ON COMMAND | Simon "Ghost" Riley
Invictus: Part 1 (you are here) | Part 2
AO3
Your mouth was dry. Your pulse fluttered like a bird’s. There was already a throb between your legs, low and urgent. The anticipation had grown unbearable. You had imagined this, fantasized, but nothing had prepared you for the reality.
The curtain parted. He stepped inside. Bound. Masked. Draped in white.
— ❖ —
Or: Reader sees Ghost fight and demands him.
18+, fem!reader, POV second person, POV Simon "Ghost" Riley, alternate universe - historical, roman empire AU, gladiator!Ghost, domina!Reader, virgin!Reader is NOT innocent, filth, smut, chains, dead dove: do not eat, power imbalance, noncon, bloodlust as foreplay, violence kink, dirty talk, masturbation, edging, orgasm denial, hands fixation, topping from the bottom, historical inaccuracy [ 6k words ]
— ❖ —
He seduced me savagely with his hands, long before his fatal touch gripped my body.
Either way I died in his presence.
— ❖ —
The sun bore down mercilessly on the marble and sand of the arena, scorching the stone and gilding the violence below in gold. From the shaded balcony above the chaos, you watched. The world felt like a dream soaked in sweat and wine. You could taste the heat, smell the iron of blood, the leather of armor, the spice of anticipation. It curled low in your gut and settled there, greedy and awake.
A cushion beneath you, a goblet in hand, and a dozen silk-draped noblewomen fanning themselves in feigned interest around you. You felt no need to pretend. You enjoyed this. Every movement. Every scream. Every glint of sunlight on a wet blade. You savored the spectacle like something sacred.
Another match. Another pair of desperate men spilling entrails for sport. The crowd cheered and wailed, throwing curses and coins with equal fervor. You followed them, eyes sharp.
And then he stepped onto the sand.
Your breath caught before you knew why.
He was massive. Larger than the others, towering, pale, brutal-looking even from this distance. A wall of muscle, imposing in scale, like a beast dragged from the wilderness and forced into iron. Made of marble, veined with violence. Scarred arms, a chest broad enough to block the sun, corded legs that moved with heavy grace. He wore only the essentials: a leather belt studded with iron, gladiator's sandals strapped to thick calves, and bracers that looked scavenged from dead men. Across his shoulders, a pitted iron pauldron marked with old, dried blood. No tunic. No armor to hide behind. Just skin and power.
And that helmet. Rough-forged, streaked with red, and painted in defiance with a crude white skull across the face. It turned his silence into menace, his gaze into death.
“The Ghost!” the crowd began to chant, at first a murmur, then a thunder. “Ghost! Ghost! Ghost!” They knew him. Even before he moved.
You leaned forward so suddenly your goblet nearly tipped. Your heart beat a little faster. You hadn't thought it could.
You gripped the carved edge of the balcony, every nerve in your body focused on the way he prowled forward. His opponent, a tall, sinewy man armed with a trident and net, circled like a jackal. But Ghost didn’t flinch. Didn’t taunt. He only watched. Waited. Measured.
You saw the shift in his stance a breath before the kill. The weight transfer. The flex of one massive thigh. And then—
It almost happened too fast for the eye to follow.
Ghost closed the space between them like a storm. The trident glanced off his bracer, sunk into the sand, and his short gladius tore through the man’s chest in a brutal upward slash. You saw the ribs part, the spray of blood, thick and red and glorious, painting Ghost’s bare skin.
The body dropped twitching at his feet.
The arena erupted.
“Brutal,” said the noblewoman beside you, adjusting her veil.
“Efficient,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the killer below.
She gave you a wary glance. “Don’t be foolish. The wild ones are the most dangerous. No matter how loud the crowd screams. Not even the respect to entertain his patron.”
“What is he?” you asked aloud, voice light, casual. A steward heard you and stepped closer.
“Briton, Domina. Taken in the northern campaigns. Refuses a name.”
“Then why do they call him Ghost?”
“Because he doesn’t make a sound when he kills.”
Your smile deepened.
He didn’t wipe his face. Instead, he took a moment to clean the blood from his blade with a slow, practiced motion. The gladius gleamed under the sun. But it was his hands that caught your attention, broad and scarred, thick-fingered and strong. The kind of hands that had broken men. The kind of hands that could ruin.
Your pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
“I want him,” you said.
The older woman beside you sputtered. “You’ve never requested one before.”
You drained your goblet and held it to the side to be refiled.
“Have him sent to me tomorrow.”
The woman’s expression darkened. “They’re not men, not anymore. They remember the feel of killing even in chains.”
You laughed, light and unbothered. “Then I’ll see what such a thing looks like up close.”
The words left your mouth with a thrill you couldn’t contain. It shimmered beneath your skin, a feverish anticipation that curled low and hot in your stomach. You imagined the sound of shackles clinking, the weight of him in the dark, the heat that would rise from him.
Bellow you, the crowd chanted his name like a prayer made of blood.
— ❖ —
They woke him before dawn.
Not with words, never with words, but with the sharp slap of a wet cloth and the scrape of chains being dragged over the stone. Around him, the cells stirred. Other gladiators grunted and groaned, muttered curses in half a dozen tongues. They should’ve been left to sleep, lick their wounds, and be carted away latter in the afternoon. The games had ended yesterday.
He sat up slowly, back peeling from the damp stone, and looked down the row. Guards moved with purpose, not gathering all of them, just a few. Only a few.
He recognized their faces. Not the strongest. Not the bloodletters or the brawlers. These were the pretty ones. Fine-boned. Glossy-haired. The ones who’d been sent to noble villas and senators' feasts. He’d heard them brag about it. Displayed like statues. Made to pour wine, feed fruit, stage pretend-fights when ordered. Flesh, dressed up and passed around like dessert.
He swung his feet to the floor.
Shackles scraped over stone.
A pair of guards appeared at his gate.
“You. Up.”
He rose without a word. He didn’t need to speak. His silence unsettled them more than any threat.
He stood out among them like a wolf among dogs. Their skin was golden and sun-kissed, lean muscles elegant like dancers or courtesans. Most had dark, gleaming hair, oiled and neatly bound. One of them bore intricate blue geometric designs inked into his skin, clean, artful lines that whispered of ritual and heritage. Nothing like Ghost's crude tattoos, symbols he barely remembered being carved, black scars of a world lost.
They led him and the others down the narrow corridor, toward the baths hidden beneath the arena.
Steam hit him first. Then oil. Then the scent of citrus and herbs meant to disguise what this truly was.
Not preparation for battle.
Preparation for something else entirely.
The room was warm and echoing, arched in pale stone, flickering torchlight dancing over wet tile. Pools steamed gently. Attendants moved silently, practiced and precise, like part of the architecture itself. There were no orders. Only hands.
Hands on his shoulders, brushing away grime and dried blood. Hands pouring water down his back in warm streams. Fingers in his hair. Cloth sliding along scars and scabs. Ghost’s jaw locked and resisted the urge to flinch.
Water rolled in rivulets down his chest and stomach, trailing through the deep cuts of muscle like rain over carved stone. The filth of the arena slipped from him in shades of brown and red.
He had never been bathed by another before. Every nerve was alert. He watched each movement with suspicion, half a breath from violence.
He was ready to shove someone, bare teeth, snarl like a beast cornered—
But a presence leaned in beside him.
The blue-marked gladiator. And a damp cloth was dropped in his hand.
“Don’t worry,” the man said, voice low and teasing. “We’re as surprised as ya’re.”
He dismissed the slaves with a charming smile and the confidence of someone who’s done this numerous times before. “Make sure ya’re thorough with that. Ya don't want to be displeasing.”
Ghost said nothing. His hands flexed under the water, rewetting the cloth.
“Been a while since they sent up someone like ya,” the blue-marked man continued, eyeing Ghost with an amused sort of detachment. “She must have asked for ya by name. Or… by myth. Either way, someone upstairs is curious. Ya’ll be her little mystery for a night.”
Ghost glanced at him from beneath wet lashes, expression hidden but sharp. “How many of these baths have you had, then?”
The other man grinned. “More than I can count. Why?”
“Sounds like you know their ways too well.”
The man laughed, loud and easy. “Ya mock, but it’s kept me alive.”
Ghost didn’t smile, but something shifted in his posture. Not relaxed, never that, but less coiled.
“Don’t go around biting hands. And do address her as Domina at all times.” The man patted him on the back and left him be.
He expected the worst. An aging senator’s bored wife. A fragile Roman crone with nothing but coin and command. Another weakling behind perfume and veils.
He considered scaring her. Maybe hurting her. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do anything, they’d be scared of him on sight.
They always were.
— ❖ —
Your chambers were in chaos.
Silks lay draped over couches, perfumes clouded the air, and half a dozen attendants moved around you like petals in a storm. Bracelets clinked on wrists. Pins glinted in the light. Someone whispered about scent layering. Another fretted about your hair. Your skin was still pink and warm after returning from the bath, tender and smooth, prickling with a strange, electric awareness.
You had chosen a robe the color of old blood, soft as breath, split high at the thighs, plunging deep to your belly. Not subtle. Not demure. You didn’t want to be. Gold chains draped down the slope of your collarbones, between the valley of your breasts, and wrapped around the flare of your waist making you feel intoxicatingly feminal. There was pleasure in the ritual of it, in the dressing, in the transformation, but this wasn’t only for you.
You wanted him to see.
It shouldn’t matter. He was a slave. A fighter. A beast in a gilded cage. And yet the thought of his eyes dragging over your body, heavy and assessing, and thinking woman and it thrilled you.
A velvet-lined box waited on a low table beside your chaise, the lid already cracked open. Inside, the gold skull mask gleamed, its hollow eyes catching in the lamplight. Your gift. Your claim. You had commissioned it in a rush after seeing the one he wore in the arena. This would be finer. This would be yours. A version of him remade for you.
He would wear it tonight.
You would wear one too, as you were advised to do, more delicate, shaped to the face of a goddess, your eyes lined in kohl behind it. A matched set.
They said he would be ugly. Scarred. Twisted from battle and bone-healing wrong. Better to see him adorned, they told you. Better not to look too closely at what war leaves behind. But you didn’t want distance.
A flicker of nerves rose, uninvited. You smothered it.
You ran your fingers over the edge of the mask, then stood. The robe whispered against your skin, and the perfume rose with your movement—amber, myrrh, and something sharper beneath. You caught your own reflection in the bronze mirror and studied it like a stranger might. Flushed. Bright-eyed. A little too eager.
Let them talk.
Let them warn you.
You weren’t afraid of wild things. There was something wild within yourself. — ❖ — The cart rattled over the stone road, wheels creaking with every bump, the last light of the sun dragging long shadows over the hills. It painted the world in hues of burnt orange and deep violet. The others talked quietly, stretched out or lounging, used to the journey. Ghost sat at the back, shackled, alone.
He was the only one wearing chains.
The iron cuffs were tight, his wrists resting on his knees as he watched the other gladiators from beneath his brow. They looked like bronzed statues in the golden hour, slim, beautiful, elegant in their poise. Hair dark and curled, bodies lean, skin clean. Some had jewelry on. One of them even smelled faintly of rose oil. The painted one caught Ghost watching and gave him a wink.
It was all wrong. Ghost was muscle and scars, rough edges and old wounds. He didn’t belong among them. He wasn’t made to be looked at. He was made to end things.
The cart slowed.
The stop was a sprawling villa on the edge of the city, lit with torchlight and alive with sound. Laughter spilled into the night air, along with the thrum of lyres and the clatter of plates. The courtyard swarmed with activity, carts and horses, guards and servants. The smell of spiced meat and roasting figs thickened the air. Smoke coiled up into the twilight sky.
A man called out, and the cart came to a full stop.
“You. Out.”
The other gladiators began to move, stretching like cats after a nap, adjusting their robes or tugging at the clasps of their sandals. One by one they dropped to the ground and were greeted by handlers and attendants. But when Ghost stepped forward to follow, a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Not you,” came the voice.
He stiffened.
The others glanced back at him as they were led away, laughing, striding into the fray. The painted one turned with a smile and blew him a kiss before disappearing through the grand gates.
Ghost sat back down. The cart creaked into motion once more.
Their second stop was different.
Smaller. Quieter.
The villa was set apart from the others, further up a hill, where the air cooled after the sun was gone. Light flickered through some of the archways, lamplight, soft and golden, but most of the house lay dark. A few guards loitered near the entrance, not enough to be a threat. Not enough to stop him, if he wanted out. No music. No voices. Just the distant rustling of wind in the vines.
He was led through the open courtyard, feet crunching softly against the gravel. The smell of lilac was everywhere. It pressed into his senses, cloying, thick, sweet. Flowering vines trailed along the walls, blooming in the twilight.
It was quiet.
Unsettlingly so.
The eerie buzz of insects filled the air.
They walked past shadowed rooms and empty benches, deeper into the secluded wing. He could feel the pulse of it now. This was private.
Before the door, the guards stopped. One stepped forward to check his chains, tightening a link, adjusting the clasp. Ghost bared his teeth but didn’t resist.
Then came the box.
It was velvet-lined, simple. The guard opened it without ceremony, revealing a golden skull mask. Finer than he’d ever seen. Too fine. He knew what this was.
“Put it on,” the man ordered.
Ghost stared at the thing. Hollow eyes. His likeness, remade in gold.
He nearly laughed. A bitter, hollow sound that didn’t quite make it past his throat.
He thought about refusing. About knocking the box out of the man’s hand, shattering it against the stone. About tearing through the house and finding her and demanding to know what she thought this was. He wasn’t a bauble. He wasn’t a toy for some noble’s lonely night.
He was a weapon.
He was a fighter.
But in the end, he reached out and took the mask.
The metal was cool against his skin. It settled into place and tied behind his head, fitting too well.
He straightened, exhaled, and stepped through the door.
— ❖ —
It was not you bedchamber.
This room was quieter. Secluded. Set apart from the rest of the villa, tucked behind thick stone walls and veiled archways. The floor was cool marble, veined with deep, smoky gray. Incense curled from a brazier in the corner, heady and sweet, clinging to the air like a secret. Velvet drapes hung heavy, muffling sound, swallowing the last of the light. A fire crackled in the hearth. Nearby, a low fountain gurgled gently, feeding a small soaking pool.
You were already there, stretched languidly along a carved wooden sofa covered in pillows, half reclining, gold mask resting on your face. A goblet of wine dangled from your fingers, nearly empty. The carafe beside it was half gone. A bowl of fruit, cheese, and honeyed nuts sat ignored. A bell rested within reach.
You waited.
Your mouth was dry. Your pulse fluttered like a bird’s. There was already a throb between your legs, low and urgent. The anticipation had grown unbearable. You had imagined this, fantasized, but nothing had prepared you for the reality.
The curtain parted.
He stepped inside.
Bound. Masked. Draped in white.
Chains gleamed at his ankles, at his wrists, a thick collar around his neck. The metal clinked softly as he entered. Behind him, a guard lingered long enough to loop the end of his chain around a carved column and secure it. The man gave a shallow bow and departed in silence. You weren’t alone, not really. You knew there were ears behind the wall, men with blades waiting just out of sight. But the illusion of privacy was heady.
He stood, still and silent.
You devoured him with your eyes.
This close, you could finally see what the arena kept distant. You had expected something brutish. Still filthy. Not this. He was tall. Towering. Breathtakingly imposing. This close, he was overwhelming. Broad shoulders, roped with muscle. Skin pale like ivory, a map of old battles: long-healed scars, silvered and ridged, proof of a thousand survived wounds, others still scabbed and angry. His chest rose and fell slowly, revealing the hard cut of his torso, bare but for the linen wrapped loosely around his waist. His arms were thick with muscle, corded and taut, veins visible like in the marble beneath your feet, crude lines of black ink wrapping around them, marks of another life. His thighs, partially revealed beneath the loose folds of linen, were thick and solid, shaped by years of brutality. He looked like he could crush a man’s skull between them.
The mask was exquisite on him. Your mask. The gold caught the light, burnished and regal. And above it: his hair. You hadn’t expected the color. Pale. Almost flaxen. Cropped short, close to the skull, like fur. Rare. Unusual. It gleamed like gold in the firelight.
His eyes were unreadable through the mask, but you felt them on you. Heavy. Assessing. Not cowed. Not grateful.
"Do you know why you're here?” you asked, your voice too soft, too breathless.
He tilted his head slightly. "You paid for me…” he held onto a breath like it didn’t want to leave his chest. “Domina.”
A note of disapproval slipped from your throat behind the mask.
"I requested you," you corrected. "That’s different."
He said nothing.
The silence stretched. The fire cracked.
You leaned forward, wine-warmed, full of nerve. Your voice a purr.
“Approach.”
He finally took a step, just before a reproach was on your lips. He moved with the caution of a predator, one aware of his strength, forced into stillness by circumstance, not submission. The chain pulled taut just a few feet from you. Close enough to drink in every detail. Far enough to have to raise to touch him. Far enough to be out of his grasp.
“They say your kind fights like wolves,” you murmured, your fingers brushing the rim of your goblet like you might trace the line of his mouth.
He didn’t flinch. “Wolves bite.”
A pause.
“Do they obey?”
Something sparked behind the gold. A glint like the edge of a blade.
“Only when they choose to.”
He watched you.
And you were nothing like he expected.
He’d imagined some perfumed matron, half-swaddled in years and power, leaning on the crutch of servants and ceremony. Someone soft in the way cruelty sometimes was—lazy, dulled by privilege, distracted.
But not you.
You were sharp. Vibrant. Young, yes, but in the way of a blade just pulled from the forge. That was the first surprise. You were younger than any Domina who looked down at him from the tall balcony of the arena, distain in their eyes. Your beauty was wild, not ornamental. Not in the way Roman matrons were supposed to be. Not tame. Not painted and powdered into a doll. Your hair was pinned but coming loose. Your silk clung where it pleased, chain glinting where flesh dipped and curved, not to bind, but to adorn, made of delicate gold, a mockery of his own iron. Every inch of you deliberately offered and utterly in control. You weren’t made of shadows and incense like this room, you were heat. Fire wrapped in gold. Hungry. Ready to consume. To immolate.
There was no mistaking it, not in the way you lounged on the couch, not in the way your eyes dragged over him like possession. You had the look of someone drunk on their own power, and no intention of sobering.
You were everything he had not prepared for.
And it made something in him stir.
He was a fighter. A weapon. A beast kept for the roar of the crowd.
But in that moment, he remembered he was also a man.
His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the delicate chain around your throat. How easily he could wrap his own chain there. How quickly he could make you gasp, not with fear, but something deeper. Rougher.
He flexed his hands, as if to remind himself of their purpose.
You saw it immediately.
The shift.
Your eyes dropped to his hands the moment he moved them, the way one might follow the flick of a blade in the dark. You couldn't help it.
Gods, those hands.
Scarred. Calloused. Thick-fingered and brutal. They looked like they were made for strangling. For gripping a sword until the hilt cracked. For pounding flesh into blood and dust. There were nicks across the knuckles, a deep old cut at the base of his thumb. You wanted to see those hands wrapped around something living. You wanted to see them drip red in the arena. You wanted to feel them inside you. Or wrapped around something throbbing.
Your thighs tensed. Heat pooled, molten.
He saw.
You didn’t speak. Instead, you reached for your wine, shifted your goblet in your hand like it was a weapon. Carefully, languidly, you drew your mask just enough to the side to reveal your lips. Glossy and red. You took a slow sip, savoring it, letting it slide down your throat while his gaze followed every motion. Tongue darting out to catch a drop before it spilled.
You didn’t ask him to refill your cup.
He noticed that, too.
The air between you thickened, took on weight. Your gaze flicked downward, and heat rushed straight to your core.
The linen wrap at his hips was beginning to betray him.
It shifted with the slow, tense rise of his breath. The outline visible now, growing. The shape of him. His cock swelling beneath the thin fabric, undeniable. It should have felt obscene. It didn’t. It felt right.
Your mouth went dry again. Your thighs pressed together without thinking. Your fingers tightened on the stem of your goblet.
You wanted to see all of him.
He didn’t flinch or look away. He stood exactly where you placed him, almost within reach. The chain taut. His chin lifted slightly, as if to ask: Now what, Domina?
The fire cracked behind you. The fountain bubbled on. But the only sound that mattered was his breathing, and your own.
You tilted your chin, voice low but clear.
“Undress.”
A beat of silence. Then, he moved.
Not rushed. Not hesitant. But measured. Like he was listening to your pulse, to your breath.
He lifted one arm, unwrapping the white linen from his waist. Each motion revealed more of him, inch by devastating inch. Muscle shifted beneath scarred skin. The lines of his abdomen, hard and clean as carved stone, flexed as he worked the knot free. The wrap loosened, slid down over his hips. Fell.
Your breath caught.
Fuck.
You had imagined it, but imagination failed. He was thick. Heavy. Already half hard, and rising. His cock was full, flushed and veined, a perfect match to the rest of him, massive, brutal, beautiful.
You couldn’t look away. Heat rushed through you, settling between your legs like flame. You ground your hips against the velvet cushion beneath you.
He watched you. And you realized, he was studying you now. Measuring your reactions. The way your chest rose too fast. The way your fingers clenched in the silk that draped over your thigh.
Still, you held his gaze.
Still, you kept your voice steady.
“Show me.”
His cock twitched.
“Touch yourself.”
He didn’t ask you to repeat it.
One scarred hand closed around the base of him, thick fingers curling over hot skin. He stroked once, slow, and your breath hitched.
Your whole body pulsed with want.
You’d never seen this. Not in life. Not like this. Not a man laid bare and made to perform at your whim. It was so crude.
He kept his eyes on you, every movement slow, controlled. His muscles flexed. His jaw tensed behind the mask. The gold gleamed in the firelight. You could hear the sound of him now, his hand working over the head.
Your hips shifted again. Your breath came faster. The urge to close the space between you, to taste him, to take; it burned through your spine.
But you didn’t move.
You stayed stretched across the sofa, trembling with power and hunger.
He was obeying. Because you commanded it. Because you wanted to see what a man looked like when stripped of armor and ego.
And he was showing you.
His hand moved again, slower now, crueler. He was teasing you as much as himself. You watched a bead of wetness glisten at the tip before his thumb smeared it over the head with a practiced motion.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
And then — his voice.
Rough. Quiet. Like gravel.
“Is this what you wanted, Domina?”
The title was heavy on his tongue. Not mocking. Not submissive. Something in between.
You didn’t answer. Not with words.
Instead, you leaned back further, one leg folding up, towards you, spreading your thighs. The silk of your robe slipped between them, brushing your core. You set your goblet on the table without refilling it. Then, slowly, deliberately, pulled your mask aside, not fully, just enough to let him glimpse the shape of your mouth again. Your lips parted, red from the wine, and you raised two fingers to drag them across your tongue. Wet. Obscene.
His cock jerked in his hand.
You smiled, letting the mask fall back in place.
Then, your hand slipped beneath your robe.
He grunted, barely audible. His chest rose faster.
You didn’t reveal anything. You didn’t need to. The shape of you, your posture, the lazy confidence of your wrist, everything spoke of what you were doing. The silk shifted, clinging to the inside of your thighs. You touched yourself with the same slow intent you used to command him. An indulgence. And a weapon. You watched him while you did it.
His hand moved harder now, forearm thick and flexing. Veins stood out across the muscle, straining. The chain at his wrist clinked with each stroke, metal brushing metal, harsh and rhythmic. A reminder of his restraint. A cruel, perfect sound.
He was close. You could feel it in the way he gritted his teeth. In the tightness of his jaw. The heat rolling off of him, the twitch of his cock. The tension built in him like a bowstring pulled too tight.
He hadn’t thought himself so desperate. But now, with you spread out before him, flushed and golden and unashamed, touching yourself while he stood chained and hard and exposed, he was unraveling.
He wanted.
He wanted like a man starved.
Like a man who hadn’t been a man in far too long.
The sounds he was making were low, more breath than voice, drawn from somewhere deep in his chest.
The silent Ghost, no more.
You watched, entranced. Mesmerized. The sight of him stroking himself for you, because you ordered it, was like a spell.
You let him linger there.
Right at the edge.
Trembling.
His muscles were tight with restraint, every breath drawn through gritted teeth, every movement soaked in heat. The sound of the chain at his wrist had become part of the rhythm now, soft and metallic, whispering yes, yes, yes with every stroke.
Those sounds were yours. Dragged from him. Claimed.
He looked like something sacred and ruined, flushed from neck to navel, cock straining in his fist, eyes locked to your parted thighs, where your fingers moved slow and cruel, still hidden beneath silk. Not enough to give him anything. Just enough to drive him mad.
You could see it happening, his body betraying him. His spine arching, that ragged desperation sharpening at the edges.
You leaned forward slightly.
“Don’t,” you ordered.
His whole body jerked at the word. His hand froze mid-stroke, gripping so tightly the head of his cock looked angry and red. He inhaled sharply through his nose, muscles twitching with restraint. The need in him was visible, raw, throbbing. You saw his throat bob. His jaw clenched.
He was shaking, right on the edge. You had brought him there. And you held him there.
“You don’t come until I say so,” you said.
The words settled over the room like smoke.
His breathing was ragged now. His cock, swollen and wet, twitched helplessly in his grip.
“Understood?” you added, voice low, dangerous.
He nodded once.
And then, hoarsely:
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes. Domina.”
You smiled, wine-slow and wicked. “Again.”
“Yes, Domina,” he growled, voice rasping over the edge of restraint.
His fist started moving again, from the base of his cock all the way to the head, his grip harsh and fast. Droplets of sweat shimmered on his skin like jewels, dripping down the valleys of his muscles.
You didn’t touch him. You didn’t need to.
You leaned back once more and let your fingers return to that aching throb between your thighs, hidden still beneath silk, wet with want. But it was for you now. For your pleasure. Not his.
He watched.
He couldn’t not.
His jaw was locked. His breathing harsh.
And you wanted to see what else his mouth might say.
“What else have you done with those hands?” you asked, casual as a knife slipped under ribs. “Have you choked a man to death?”
A twitch in his forearm. “Yes, Domina.”
“Have you done it to a woman?” you asked, voice a lazy purr. “While fucking her?”
His eyes flashed wild. “…Yes, Domina.”
You hummed, delighted. The scent of incense and sex made the air thick and suffocating. Your fingers moved harder now, more deliberate, stroking heat into yourself while he watched, crazed and yearning.
“Would you drop to your knees for me?” you whispered. “Would you put your face between my thighs and forget the air in your lungs?”
He swallowed hard. His breath caught. His knees buckled on command, the whole mass of him came down. It didn’t bring him beneath you. No. You were now face to face.
“Yes,” he said again, mouth agape, the collar on his neck biting into the skin as he leaned forward. “Yes, Domina.”
You bit your lip and squeezed your thighs together, barely suppressing a moan. He looked ready to break apart again, veins bulging, cock flushed red and glistening, leaking steadily down his knuckles. His whole body ached with the need to be used.
You circled your clit with cruel, precise pressure. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. You were too close. You both were.
And still—
“Don’t you dare,” you said, trembling yourself now. “You wait.”
He groaned, half agony, half worship, and obeyed. But just barely. His hand trembled. His balls were drawn tight. His whole body cried for release.
You saw it all and didn’t let up.
“Have you ever fucked someone you hated?”
A pause. He barely nodded.
“Did she cry?”
Another pause. A twitch. His mouth opened, but nothing came.
“How many men have you killed with your bare hands?”
“Too many to count.” That made something flicker in his eyes. “Domina.”
You leaned forward like it was a kiss.
“Did you enjoy it? Do you get hard when you fight?”
A ragged sound came from his throat.
The silk of your robe rustled as you rocked your hips slightly, fingers slow and warm, just enough for your breath to catch.
He watched like a starving animal.
“Domina.”
It wasn’t an answer. It didn’t matter. It told you what you wanted to know.
His body convulsed, his hand clenched too tight, the head of his cock flushed and weeping. You saw the exact moment he started to lose the edge.
“You’re going to spill without permission,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Aren’t you?”
His groan was wordless, wounded. His head bowed like he might break apart.
He was shaking violently now, his cock dark and dripping in his grip, whole body locked in the act of restraint. Every breath was a gasp, every muscle drawn taut. The chain at his wrist trembled with his every movement, the sound of it, metal on stone, metal on itself, rhythmic and maddening.
“Still holding?” you asked softly, almost sweet.
His throat worked to answer, but all that came was a hoarse sound, barely human. He nodded once, shaky, his eyes wild behind the mask.
You let him hover there, let him burn for a moment longer.
And that was when you pushed past the edge of restraint.
“Would you kill for me?” you asked, your voice barely a breath.
You saw the exact moment it hit him, when it tore through him like fire, his body locking up, his mouth falling open. He made a sound like a wounded animal, somewhere between a gasp and a growl, and came violently, spilling over his hand and stomach, his hips jerking once, twice, helplessly, the sound of the chain lost beneath his ragged groans.
The moment he broke, so did you. Your entire body clenched. Muscles taut. Your thighs shook as you bit down on your tongue to keep quiet, to stay in control, but it barely held. You didn’t cry out, didn’t moan, but your breath caught sharp and trembling, and your fingers pressed so hard between your legs it was almost painful.
He watched you. Head dropped forward, chest rising and falling in ragged shudders, the gold mask gleaming with sweat and firelight.
Even through it, through the haze and the wreckage of his own release, he saw.
Saw the heat flood your eyes. Saw the way your body trembled with the force of your orgasm.
He knew.
And something in him hunger for it.
He was panting, drained, ruined. But his eyes stayed locked on you, heavy and starving. Still kneeling. Still bound. But aware now, you had undone him, but he had taken hold of something in you, too.
You swallowed, chest rising and falling. Held his gaze.
Then, slowly, deliberately, you pulled your hand out from beneath your robe. Your fingers shimmered with your slick, the firelight catching every glistening strand. You didn’t hide it. Didn’t rush. You let him see.
His eyes followed the motion like an animal.
Still trembling faintly, you reached to the side table, and without a word, rang the bell.