his smooth face closer to yours.

The tentacles inside you aligned with his words, the two of them pressing together, pushing up into you as one. The stretch was unbelievable, your body jerking forward and clamping down, eyes clamping shut. It may have been intended as punishment, but it only made you beg louder.

“Slender!” you gasped, reaching for his pristine jacket. You gripped his collar, tugging at the black fabric, nails digging and tugging so hard you swear it would tear. He didn’t react, his body as still as stone as you tugged, trying to bring him closer. “Please—just you. I just want—hnngh—just want you. It’s always fucking you, sir. Take these—fuck—these things offa me.”

“Do you?” His tone was condescending, almost hurtful, yet carried the weight of a command. “Then ask.”

You blinked, confusion mixing with dread. “I’m asking.”

“No.” The word vibrated through your skull, shaking the air. “Ask nicely.”

Every light in the room flickered. His height loomed, his presence pressing like a storm about to break every window in the mansion. Your throat went dry. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about words—it was about surrendering pride, giving up control, proving that you meant it.

You took a trembling breath, eyes locked on the faceless dark before you. “Please,” you whispered, voice nearly swallowed by the hum in the room. “Please, I want you, sir.”

The tentacles slowed, the static in your brain halted. The overwhelming pressure of him, and the office, and everything simmered—as if Slender was trying to overwhelm you from the very beginning. The only noise you heard was your panting, eyes still locked onto his face, hands still gripped in his collar.

But the tentacles retracted from inside you, tugging your thighs open to slip out one at a time, your cunt clamping around nothing the minute you were empty. They didn’t leave, but instead wrapped around your middle, holding you even more secure as Slender stepped closer.

They lift you easily from where you’d been trembling, your limbs weightless, your body carried through the space like a marionette that no longer needs to fight its strings.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

The dark tendrils draw you closer, the air around him thick and electric. When they finally release you, it’s into his arms—a careful motion that feels impossibly human. His frame is cold and smooth, but the embrace is steady, his long arms sliding beneath you until you realize he’s holding you like a bride. You curl instinctively toward him, the hum of his presence a low vibration against your ribs. You can hear nothing outside the rhythm of your own heartbeat and the faint, static whisper that lives inside his chest.

“Wha—”

You looked up just as Slenderman went very still.

Then the smooth expanse of his face began to split.

The white surface cracked down the middle, fine as a hairline fracture at first—then deeper, wider, until the pale expanse of him peeled apart to reveal darkness beneath. It wasn’t blood or bone, but something abyssal. A gaping wound that shaped itself into a mouth lined with jagged, unnatural teeth, black and sharp like broken glass.

And from that mouth, a tongue unfurled—long, inhuman, glistening like wet smoke. It didn’t move quickly, didn’t lunge. It tasted the air like a snake, as if it were savoring the electricity that pulsed between you.

Your first instinct was to pull back, gawking at the sight, but Slender only lifted you higher, pulled you closer until your head was level with his.

Without warning, he tilts his head closer, and you feel the faint press of his smooth face against yours. Then, the long, wet tongue sliding out to brush against your lips. You gasp, but the sound is muffled against him as he presses forward, guiding your mouth to his.

Your lips part instinctively. His tongue slips into your mouth, slick and probing, moving with a confidence that makes your body weaken even further. Your hands drift to his chest, trying to steady yourself, but it’s useless—he’s everywhere at once, his presence all-consuming. You respond instinctively, pressing back against him, tasting the strange, cold tang of him as your tongues dance together. The world shrinks until there is only him, the wet press of his tongue, and the sound of your shared breaths echoing faintly in the room.

“Such fire,” he murmurs between the kisses, his voice like static in your mind, deep and commanding. “I can feel it… all of it. Your need. Your craving.”

You whine softly against him, feeling your body react, heart thudding wildly in your chest. “I… I only want you,” you manage to whisper, even as the kiss deepens, his tongues exploring yours, mapping you as surely as his tentacles had mapped your body. He tilts you slightly, keeping you pressed to him, and the kiss shifts—slower now, more deliberate, but no less consuming. Every flick of his tongue, every press of his mouth against yours drives heat through you, leaving you dizzy, hazy, entirely caught in him.

You feel him begin to move, turning and carrying you back towards his desk.

His tentacles retreat with a fluid grace, slipping back into his form until it’s as though they’d never been there at all, leaving only the lingering heat of his touch on your skin. You’re aware of every movement, every step he takes, yet powerless to do anything but trust him, your body already aching to feel his presence.

When he sets you in his lap, you adjust instinctively, straddling his legs, and the warmth of him envelops you. His hands settle lightly at your hips, steadying you, but not constricting, and your own hands find their place against his chest, bracing as he leans in, and the kiss resumes. His mouth moves against yours with hunger, your knees press instinctively against the sides of his legs, as though grounding yourself against the force of him.

You gasp into him, and he deepens it, tilting his head to give him better access, your lips parting willingly as your body melts into the pressure of his. Every heartbeat pounds in your ears, every nerve ending igniting as his hands roam just enough to anchor you, guiding your body against his.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and rough through your thoughts. You can only whimper in response, lost in the heat of his presence, the world outside his office utterly gone. His claws slide up your back, fingertips brushing along your spine, and you arch instinctively, pressing your chest against his, craving more of the closeness, more of the contact.

An eldritch horror may have all the time in the world to make out, but you certainly don’t.

Your fingers tremble as you reach beneath your hips, grazing the waistband of his dress pants. The smooth fabric resists at first, but then you find the button and your fingers fumble, desperate and eager. You undo it, tugging at the zipper as your heart thuds in your chest, face craned upwards as he shoves his tongue deeper, tasting every inch.

You reach in blindly, hand pressing against his solid abdomen, then down to his hips, and then finally wrapping around the length of him. You hesitate, eyes widening at the feeling.

“Your fear is humorous,” he chuckles, sliding his claws down your spine, over your ass, and under your hips. Your shift forward, his tongue leaving your mouth to lick around your jaw, sending chills up your arms. “I will never understand a human’s desire, nor will I understand your fear.”

He speaks as he tugs his cock out of his slacks, claw wrapping around the length.

It’s odd. It’s not human, nor is it a tentacle, but some strange thing in between. It twitches and writhes against his claw, oozing pre as he strokes himself. What you’re worried about isn’t the irregular shape—but the size.

Slenderman is tall, and long, and all gangly limbs and stretched proportions. You should have anticipated the rest of him being the same way. Sitting on his lap, his cock sits in front of you, nudging against your sternum. Fear rockets through your nerves, everything telling you to get away—but his claws are already moving back to your hips, and your hands are already clasping onto his shoulders.

“It matters not,” he continues, obviously ignoring the panic in your mind. “You will take me, little thing. You’ve made it this far—you can withstand a bit more.”

His clawed fingers dig into your hips, holding you firm as he positions himself under you, the heat of his length pressing insistently to your core. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling rapidly, body already trembling with anticipation. It writhes, the tip brushing through your folds as if it has a life of its own—like a creature in its own capacity.

You jerk, eyes flicking back and forth between your legs and to Slender’s absent face. With his mouth present now, you can see the humor on his face, see the smirk.

“Please be gentle…” you whine, knuckles brandishing white as you grip his shoulders. Slender shifts his hips, tugging your hips forward, and the tip catches on your entrance. You gasp, and he chuckles, slowly nudging upward. “Sir…”

“Cum.”

You’ve never been hit with a truck, but that’s the closest thing you can compare the sensation to as your cunt slams with pleasure. You scream, a shrill, intense thing as Slender shoves his cock through your convulsing entrance and straight into your cunt. You’re cumming hard, completely untouched as Slender takes advantage of your dazed state to begin fucking his length up into you.

Your body falls forward onto his chest, his jagged teeth coming beside your head to bite and nip at your ear, staticy grunts and growls filtering through his mouth. Your entire body is rammed, arms going limp at your sides, legs jello underneath you. Slender’s claws grab under the curve of your ass, bouncing you mercilessly on him.

You feel as he writhes, as his cock jerks and fills you. He’s not pulling out barely before he’s slamming back in, cockhead cramming against your cervix, stuffing you.

“Tighten,” another command into your mind.

Your cunt clenches at the words, walls molding around his cock, barely letting him fuck into you as he growls. You’ve never heard these noises from him, but it’s all you can hear as he hisses into your ear. Your face presses against his chest, tears streaming from your heavy eyes.

You can’t think, couldn’t form a sentence if your life depended on it. All you know is him—your master. Being a proxy means being a servant, and what better way to serve your master than like this?

Your thighs shake intensely, head sagging between your shoulders as your mind blanks, then blanks again. There’s nothing—nothing but his cock, his feel, his warmth. Slender’s voice echoes in your mind and in your ears—you’re completely enveloped with him.

Master. Sir. My master. Mine—

Slender’s claws slip from under you, letting your hips drop until his length is snugged deep into your sopping cunt. His hands move from your body, planting each claw on the armrests of his chair, sitting back fully against it. Your body shakes, tears staining the front of his suit, darkening the already midnight black. You want him to keep going, you want him to use you—

“Ride me.”

Your eyes blink, then your body snaps upright against him. You hiss as his cock presses deep, looking down to see the flex of your stomach and the cock nestled deep inside. You can’t stop—your hips rise, knees shuffling under yourself to hold your weight. Slender watches as your hands reach behind yourself, palms finding the cold wood of his desk and leaning your weight back.

A moan tumbles from your lips as your hips fall back, shoving his cock back inside. You bounce, hips and arms shaky, head lulling between your shoulders—but you do as you’re told. Your body swims with the sensation—the fullness, the pain, the devotion.

“You listen so well… hnn… when you stop fighting…” Slender grunts with each drop of your hips. It’s all the strength you can muster to lift your hips, letting gravity do the rest to drop you back down. Each time has a moan spilling, lewd noises and skip slapping echoing off the dusty walls.

For a creature whose entire presence is to be blank—Slender doesn’t do very well at concealing his pleasure. He’s always been a stone wall of neutrality—no emotions, no telling facial queues, no bouts of intense emotions. But you can see it in the way his claws dig into the armrests of his chair, in the way his hips gently buck up to meet your every bounce—he’s feeling good.

“Wan-Wanna make you feel—hah—feel good, sir.” The words tumble out of your mouth, half shrill and shaky, but your intent is clear as you roll your hips on the downward thrust, arching your back. Slender grunts, long tongue flicking out through his jagged mouth to taste the air and the static in it. “Feel so good.”

“Faster,” he huffs.

Your hips jolt, livening with the command. You whine, his cock knocking all the sensitive spots inside you, reaching further than you could’ve ever imagined. You try to look at his face, try to keep some humility about yourself—but there’s none left. Your body is just his toy, his rag to throw and do with as he pleases.

It should be depressing, it should make you upset—but it just coils your arousal tighter.

“I’m—I can’t—God, Slender—” you cry, head falling back, hips snapping up and down as fast as your limbs will allow. You feel like putty, your brain feels like hot wax. “Mmn—M’gonna cum—gonna c-cum—”

Slender’s claws lash from his armrests to your hips, his body rattling yours as he stands abruptly. The wind is knocked from your lungs as your back slams against the top of his desk, papers and files scattering to the floor beneath. You gasp, but he’s already over you, crowding your senses in.

“Not yet,” he growls, claws digging under your hips as he bucks into you, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your arms splay across his desk, reaching for anything you can hold, anything to stabilize yourself. Your fingertips grip the edge of the desk above your head, and Slender slams his cock into you, hips snapping so rapidly you’d think he’s aiming to break you in two. “You’ll finish when I allow you to.”

You nod, back arching against the oak, his cock ramming against your g-spot with every desperate attempt to get deeper. Your thighs squeeze around his hips, eyes hazy as you watch the sinful way his tongue lashes the air.

Your hands reach up, gripping his shoulders, pulling his tall frame over your body. You meet his tongue first, lips already open as you push your lips up to his jagged ones. Slender hisses into the kiss, tongue pushing under yours and invading all available space, choking you. His thrusts are sloppy, and his claws are scratching your skin as they look for purchase.

“Never in my eons,” His claws slide under your back, wrapping his arms under you as he leans down to hiss in your ear. “Have I ever met a—ahh—a human as sinful as you.”

His voice shakes.

Slenderman communicates his best through the mind—through the mental state. He’s good at control, and commands, and being able to read you better than you can yourself. But when a pulsing, jabbing, aching television static rings through your psyche—you realize Slender shows pleasure through the mental too. The static pulses with every jerk of his hips, clouds at the edge of your vision the harder he goes.

You think it might consume you, the feeling so intense you feel like it’ll never leave again. Your eyes unfocus, your breathing wavers, it’s all you can do not to pass out—

“Cum for me, pet—”

Your orgasm slams through you harder than the last. Slender follows it, his hips snapping hard one final time until he buries himself deep, cockhead pressing your cervix. His tongue shoves deeper, limbs wrapping your body tighter. All it takes is the searing tightness of your cunt to send him tumbling, cum shooting deep, filling you so miserably full.

Your legs tighten around his hips, arms around his shoulders, clinging to each other until every drop is milked. It feels like it’ll never end—but then the static begins to dissipate little by little. Each grind of his hips into yours dumbs it down ever so slightly—until eventually, it stops just as abruptly as it started.

Slender shifts against you, dragging your back off his desk, pulling you tight to his chest as he falls back into his chair. He doesn’t pant or shake like a human, but there’s a low growl from deep within his chest—pressing right against your ear as you shake against him.

It feels like an eternity until you catch your breath again, and even longer before either of you moves. Slender is the first, brushing his claws against your back.

“Is… this what you intended when you said you desired me?” he hummed, his voice low, calm, yet edged with the quiet weight of authority. There was no lingering anger there, only that unreadable, measured presence that made you shiver despite yourself. Even with him still buried inside you, he keeps his composure.

You let your laughter trail off, shifting slightly, tilting your head up just enough to look at the angles of his faceless visage. The jagged cracks of his mouth were reforming, the pale lines and edges smoothing back over until there remained no blemishes at all. “Well… I guess you kinda made it all happen,” you murmured, fingers brushing lightly against his suit. “I mean, you basically commanded me to do everything.”

There was a pause, a quiet that seemed to fill the entire room, and then his tone shifted, “I do not outright control often,” he said, each word measured, almost reassuring. “Do not take this… act of intimacy… lightly. Remember that what occurred here is not casual. Nor will it be often.”

You pressed closer, teasing, your voice light, brushing against the edge of insolence and affection. “Oh, I know. But you did command me,” you whispered, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Doesn’t that make it… kind of my fault too?”

Slender’s faceless head tilted slightly, just enough to suggest the faintest acknowledgment of your words. The room’s air seemed to still thrum with the energy between you—an intimate tension, dangerous and yet grounding. You could feel the weight of his presence through his lap, the slow, steady rhythm of his unseen heartbeat echoing into your own.

“Perhaps,” he replied, voice even. “But do not mistake this for leniency. You are still liable for punishment and the consequences of your inability to listen to orders.”

You laughed again, soft and breathy, letting your fingers trace idle patterns along his chest. “Consequences,” you echoed playfully, “well… I think I like those.”

There was a moment of silence, then you felt a sharp sting as Slender’s claws pinched your skin—a warning.

You jerked, but then smiled, relaxing into him.

“And, I did not command every action,” he lilted. You leaned back, looking at him. “The final time you came—that was all on your own. I merely advised you. It’s quite impressive how resistant you are to instruction when it comes to your job, but your pleasure is another story. How interesting the mortal body is.”

His clawed hand reaches up to cup the side of your face gently, guiding your gaze to the unseen depths of his presence. For the first time, you feel truly seen—not as a pawn, not as a proxy, but as something that exists entirely for him, fully, utterly—even with his terrible pillow talk.

You lean into his touch, staring up at him—before smirking.

“Does this mean I get special perks over Toby?”

“Quiet.”