#wizard ruts

You're wearing red – plush lips stained to mimic the vivid vermilion of blood, cheeks pulled wide with the smile you're sporting, dimpling and flushed bright red to the very edge of your ears. The dress is low-hanging, tight around your curves, pulled taut around your back where I remember spending time doing nothing but worshiping. Your back is to me. You're facing the bar, talking to the bartender and the few people who surround you like insects to a bright light. Even from a distance, I know where they're looking – right in the dip of your breasts, encased by that low neckline, where the silver rounded locket rests.

There's a man – tall, broad-shouldered. He's leaning a bit too steeply in your direction with a salacious grin, white teeth gleaming under the bar light. And you? You laugh at him, at his audacity, letting him caress your elbow, welcoming his touch in my presence.

I don't like clubs. I don't like the music, the heat. I don't like how people stare at me – and I hate how they stare at you. I don’t make the mark of my ownership loud, but it’s there. Evident. Hidden, but present. And if you're new here, to this bar, to this world – if you're foolish – you'd challenge the claim without knowing.

I close my eyes, breathing in deeply through my nose, exhaling louder than I intend. Beside me, a scantily clad young man cocks his head, silently asking if I'm okay.

I shake my head at him.

But peace doesn't come to the wicked. It's the sound of your heady laughter, head thrown back, the long line of your throat stretched tight with the vibration. The man’s hands are no longer fleeting; they’re full on your hips.

I'm quick to stand and walk over to the bar. On the surface, I wear a calm, human facade. Inside, I am nothing short of feral. The animal in my chest is hurling itself at my ribs, trying to chew through bone and muscle, begging to be let loose. To reach between you and the man, to grab him by the back of his head and smash his face into the bar until he understands: you are not his to touch.

It feels like the crowd parts as I move – whether they really do or not doesn't matter. My attention is fixed on a single detail; the man’s hand – big, pale, nails untrimmed – pawing at your body like it’s his right. Like he’s won the game.

I stop behind you. Close enough that you'd feel the heat radiating off me, and I don’t have to clear my throat. You've been watching, waiting for me to approach.

You shift slightly on your heels, just enough that the curve of your back arches deeper, presenting yourself like a gift, like bait, pressing into me. My chest heaves as I lean in even closer, enough for you to feel the press of my breasts through my tucked-in black shirt. You glance at me over your shoulder, lazy and knowing, your smile curling slowly around the rim of your glass.

I'm not sure if the man's just foolish or enjoys inviting trouble, because his hands don’t move. They curl tighter on your hips as he eyes us both.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say, smiling.

“Oh,” he blinks, surprised, and finally removes his hand. “I didn’t know she was taken.”

“Mm.” I tilt my head, studying him like I’m choosing which bone to break first. He’s tall, but soft-looking. “She likes games. She likes to poke the bear.”

He stares, confused, mouth parting like he’s trying to find footing.

“But she is mine. And I don’t share.”

I feel your breath hitch. Your smile softens, turns inward, more genuine than the one you’d been offering him.

He steps back, palms up, like he's backing away from a lit fuse. “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know,” I say, voice still pleasant. “That’s why I’m still smiling.”

The moment he’s gone, I turn to you. You’re still leaning against the bar, lazy and lit up, your eyes wicked beneath the fan of your lashes.

“You’re cruel,” I murmur, reaching out to trail a finger along the exposed line of your collarbone.

You lean into the touch. “You like it.”

I catch your chin between my fingers, tilt your face up. “You like making me jealous.”

You hum, lips parting. “You’re hot when you’re angry.”

I step closer, slowly backing you into the bar until your spine presses flush to the wood, caging you in with nothing but my presence.

“You want to see what I do when I’m angry?”

Your lush lips part in something close to a mewl, your eyes searching mine in the dim light. You nod quickly, fingers tightening in the fabric of my shirt. My hand wraps gently around your throat.

I know people are watching us, watching you. You're a thorned rose among daisies. Everyone wants to touch, but they know better. The thorns will cut.

You like being watched, especially when it’s me placing my claim – again and again. It’s a perverse kind of pleasure, knowing you belong to someone who rarely cracks under pressure, rarely chases a tongue out, but is willing to shatter every self-imposed rule just to make sure the world sees who you belong to.

Your eyes are hooded as I descend, my mouth finding yours. You’re unsurprisingly pliant, melting into me, wrapping your arms around my shoulders and simply letting go, oblivious to what that does to me. Or maybe not so oblivious, judging by the wicked gleam in your eyes.

A low thrum builds, rising into a pounding staccato that clouds my thoughts like smoke. I’m panting into your mouth, pressing in deeper, as your tongue and teeth draw me closer, swallow me whole.

A string of saliva connected us when I finally pulled back. When you opened your eyes, they were almost cross-eyed, glossy, tracking the string like you couldn’t help it – your face the shade of deep cherries, blush creeping all the way up to your hairline. I groaned low in my throat, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the need at bay, to stop myself from bending you over this bar and eating you out until you forgot your own name.

You smelled like that fruity drink you keep ordering, the tang of slight sweat, and my perfume – the one you keep stealing. I shoved my face into the space between your neck and shoulder, letting my nose trace a slow path down your exposed collarbone. You shivered under my hands.

You're cradled in the hollow of my arm, pushing yourself forward, arching your back. I drag a knuckle over your tits, knowing full well your little nubs underneath that dress are hard and begging for my attention. I bite into your collarbone, hard,then soothe the sting with a slow, suckling kiss. You whimper loudly, uncaring of the crowd, digging your nails into my shoulder. Always wanting more. My little slut.

“Shh,” I murmur against the skin just above your clothed breast, shoving a thigh between your legs, under your messed-up dress, giving you some relief, something to grind your cunt on.

“I won’t touch you anymore.”

You whine, even needier, looking up at me with wide, blown pupils, eyelashes clumped with unshed tears. I chuckle.

“You think you won’t be punished for pulling a stunt like that, sweetheart?”

You bite your lip, that obscene red now smeared across your jaw. Your neck is blossoming with my marks, your chest heaving. Your cunt soaking my pant. You look debauched under the low, flickering lights.

I'm still looking at the menu, but I'm not really seeing it. My thumb traces the font, and I know the small crease between my eyebrows is a tell. You've been watching me, and after a moment, you reach across the table and try to take the menu from my hands.

"You're not getting that," I say, already sliding the menu shut. I catch the waiter's eye, and he begins to move in our direction.

Your brows pinch together. "You don't even know what I was going to —"

"Yes, I do." I say calmly, smiling at the room at large. "And you'll like what I'm ordering more."

The waiter arrives, pen poised. I don't look at you as I rattle off both our orders. I name your drink, with extra ice, the one you always hesitate to get because you think it’s too indulgent. Then, I order the main dish you love but never remember the name of, the one with that sauce you readily licked off the plate last time. I don't have to look at you to know your eyes have dropped to the table.

When the waiter leaves, I lean back in my chair.

"Breathe now," I murmur softly, but it's not a whisper you cannot hear. "You can relax. I've got you."

Your fingers toy with the folded edge of your napkin. "You didn't have to —"

"I know," I cut in. "But I wanted to." I tilt my head, catching your gaze until you hold it. "And I know what you like better than you do when you're overthinking it."

You let out a slow exhale, and the tension slips from your shoulders.

The room is quiet except for your breathing, the jerk of your head to the side pulling the sheets, the click of your tongue as you wait for me.

Your wrists are caught in the leather cuffs at either side of the bedframe . I have made sure they are not tight, but snug enough that you can’t slip free. The straps creak when you move, but you don’t move much now. You’re floating, eyes unfocused unfocused but still locked somewhere in my direction.

I’m sitting at the edge of the mattress, one knee bent, leaning over you. My hand moves from your hair to your cheek, thumb dragging along your jaw.

“What color?” I murmur into the flushed skin of your cheek.

You whimper, a sound that comes when your body is confused. Your fingers twitch in their cuffs uselessly.

“Tell me,” I say, a touch commandeering. My grip on your face hardens, fingers digging into the soft side of your jaw.

You click open your mouth, a thin string of saliva connecting the plump perfections I have worked hard to achieve. “G-Gr-Green.”

I shift closer, bracing one arm on the mattress so you’re framed between my shoulders. “You’re being such a good girl,” I say again, slower this time. My left hand slides down your sternum, not to do anything, but just to feel your heartbeat under my palm. “Breathe. In. Out. With me.”

You follow. The rise of your chest becomes deeper, your lips part. You’re trembling faintly now, the telltale sign of someone slipping, of sinking, of letting me take over.

“You don’t have to think,” I whisper, leaning closer until my breath hits your ear. “Just be here and feel me.”

I drag my hand lower, letting them catch against the gooseflesh on your twitching body. I slip my finger around one of your taunt nipples and pull ever so slightly. “Breath, baby. Feel me.”

Another soft sound escapes you, a sigh or a moan or both. Your head tips to the side, cheek brushing against the pillow.

“That’s it,” I murmur. My fingers tighten just slightly on your jaw, anchoring you, my other hand grabbing a handful of tits. “That’s my good girl.”

Just as your eyes fall close, I know you wanted to hear that.