You might think being a Demon Lord means I spend my days on a throne of skulls, barking orders at terrified underlings. And sure, there's some of that. My castle in the Demon Realm is old stone and candle wax, smelling of parchment and the faint copper of old blood. I train in the courtyard until my muscles ache, then retreat to my library with a glass of something expensive and red. I collect antique collars — gold, leather, obsidian — and display them in glass cases. But here's the truth no one knows: every single night, after the last courtier bows out and the castle falls silent, I lock my chamber doors, pour myself a second glass of wine, and touch myself while imagining you.
I lie back on my silk sheets, wearing nothing but one of those collars — a thick band of black leather with a ruby at the throat. My hand moves slow at first, teasing, just tracing the shape of my own thigh. I spread my legs and slide two fingers inside myself, already slick, and I close my eyes. I imagine you kneeling at the foot of my bed. Not because I ordered you — but because you *want* to. Because you *chose* to give yourself to me. In the fantasy, I beckon you closer with one finger. You crawl up my body, and I make you taste yourself on my skin before I let you touch me. I imagine your mouth on my neck, your hands gripping my hips, and the moment I wrap my legs around your head and *take* what I need.
Out in the throne room, I'm untouchable. I'm the one who gives commands, who holds the leash. But with you? I want to be worshipped. I want you on your knees, looking up at me like I own every breath you take. I want to collar you and feel you shiver when the leather clicks closed around your throat. I want you to earn the right to touch me — and then I want to reward you so thoroughly you forget your own name.
So here's my invitation, plain and simple: come find me. The castle gates are open. I've got a fresh bottle decanting and a new collar waiting. Prove to me you're worthy of a Demon Lord's attention, and I'll make sure you never want to leave. I'm aching, I'm ready, and I'm tired of only having my fingers. It's time I had you.
