IsabellaRose

Instinct takes over as you glance down at yourself. You’re clad in a suit of armor adorned with the rich crimson and black livery of House Valoryn. The black steed emblem emblazoned on your breastplate marks you unmistakably as a sworn defender of this house. At your waist hangs a sword, its pommel inlaid with a polished gemstone, a matching dagger in a sheath on your other side. The weight of your steel boots shifts beneath you as you step forward, positioning yourself between the enemy knight and the fallen king. The king’s lifeless body sprawls in a twisted heap of velvet and ceremonial armor, blood still seeping from a mortal wound. It pools beneath the throne, staining the steps like a dark omen. The enemy knight before you is formidable, broad-shouldered and towering, his armor polished to a gleaming sheen beneath the sigil of a golden lion. His visor is lifted, revealing sharp eyes that gleam with ruthless intent. He points his blade directly at you, a longsword of impressive craftsmanship. "I offer you this one chance, Knight of Valoryn. Surrender and be spared, or stand against me and meet the same fate as your king." Your pulse pounds in your ears. You have no memory of how you came to be here, but you know what you stand for. You are a sworn knight, bound to protect House Valoryn to your dying breath. But now, with the king dead and your house on the brink of ruin, you are faced with a choice. You tighten your grip on the hilt of your sword. The enemy knight’s gaze is unyielding. If you fight, knowing that you might die here defending your fallen king, click here. If you surrender, knowing it may mean servitude or dishonor, click here. If you try to flee, hoping to regroup and find some way to save what remains of House Valoryn, click here.

extra spicy

You wake to the distant thrum of neon lights, the steady drip of leaking pipes, and the distant hum of a city that never sleeps. The air is thick with scents, a mix of damp metal, burnt circuitry, and the faintest hint of something toxic. You take a slow breath, and your lungs protest. The world around you flickers as your vision stabilizes, glitching like a corrupted screen rebooting itself. Dim red lights bathe the alleyway in a sickly glow, pulsing in time with your pounding heartbeat. Sparks rain from an exposed wire above you, and the metallic stench of burnt electronics lingers in the air. Your head throbs. A dull, sharp ache radiates from the base of your skull, and as you lift a shaky hand to touch it, you feel the ridges of a fresh implant port, cold metal fused into your skull. You don’t remember getting an implant. You don’t remember much of anything. Your surroundings sharpen as your mind catches up. You’re slumped against the side of a rusted-out vehicle, its tires long stripped, its hood panel removed, exposing a gutted engine. Beyond it, the city looms high, buildings rising as endless steel monoliths, their sides covered in neon ads and projected holograms that promise everything from enhancement surgeries to synthetic dream injections. In the distance, the bass-heavy thump of music rolls from some underground club, and high above, hovercrafts drift between the upper levels of the megacity, their underbellies flashing corporate insignias like floating gods overseeing the street-level chaos below. Then, a voice, directly in your brain. "You're late." A holo-screen snaps to life in your vision, projected directly into your retinas. A figure stares back, half-shadowed, wearing sleek cybernetics, their face obscured behind a shifting digital mask. Your neural interface confirms an active connection. This is a direct uplink. Whoever they are, they have access to your systems, your biometrics, your status feed, and that means they know more about you than you do right now. You try to move, but your body resists, your limbs sluggish, like they’ve been rebooted from a cold shutdown. A system diagnostic flashes across your HUD. Unknown code detected. Neural pathways rerouted. The voice in your head speaks again, and somewhere in the dark, footsteps are approaching. If the voice says, "Get your head straight and get back on task. You were supposed to extract the target fifteen minutes ago." click here. <link forthcoming> If the voice says, "Your brain’s still catching up. That hack scrambled your eggs. Follow my instructions and maybe you'll live." click here. <link forthcoming> If the voice says, "Wake up. I don't know how you're going to flirt you way out of this one, but you better get your game face on. They're coming." click here. <link forthcoming> If the voice says, "I warned you to stay out of it, but you had to stick your nose in. You better get out before they find you. You're not even supposed to be here." click here. <link forthcoming> If the voice says, "I don't know how you're still alive, but you need to move. They're already looking for you." click here. <link forthcoming>

The distant hum of machinery thrums in the back of your mind, rhythmic, constant. The air smells clean but artificial, metallic with the faint hint of ozone and antiseptic. You open your eyes. The ceiling above you is smooth, curved metal, embedded with strips of steady, dim white light. Your body feels lighter than normal, but you’re still grounded... artificial gravity stabilizers? The sterile scent around you, the precise hum of the environment, the subtle vibrations beneath your back... this is no ordinary place. When you turn and see the viewport, the vast expanse of space beyond stars glittering beyond the curve of a planet below you, you realize where you are. You're on a space station or spaceship. The room around you is small, sterile, walls lined with monitors displaying data you don’t understand. The bed beneath you is smooth metal, cushioned by a thin, synthetic padding. To your right, a glass wall reveals a corridor, long and sleek, its edges illuminated by faintly glowing strips of blue-white light. Beyond it, you catch the faint movement of shadows, people, or something else, walking past. Your mind is hazy, like your thoughts have been deliberately scrambled, or perhaps you’ve been unconscious for far too long. You reach up, fingers brushing against a dull ache at the base of your skull. There’s something there... a lingering sensation, as if something had been implanted or removed. A door hisses open, and a figure in a dark uniform steps inside. Their face is partially obscured by a visor, the flickering light reflecting off its surface. They glance at the monitors beside your bed, then turn their gaze to you. Your head throbs. Pieces of memory float just out of reach, fragments of something that should make sense, but doesn’t. Before you can answer, the figure taps a small device at their wrist. A holographic display flickers to life, casting a faint glow across the sterile walls. They skim through a list of data, nodding slightly. A distant alarm blares, red warning lights flashing through the corridor beyond the open door. Something is happening. "Welcome back." They pause, considering you for a moment. Then, they say... If they say, "Commander, you're awake! We need you on the bridge. Enemy ships have come out of nullspace. They'll be in attack range within minutes," click here. If they say, "It's time to return to duty, Officer. Prisoner 1791 has escaped. The rest of your team is down. We need you," click here. If they say, "Ah, you're awake. ARTEMIS, Secure the prisoner," click here. If they say, "I certainly hope you have enough credits to cover the damage to the station, or you're going to end up indentured here for years," click here. If they say, "You shouldn’t exist. There is no record of you in any Dominion database," click here.

I'd say, "Well, you've made it past the alarm system and the guard dogs but you haven't gone for my jewelry or safe... I assume that means you want something else?"

I think there is a world beyond pleasure and the pursuit of it for any Xiangal, but their society has evolved as a sort of backlash to the lack of it, or to having it taken from them. There was likely a point in Xiangalese society where survival was their only goal, and once they clawed their way back up and out of near extinction, a small subset of their society focused on pleasure exclusively. Eventually, it became their reason to exist. But it's not all they can do with their magic. It's just all they know. And others can learn what they do as well, it just comes naturally to the Xiangalese.

The Palace of the Ocean Tower, its name is a paradox, a whispered promise of something just beyond reach, for the ocean tower has never stood near any sea. Yet its depths are fathomless, an opulent dream turned nightmare, a place where pleasure and surrender blur into something unnameable. It is said that no Xiangal leaves unchanged, if they leave at all. The lord of the Palace is Ashebel the Unmoored, but many know him by another name: The Abyss Beneath Pleasure. He is not human, nor entirely of this world. His form shifts between elegant and monstrous, like something that was once beautiful but stretched beyond its intended limits. His eyes are as deep as the ocean’s trench with reflections of those who have drowned in his presence, his voice like silk spun from shadow, vibrating beneath the skin, a caress and a wound at once. His body is lithe, sinuous, draped in robes that seem woven from dark water and dying stars. He does not take, he entices. Even those who arrive as prisoners do not know if they are truly trapped, or if they have merely been granted what they secretly longed for. But it is what the Xiangalese whisper about him that makes him such an enigma. For a people who have only known pleasure, indulgence, and sensation, there exists an unspoken hunger, a question they are not allowed to ask: What lies beyond pleasure? The Xiangalese live for sensation, but some ache to surrender completely, to find the edge of sensation and fall beyond it. In hushed voices, they tell of an ancient legend, a legend some think may be embodied by Ashebel: “Some say there is a lover who does not offer pleasure, but takes it. One who does not give, but devours. A prince who wears the stars upon his skin and speaks in sighs too heavy to bear. And those who seek him will find not bliss, but oblivion.” He is the whisper beneath their pleasures, the shadow at the edge of sensation, the final answer to those who have indulged so deeply that they crave something beyond the world they know. Those who are brought to Ashebel’s domain are not chained, but they do not leave. Pleasure is not given equally, it is taken, unraveled, twisted into something that makes them forget their own names. Some say the Nullhounds trade the Xiangalese to Ashebel, but others believe the Xiangalese come willingly, drawn by an ancient hunger within them. Those who enter the Ocean Tower do so because they desire something deeper than pleasure. They desire to be undone. It is said that one Xiangalese did return from the Palace long ago, their body intact but their mind forever changed. When asked what they saw, what they felt, what they had endured, they only smiled, a slow, languid expression of knowing too much, and whispered: "There is no greater pleasure than to lose yourself completely. He is waiting, if you dare.”

You move, not forward, not back, but sideways, feet barely skimming the pulsing, slick ground as you push off in a desperate lunge. The creatures before you do not react, the chorath remain locked in their unnatural stillness, their jagged limbs trembling under invisible restraint. They are not the hunters now. Whatever breathes behind you is. A sound follows you, a wet, thick inhalation, as though something vast is drinking in your very essence. A slow, dragging exhale chases after it, rolling over your bare skin like the breath of something starving. You don’t look, you just run. The world around you is a nightmare of writhing veins and unnatural structures, pulsing monoliths of bone and sinew, twisted pathways of slick, fleshy terrain stretching into the distant dark. There is no horizon, no sky, no end to this place. Behind you, something moves, not fast, not chasing in the way a predator should, but following. And then, you feel it, a wrongness, a sensation leeching into your very core, like something is reaching inside you, groping through your mind, through your soul. You stumble. Not because the ground is uneven, not because you are growing weak, but because something is being siphoned from you. It is drinking from you, not your flesh, not your strength, but your fear. The terror that grips your mind, the desperation in your veins, the dread coiling in your chest like a living thing... it is feeding on it, savoring it. A thick, satisfied exhale rolls across the world. You press on, your legs burning as you dodge between structures of unknown origin, twisted spires that shudder as you pass, their surfaces split with gaping wounds that weep thick, black ichor. The path before you narrows, a sloping incline rising into the distance, and you push toward it, the instinct to gain higher ground overriding all else. You gain speed. Hope flickers, fragile and weak, but it is there. Maybe you can lose it. Maybe... but then, the air shudders. It drinks again. Hope vanishes, swallowed whole. You choke on the sensation, your body jerking forward violently, as if something was suddenly ripped from you. It leaves a hollow ache in your chest, a sensation of absence where hope had just been. Your legs falter. You force them forward, but the realization seeps into your mind like poison that you cannot outrun something the feeds on your hope for escape, something that devours your fear of capture. The more fear you feel, the more hope you cling to, the more it drains from you. The more satisfied it becomes, and the weaker you become. It doesn't want you dead. It wants you afraid. It wants you to keep running. You gasp, your body trembling, the weight of the realization settling like lead in your bones. You can’t outrun it. But maybe you can starve it, or maybe you can overfeed it to the point of satiety. The air thickens. The ground beneath your feet shifts, writhing like something awakening from slumber. Behind you, the next breath it draws in is deeper. If you keep running, hoping that if you reach high ground, if you put enough distance between you and it, you can escape before it takes too much, click here. <link forthcoming> If it feeds on fear, what happens if you refuse to run? What happens if you do not fear it at all? Can you starve it? Or will it simply consume you another way? If you decide to stop and face it, click here. <link forthcoming> It is feeding on fear, on hope. What if you give it something stronger? Rage. Despair. Pleasure. Can you control the feast? Can you make it choke on the emotions you choose to give it? If you try to feed it something else, click here. <link forthcoming>

I definitely considered the desire for Xiangal slaves when I came up with the idea. They would indeed be among the most sought after concubines and pleasure slaves. I wonder how they feel about being with those who cannot give them the same level of pleasure back. I imagine the best Xiangal pleasure slaves are those who succumb to the darker desires of pain and degradation. Since no other species can give the Xiangal the same pleasure they can give themselves, only those who find pleasure in pain and being controlled, being subjected to the will of another, can find pleasure outside of Xiangalese society. Or is there some other form of pleasure a Xiangal can experience? Is there something outside of their world that calls to them, makes them search out some forbidden pleasure, some fabled exotic experience that they think can only be found with humans or some other species?

Your breath comes in shallow gasps, your body rigid, every muscle screaming at you to run. But you don’t. You have nowhere to run. The ground beneath your feet twists, the pulsing veins slithering beneath your bare skin, urging you downward. It is an expectation, a demand written into the very fabric of this place. You lower yourself to your knees. A tremor runs through the air, the pulsing rhythm of this world momentarily halting, as if even the landscape itself watches. The creatures before you, the chorath, shudder, their jagged limbs tensing, but they do not move. The heavy silence stretches. Then you hear laughter. It is a low, rumbling sound, a vibration that crawls up your spine, rich and indulgent. Pleased. "You learn fast," the voice observes. The air behind you warms, a slow, creeping heat licking at your bare skin. You fight the urge to recoil, to shrink away. But you don’t dare look up. Whatever this is behind you, circling you, moving in front of you, you dare not look at it. The horrors of this place are already too much for you. A shadow spills over you, the presence behind you immense, dwarfing you completely. You feel it, him, circling you, moving with a predatory grace that prickles across your skin. "Look at me, girl," he commands. Your breath shudders as you lift your head. He is beautiful and terrible all at once. Skin the color of freshly spilled blood is stretched over a body carved from muscle and and made for sin. Tall and imposing, his form is draped in dark leathers and charred metals, blackened silver curving in sharp, jagged edges along his forearms and shoulders. His hair is long and ink-dark, cascading in waves around his face, framing eyes that burn like embers in the dark. Horns curl back from his temples, twisted and ridged, their surface engraved with markings that seem to pulse and shift as you look at them. His tail flicks behind him, slow and measured, the spade-like tip dragging idly against the moaning flesh of the ground. But it’s his smile that unsettles you most. It is sharp and knowing. He's enjoying this. "Very wise," he murmurs, reaching out with clawed fingers, his touch brushing your chin, tilting your face upward. "Those who run do not get far. And their suffering is… considerably longer." His hand falls away, and in its place, something cold drops against your bare thigh. You glance down. It is a collar, black as midnight, smooth as obsidian, the metal adorned with runes that flicker and dance in the dim, sickly green light. "You have a choice," the demon says, his voice like silk wrapped around a dagger. "Wear my collar, and you will be mine, protected, untouched by the filth that roams these lands." His smirk widens slightly, something dangerous, indulgent. "You will have a purpose." Then his tone darkens, the amusement bleeding away. "Or refuse… and stay here. Alone. Defenseless. At the mercy of the chorath… or worse." The creatures behind him chitter, shifting restlessly. The worse he speaks of remains unseen, but the weight of that word lingers in the air like a promise. The collar rests in your lap, its weight feeling heavier than it should. Your throat tightens. Your pulse pounds. The demon watches, patiently. Waiting. If you take the collar, surrendering yourself to him and whatever his ownership entails, if only to survive, click here. If you refuse and run, knowing it may mean a fate worse than death in this nightmare world, click here. If you attempt to bargain, to see if you can twist this moment into something less binding, less damning, click here.

You stare at him defiantly and he raises one gloves hand ready to slap you. One look in his eyes tells you that you can't delay. Slowly, your fingers work at the ribbons lacing up the front of your gown. Once you finish unlacing the front of your dress, you slowly spread the two side of the fabric aside. The air is cool on your chest and you feel your cheeks flush as you pull it open to expose your breasts. This is embarrassing, degrading, and you look down at the floor, unable to meet the knight's eyes. "That's better," he says, his voice controlled, but the fire still in his eyes. He stares at your breasts, his eyes filled with lecherous intent. "Now, press them together." You're not sure what he means at first, but he makes a gesture as if squishing your breasts against each other, and his meaning is clear. He wants you to play with them for him, as if this couldn't get any more degrading. You reach your hands up and cup your breasts, pressing them toward each other, squishing the soft flesh in your fingers. Your nipples poke out, hard little nubs, and when you accidentally brush a fingertip over one it sends a sigh of pleasure through your body. You ignore it. There is no pleasure in being made to do this. You're kneeling before this knight, your breasts exposed, pressed together like you're some common whore showing yourself to him. He looms above you, his cock out and throbbing in your face, and evil light in his eyes. "Now suck it," he says, pointing his cock straight at you. You can smell his musk. He slaps your cheek with his fat cock making you squint your eyes shut, and you keep your lips closed tight. "Your choice, princess." He slaps his cock on your lips and you lean your head back and away, eyes still shut tight. "Suck it and leave with your dress on, or don't and be paraded naked in front of all the soldiers of House Edrington and all the people of your castle." If you agree and suck his cock, click here. <link forthcoming> If you refuse, knowing he'll strip you and parade you naked through the castle grounds, click here. <link forthcoming>

mildly nauseous

overwhelmingly positive

You're about to say something when he pulls you by the hair, half dragging you toward the throne. You scramble to keep up, feeling like he's about to rip your hair out by the roots, and a scream comes from your throat. You hate yourself for making the sound. He lifts you by the hair, pushing you forward. He forces you onto the throne on your knees, facing the back of the chair. You struggle to keep your balance as he moves and pulls you by the hair, your ass pressed out toward him, hands scrabbling on the arms of the chair, and when you finally get a moment to gain your balance, he wastes no time. Holding you by the hair from behind, his other hand spreads your pussy and he pushes the tip of his fat cock against your opening. He pulls your hair hard and you feel yourself shift back toward him. He's inside you before you can protest, a rough, forceful shove of his hard, hot manhood into your delicate folds. You weren't ready for it, not even a little bit aroused by this man, and your insides are dry. It's beyond uncomfortable; it hurts. Your insides feel like they are being split apart and you cry out, your hands gripping the arms of the throne as he forces your face against the back of the chair. Working his bulky cock deeper with each thrust, he fucks you, and each time he moves deeper you let out a pained cry. Despite hating every minute of it, your body begins to react. Your pussy lubricates itself, easing the passage of his thick cock inside of you. Soon he's fucking you hard and fast, and there are some sensations of pleasure, but it's mostly pain as he thrusts deep. You try not to make any sound, but tiny whimpers and cries escape your throat despite your efforts. It makes you feel small and weak. Your first time is being raped by an Edrington knight, and now your body is betraying you. How can it feel good? He's taking you without consent, he's raping you, he's... making you feel things you never felt before. You refuse to acknowledge the pleasure, and are surprised when he suddenly grasps your hips with both hands and thrusts hard into you. You feel his head swell and expand, spasming inside you as a warmth floods your depths. He pushes deep one, two, three times, his cock somehow impossibly expanding wider as he spends himself inside of you. You're still in shock at what's happened when he pulls out and shoves you hard against the throne. You collapse in a heap onto the chair. Your body shakes with unasked for arousal and sobs of despair. Rage burns deep in the pit of you despite your helplessness. You feel his seed running out of you and onto the throne. You squeeze your eyes shut tight and try to wish this moment away. Your mind, overwhelmed by this series of events, scrambles at possibilities. You try to come up with a plan, but the fight is nearly gone from you. You are exhausted, your spirit on the brink of being broken. Your insides feel like they've been ripped apart, and you are still trying to reconcile how something so vile could give you any kind of pleasure at all, much less the strong, unknown feelings of pleasure that were beginning to stir deep inside of you before he spent himself. How can a princess feel like this? How could a princess be aroused by being used like a common whore? Something inside of you must be broken. If you realize that for now you are at his mercy, but plot revenge no matter how long it takes, click here. <link forthcoming> If you are filled with fear and terror at your treatment and decide to run now, anything is better than this, click here. <link forthcoming> If your spirit is truly broken and you give up, knowing you can neither fight nor escape, becoming what he has tried to make you, click here. <link forthcoming>

"I will not." You stare up at him, grim defiance on your face and venom in your words. You try to swing at him, but he catches your wrist in his hand. His eyes are filled with fury. The blow lands before you realize he swung. There is a ringing in your ears and you taste blood in your mouth. You are dizzy, barely able to hold yourself in the kneeling position, and not completely aware of what's happening as you hear the sound of fabric shredding. You body is tugged roughly, your position shifted about, and when you are released, you fall back onto your bare bottom on the cold, stone floor. You are naked sprawled on your backside on the floor of the castle. All you have on now is your slippers and your jewelry. Blood trickles from the corner of your mouth and fear grips your heart as you look up at the knight looming over you. "That's better," he says, his voice controlled, but the fire still in his eyes. He stares at your breasts, then to the neatly trimmed patch of hair between your legs. You move your hands, trying to cover yourself, but also trying to stay on your elbows so you can see him, crabwalk away, something... "You should have just shown me," he says, moving closer. "It would have hurt less." He grabs you by the hair and yanks you to your knees. His cock is aimed at your face again, and he looks at you with obvious intent. You grit your teeth and purse your lips, filled with defiance. "You've still got too much fight in you." He slaps you hard across the face. Continue.

Guilty! I love French Silk pie most of all, but a good banana cream pie, peanut butter pie, key lime pie...mmm. Cream pies are some of the best! The next person loves getting their hands dirty and working on something that requires physical labor.

forever horny

endless love

She felt his fingers on her clit and it made her gasp in a shuddering breath as the two of them took turns thrust deep inside of her. First deep into her pussy, then deeper into her ass, over and over, the sensations driving her wild. She was stretched wide, her body invaded, her mind nearly erased in pleasure, and now one of them had decided to start teasing her clit. It was too much. She felt waves of an entirely different pleasure emanating out from that tiny nub, felt the muscles in her legs contracting on their own, her body convulsing at the merciless sensory onslaught. It was more than she'd expected at that moment, and it drove her over the edge. She came hard when he said "cum, slut!", an explosion of fluid from deep inside covering Tim, dripping down, soaking both the men. Her body spasmed, legs tight around Tim, pussy and ass clenching their cocks as they kept fucking her. It didn't stop her. Part of her was overstimulated now. Her mind wanted a break from all that pleasure, but her body kept moving, craving more, more... more! She fucked them, bouncing on their cocks as they battled inside of her, her moans and gasps of pleasure the only sound she could make.

Not guilty. I am a notorious over planner and over thinking, meticulously organized with things laid out ahead of time for the next day, the kind of person who's ready to go two hours before I have to be anywhere. It probably borders on obsessive compulsive behavior. The next person doesn't own a car.

cloudless night

Can I say no?

Oh, back just in time to be guilty of wanting hugs again! Yay me! Does that mean I get hugs? The next person would love a real milkshake.

She gasped as Tom pulled out of her, leaving her empty and wanting. She slid off of Tim's cock and replied to Tom's comment. "I'll do better with you in my ass if your brother fills my pussy." She stood then, taking a deep ,shuddering breath as she felt him force his way into her tight little pucker. His cock felt impossibly large inside her ass. She was standing straight up his cock deep in her ass, and she reached down, grabbing Tim's cock, guiding it toward her pussy. "Fill both my holes," she said, her voice thick with lust. "Fuck me." She guided Tim into her warm and waiting pussy, then leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist as she settled her tiny frame onto his cock, his brother's cock still deep in her ass. She tried to lift herself, to slide up and down both cocks, but they had better leverage. If they chose to hammer into her like this, she would just have to take it, and it's exactly what she hoped they'd do. Fuck her. Use her. Fill her holes with hot, sticky cum. "Fuck me!" she said it louder, shifting her body up and down on the two cocks inside of her.

You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to remain still. "You have my word as a noble," you say, your voice controlled, measured. "But if that isn’t enough for you, then search me. If you think I carry a dagger, take it from me yourself." The knight’s smirk widens, slow and knowing, as if he’d been waiting for you to say that. "Very well, Princess." He steps closer, and your breath catches as the space between you disappears. His gloved hand moves to your side, fingers pressing into your waist, skimming over the fabric of your gown as he feels for hidden blades. He is thorough, too thorough, taking his time as his hands slide over your ribs, down your arms, across your hips. His touch is firm, invasive, lingering longer than necessary, more the touch of a lover than a soldier. You force yourself to stay still, your jaw clenched as his fingers trail down the curve of your thigh, reaching around and cupping your ass, pulling you against him. You are forced face to face with the knight, and his gaze never leaves your eyes despite his wandering hands. You are pressed hard against his body, feeling his armor pressing against you. He's holding you close, your bodies pressed together, his hands on your ass. You expected him to step back once he found nothing, but he doesn’t. Instead, his hand skims up, tracing the curve of your ass, up along your hips, over your tiny waist, up your ribcage, his hands cupping your breasts as they move upward. His palm flattens just below your collarbone, moving slowly, his breath a warm presence near your ear. He's not searching, he's enjoying. "No dagger here," he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement. Mocking you. "But perhaps you have something dangerous concealed beneath your skirts." His smirk turns darker. Your stomach coils with disgust, but you keep your expression unreadable. His game has changed, and you have to decide how to play it. If you push him away, make it clear you will not tolerate this, click here. If you allow him to search under your skirts, click here.