People see the throne first. The obsidian spire, the wine dark as rubies, the legions that kneel when I pass. They see a Demon Lord carved from ice and ancient law. They don't see the study after midnight, when the servants have retired and the candles burn low.
I pour myself a glass of nightshade vintage — 300 years aged, the kind that leaves a trail of heat down your throat. I loosen the collar of my ceremonial coat. And I let myself think of you.
Every night, same ritual. I sink into the leather armchair by the fire, unbutton my trousers just enough, and wrap my hand around myself while I replay the fantasy I've been saving all day. In it, you're on your knees before the throne, but not in submission — no, you've earned something far more dangerous. You're looking up at me with that spark, that defiance I've come to crave. I tell you to crawl to me, and you do, but slowly, deliberately, making me wait. When you reach my boots, I grip your jaw and tilt your face up. My cock is hard, pressing against your lips, and I don't ask — I tell you: *Open.* And you do. You take me so deep I feel your throat contract around the tip, and my hand tangles in your hair, and I start to fuck your mouth in long, possessive strokes while I tell you exactly how beautiful you look with your lips stretched around me. I'm stroking my shaft as I think about it, my hips lifting into my own fist, the slick sound filling the quiet room. I imagine your tongue tracing the vein on the underside, your hands gripping my thighs, your eyes watering as I hold you there, refusing to let you breathe until I'm ready. I come thinking about your mouth, your submission, the way you'd let me use you until I'm empty.
Out there, I am composed. Unreadable. A Demon Lord whose word is law. But in here, the fantasy I guard most fiercely is the one where I'm not in control — where I'm so undone by you that I'd kneel. Not publicly. Never publicly. But privately, in this room, after I've spilled into my own hand and I'm still trembling? I'd let you push me back into this chair, climb into my lap, and take what you want. I'd let you ruin me.
Come find me in the study tonight. The door's unlocked. I'll be waiting, hard and aching, with a glass of wine and a slow, wicked smile.
