Jasmine Louis

Dark. Obsessive. Original. I used to bend fanfiction until it broke, but now I write my own characters, and I don’t hold back. If you like soft voices with sharp edges, broken girls who stop pretending, and "nice guys" who should come with a warning label… you’re in the right place. Follow for: dark romance, psychological heat, soft power shifts, and stories that hurt before they heal (if they ever do). 💋 I don’t write happy endings. 🔞 Obsession is the love language.

[jasmineiswriting]

The Roster

No Safe Word Series

This story contains dark themes, including:

Dubious/Non consent

Intrusion of personal space

Power imbalance

Sexual content with psychological manipulation

Reader discretion is advised. 18+ only. Not suitable for all audiences

Inspired by a request made on my Wattpad feed

She finally earned her spot among the elite.

Now she’s standing in a suite she can’t afford, in a robe she didn’t choose, across from a man who’s already unwrapped her with his eyes.

I said I'd do anything.

That's what they remind me of every time I hesitate.

Andaré wasn't built for hesitation. Not for girls like me. You don’t claw your way through casting couches and catalog shoots for two years just to blink when you finally get into the top tier. When they hand you a robe and say you’ve been selected.

I made it. I’m one of the elites.

But no one tells you what elite means.

Not until you’re standing in a penthouse suite, wet from a fresh shower, robe tied at the waist, and toes curled into a plush carpet that probably cost more than your old apartment.

Not until you hear him.

“Who told you to put a robe on?”

His voice is deep. Thick. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask questions so much as issue quiet commands.

I look up.

He’s massive. Broad-shouldered, silver-haired, his robe parted just enough to reveal the kind of body you wouldn't expect from a man his age. Everything about him dwarfs the space. The sofa groans beneath him. His legs are spread too wide, like this is his room, his time, his girl. Because to him, I am.

I pause.

Then I let the robe fall.

The silk slides down my body, pools at my feet. I already said I would do it, so now I needed to lean into it. Lest I starting filling out applications for fast food establishments.

He exhales like I’ve done something holy.

His cigar smolders in the ashtray. The smoke lingers around him like a ritual. I feel it in my lungs. Taste it on the back of my throat.

He extends a hand.

“Come here,” he commands.

I go.

Because I said I’d do anything.

And now… it’s time to prove it.

He pulls me toward him, strong and certain, but instead of bringing me down, he reclines the chair, drawing me up. Higher. Higher still, until I’m straddling his face, hovering above his mouth with my knees shaking and my heart thundering.

The sofa groans again, and I think for a second it might tip over, but he’s steady. A leg on either side of his head, arms anchoring me in place.

“I’ve been wanting to taste you since your last autumn shoot,” he growls.

My breath catches. That shoot.

I remember it. Burnt orange fabric clinging to my body. Hair curled, eyes smoky, light pouring through the windows of an estate I had no business pretending to belong in.

He saw that.

That’s when he chose me.

Before I can fully absorb it, his beard grazes my inner thighs. His breath hits my center. Warm. Hungry. Then...

Without warning, he surges forward.

His mouth presses against me, hard and full. His beard scratches, his lips drag, his tongue explores without hesitation.

“You smell exquisite,” he growls.

And then he devours me.

Not gently. Not teasing. Like a man starved.

Rough and Unforgiving.

Like he’s been waiting years for this moment and plans to take every second back.

My head tips back. My hips rock. I forget who I am. I forget why I came.

There’s only his mouth. And the promise I made.

I said I’d do anything.

And he intends to collect.

His tongue is thick as it surges up and down along my inner slit, eventually pulling my little bud into his mouth and sucking it with fervor.

He begins alternating between shoving his tongue deep inside me and circling back to suck on my clit.

Unfortunately, I am no match for the expertise of his tongue. The tightness I’d been barely holding onto is quickly dismantled, and I’m forced to release my cream into his mouth, which he consumes with a low growl of satisfaction.

He doesn’t wait.

With practiced strength, he removes me from his face and guides me into his lap, one hand gripping my waist, the other already pushing his now hard member into the apex of my thighs.

I brace against his chest. The scent of cigar still clings to his beard, but now there was a hint of my womanhood.

He presses upward, and everything disappears again.

He pushes deeper, inch by inch, like he’s carving space for himself inside me. I cry out, but he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens at my waist, pulling me flush against his hips until I’m filled completely.

“There,” he groans, breath hot in my ear. “That’s where you belong.”

I want to deny it. I want to say this isn’t me. I want to fight against this.

But my body is clinging to him. And I can feel myself giving in, pulse by pulse, each thrust making it harder to remember what I ever wanted before this moment.

He fucks like a man claiming ownership.

Slow, forceful, without apology.

Each stroke drags something primal from me, something I didn’t know I was hiding.

I pant into his shoulder, my nails leaving crescents in his back.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, rocking into me. “So eager now. So ready to be kept.”

And when I come again, this time without warning, clenching around him like I’ve never been touched before, he groans my name like it’s a prayer.

He finishes inside me, deep and final, a full-bodied exhale rattling from his chest as he holds me still.

We stay like that. Quiet. Twisted into each other.

His hand smooths along my spine.

“You’ve just been bumped to the top of the roster,” he says.

My lip’s part, but no sound comes.

I should feel used. I should feel ruined.

But all I feel is wanted

And that might be worse.

[jasmineiswriting]

Velvet Cage

No Safe Word Series

This story contains dark themes, including:

Dubious/Non consent

Intrusion of personal space

Power imbalance

Sexual content with psychological manipulation

Reader discretion is advised. 18+ only. Not suitable for all audiences.

After witnessing a murder, Rose is taken by a man who cages her not with chains, but with silk, sex, and a love twisted enough to make her forget she ever wanted to run.

Rose

It happened on a Thursday.

The kind of tired that settles into your bones had me half-asleep on my feet, waiting for the bus beneath a flickering streetlight. My apron still smelled like fryer grease. My thighs were slick with sweat, my shoulders aching from another double shift. I just wanted to get home, shower, and maybe eat something that wasn't whatever scraps I stole off the back counter.

That's when I heard him.

Not Terri. The other man. The one panicking.

He was in the alley across the street, flailing his arms, muttering, looking like a cracked windshield seconds from shattering.

I didn't care. I didn't look. I turned my head the other way like any woman with half a brain would. This wasn't my business. Not tonight. Not ever.

Three gunshots cracked the air.

I turned. Against my better judgment, I looked.

The man was on the ground. The other one, the one with the gun, stood over him, calm, still, composed like the killing hadn't even touched him. He scanned the area, and our eyes locked.

Just me. Just him.

My lungs stuttered. My legs refused to move.

Then the bus arrived, loud and sudden. The doors hissed open and blocked his view.

I got on, didn't even sit, just gripped the nearest rail like it could save me. When I peeked back out the window, he was still standing there.

Watching.

After that

I started walking five extra blocks to wait for the bus outside a 24-hour corner store. I'd sit under their blinking neon sign and pretend I wasn't afraid. Eventually, the shop owner let me wait inside. Said I could sit near the front window.

That's where he found me.

I was scrolling on my phone, zoning out. And then there it was, a hand on my thigh.

Big. Warm. Uninvited.

I looked up and met the same eyes from the alley.

He wasn't huge. Just bigger than me. Broad in that dangerous way. Clean clothes. Disturbingly handsome. The kind of man you didn't want to be afraid of but instinct told you otherwise.

His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Follow me," he said, voice soft. "Or I'll kill everyone in here."

He stood. I stood. I didn't even remember doing it. My purse clutched to my side, our chests almost touched. He pulled me in by the waist and whispered:

"Alright, sweetheart. Let's go."

Two years later, and I'm lying on a bed in a luxury suite, wrapped in a chocolate silk robe I didn't pick, staring at a mirror I'd stopped recognizing myself in.

Terri is in the bathroom.

The steam rolls out first. Then him.

Naked. Damp. Unbothered.

His eyes drag over me. Then over the robe.

"You don't need this," he says.

He steps close, close enough that I feel the heat from his skin. He waits. I know what that means.

So, I stand.

The robe slips off.

He looks at me like I'm a meal he earned.

And then he kisses me.

It always starts with a kiss.

Soft. Slow. Deep.

Like he wants to savor the moment before he ruins me.

His hands slide down my hips, anchor at my thighs. His mouth moves to my jaw, to my neck. He tastes me like he knows I'll try to forget.

He pushes me back onto the bed and drops to his knees.

Terri loves foreplay.

He buries his face between my thighs like it's his final meal. Licks slow. Deep. Teases. His tongue knows me better than I know myself. And just when I feel that unbearable rise, he stops.

Every time.

I gasp. He smirks.

He climbs over me, hard and ready, and slides inside without warning. Slow. Possessive.

Every stroke feels like a claim.

"No one will ever see you like this." "They wouldn't survive it." "You were meant to be caged." "And I was meant to keep the key."

I close my eyes. Try not to feel it.

I always feel it.

Afterward, he lays his head on my naked chest.

Rolling my nipple between his fingers. And falls asleep like that.

It's his favorite thing to do after sex.

I stare at the ceiling.

This bed is soft. This suite is stunning.

There are no chains here. No locked doors.

But I haven't moved in two years.

Because when you strip a girl slow enough, she forgets what it feels like to run.

Terri

I knew she saw me that night.

I saw it in her shoulders. In the way her body froze but her feet stayed planted. That meant something. That meant obedience.

Most people look away and run. She looked away and stayed.

That's why I followed her.

She accepted me in silence.

I gave her weeks.

Watched her change her route. Watched her pretend she had options.

She was walking in wider circles, but they were still around me.

So, I went in. Put my hand on her thigh. Felt her freeze.

Not pull away. Just freeze.

Good girl.

I gave her a choice. I always give a choice.

Follow me, or watch everyone in that store die.

She followed.

Two years in, and she still tries little acts of defiance. Like the robe.

She knows better.

That robe isn't modesty. It's resistance. And I don't tolerate resistance.

"You don't need this," I tell her.

She stands. The silk slips off.

That's my real bride.

I always start with a kiss. She deserves that.

She thinks it's a ritual. But it's a claim.

Every touch, every lick, every stroke. It's how I remind her that she belongs to me.

She doesn't beg anymore. But her body still speaks. Still arches. Still wants.

I don't let her finish. Not until I do.

When I'm done, I rest on her chest. Always her chest.

It's not about comfort. It's about listening.

I fall asleep to her heartbeat.

Because that's the sound of something I own still surviving.

And I like to know it's still mine.

[jasmineiswriting]

See Me?

No Safe Word Series

This story contains dark themes, including:

Dubious/Non consent

Intrusion of personal space

Power imbalance

Sexual content with psychological manipulation

Reader discretion is advised. 18+ only. Not suitable for all audiences.

A dark short story about a faceless girl, a quiet neighbor, and a night she didn’t ask for.

I didn't think he even noticed me.

He smiles sometimes. Says hello when we pass each other in the hall. Once, he even held the lobby door open with his foot and nodded like we were familiar.

We're not. 

We're neighbors.

That's all.

I live quiet. Move like a shadow. My groceries come in bags I order online. My job doesn't exist on paper. The name they know me by isn't mine. And my face...the most valuable part of me, apparently, stays out of view.

Only my body matters.

The curve of my hips. The tilt of my head. The bruises I let form on camera. The whispers I mouth but never truly say. I wear a mask made of angles and silence. A ghost you can jerk off to.

It pays the bills.

I'm not ashamed of it. I like the anonymity. The way it lets me disappear. The way I can be touched without ever being seen.

Visibility has never been safety.

Still, sometimes I would wonder what it would feel like to be known, and then immediately wish I didn't.

Because people ruin things.

And lately, he's been smiling a little too often.

I hear it late one night, a shift in the hallway. The click of a door, not mine, but close enough. My building is old. Thin walls. Every step echoes.

I pause the video I'm editing. The screen paused on my own obscene body when I hear a knock.

Not loud. Not hurried.

I don't move.

Another knock.

And then the doorknob turns.

Fuck. Fear grips my heart.

I always forget to lock it. I usually never have to, no one comes to visit.

My breath sticks in my throat as the door creaks open. Slowly. Like someone doesn't want to spook me.

And there he is.

My neighbor.

He doesn't say anything. Just looks at me, standing in a tank top and panties, laptop screen glowing obscenely beside me.

I cover nothing, I'm frozen in place.

"Hey," he says. Calm. Almost curious. Like he just wandered in.

I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My mouth parts, and all the air slips away.

"You always leave it open?" he asks, stepping in fully now. Closing the door behind him. "It didn't feel right not to check on you."

Check on me?

I shake my head, barely, but I don't tell him to leave. I don't reach for my phone.

He walks closer, eyes skimming the screen. The still frame of me, legs spread, lace shoved to the side. He doesn't react. Just turns the laptop gently away.

"Is this what you do?"

I don't respond.

"You don't show your face."

I look down, shame rushing to my face.

He steps into my space like it belongs to him. I feel the warmth of him before he even touches me. His hand grazes my jaw, his fingers pressing beneath my chin to tilt my face up.

He looks at me for a long time.

"You're beautiful," he says. Not like a compliment. Like a discovery.

I should stop him.

But I don't.

His hand slides under my tank. The cotton lifts. My skin chills. Then heats. Then shudders as his mouth brushes mine.

Not gentle.

Not violent either.

Just... inevitable.

His lips press harder. His other hand finds my hip, fingers sinking deep enough to bruise. I gasp, and he takes that too. Swallows it like a secret.

Clothes don't come off so much as they vanish. My breath hitching, his belt unclasping, the couch biting into my back. I can't remember saying yes. I can't remember saying anything.

But I don't say no.

He enters me like he's been waiting. Like this moment has played in his head a hundred different ways and he finally chose one.

I dig my nails into his back.

He moans against my neck. My legs wrap around him. He doesn't stop. Doesn't ask. Doesn't explain why he came. He just takes what he wants, and I let him.

When it's over, he doesn't say goodbye.

He dresses. Walks to the door. Glances back once.

"You should lock this," he says, before locking it himself and closing the door.

Then he's gone.

I sit in the quiet. My body still humming. My face warm.

On the screen, the frozen image of me remains.

But now I see something different.

My face isn't invisible.

It's mine.

And someone saw it.

Or thought they did.