16. Laurette Devereux
Laurette Devereux
Nothing haunts a woman like the echo of a man who could’ve fucked her… but didn’t.
My breath comes in shallow sips, tiny uneven pulls of air, as my knees press into the mattress. Muscles trembling, blindfold still tight across my eyes, I wait.
The room is quiet. Not the quiet of absence, but the quiet of aftermath, as if something dark and holy had passed through and carried the air with it.
My Wolf.
He’s gone.
The door didn’t click, and the air didn’t shift. But I sense his absence. The thread between us has gone quiet. Not broken, but waiting.
I should move. Reach for the blindfold. Shake out my legs. Stand. But I don’t. I can’t. I’m frozen in the space he created, where the heat of his breath still clings to my skin and the whisper of his praise echoes behind my ears.
You’re such a good girl, Laurette.
Mmm, that’s my Babygirl.
I’ll ruin every other man for you, Laurette.
I breathe his words in again and let them crawl beneath my skin and settle deep.
His voice wrapped around me, low and intimate. Every second he lingered in the room reshaped me, leaving me raw and exposed.
I kneel because he told me to.
I remain kneeling because I want to.
Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I should rip off the blindfold and snap out of this trance. Remind myself he’s a stranger who still hasn’t told me his name. That he touched me, teased me, promised to wreck me… eventually.
Wreck me. I like it.
No, I don’t like it. I love it.
And right now, the only thing worse than being hunted is missing the hunter.
So, I keep the blindfold on and stay on my knees. I pretend, just a little longer, that he’s still here watching, wanting, and waiting to see what I do next.
I obeyed his instructions and wore the lingerie without underwear. No barrier between us. He wanted me to feel exposed—soft, wet, and vulnerable under his gaze.
He could have touched me anywhere.
My pussy clenches at the thought, at the memory of how close he was. His fingers teased the edge of my neck, trailed down my back, ghosted over my hips, never quite dipping between my legs.
Never giving me what I truly wanted.
The ache between my legs sharpens again, worse than before. It’s a tension that has the potential to turn into madness.
And this slip? It’s part of it. A uniform for submission. A symbol of the version of myself I became when he was near.
I touch the straps, thumb grazing where the lace rests on my shoulder. If I tugged just a little, it would fall off, exposing my breasts.
But I don’t. I let it stay. Because wearing his gift feels like being his. And right now, I don’t want to stop that feeling.
He came here, touched me, and spoke to me as though I belonged to him. Made me tremble with every whisper and word. He kissed the side of my face and told me I was perfect.
And then he left.
He didn’t fuck me. Didn’t even try. The disappointment sears.
And the worst part? I wanted him to—this man I can’t see.
I would have said yes.
I was soaked before he entered my bedroom. By the time he sat on the bed behind me, I was desperate. Surrender was pouring out of me, one heartbeat at a time. My body begged in ways my mouth couldn’t voice.
And then he walked away.
His restraint… the fucking control he has… it makes me even wetter.
He is one disciplined motherfucker.
I want to scream. Cry. Throw myself against the mattress and curse him for leaving me this way. But instead, I sit frozen in the dark, thighs pressed tight, nipples so hard they ache as the slip drags across them.
His voice replays in my head.
Next time those words pass your lips, I’m going to fuck the sanity out of you. You’ll come so hard you’ll forget where you are. Who you are. You’ll scream so loud the walls will shake.
God, the way he said those words—hungry, reverent, every syllable drenched in seduction.
A slow, relentless ache coils in me, tightening every time I recall the heat of his breath against my skin. He didn’t need to touch me. Not really. His presence alone undid me. His words made my body pulse with want.
He said I had to ask for it when I’m ready.
Fuck me. I want your cock inside me. I need your cock inside me.
Those fucking words—I wanted to say them. I hate him for knowing that. I despise him for leaving me trembling in a slip and blindfold, heart pounding and pussy weeping, too full of need to even think straight.
Now I’m left here with no relief. And the hunger isn’t going anywhere.
This is insane.
I want to fuck a man whose name I don’t know. I want to be blindfolded, obedient, soaking wet, and filled by a stranger. I don’t even care what his face looks like.
That should terrify me.
But it doesn’t. It turns me on even more.
The moment he touched me, God, the moment he spoke, I stopped being logical. I stopped being careful. I stopped being myself, and I became his. My body decided before my brain had time to catch up.
Fear wasn’t curled in my stomach when he stepped into the room. It was heat and need. It was the wild, unbearable recognition that this is what I’ve been missing—a dark, unhinged thing I can’t tell anyone about without sounding broken.
I’m not broken. It’s something far darker than that. I’m wired for him… and for this.
I can’t stop picturing him. When he knelt behind me tonight, there was no mistaking his height, his strength, his precision. He’s a man who’s done damage and wouldn’t flinch at doing it again.
And his voice, fuck, his voice. It wasn’t just deep. It was danger wrapped in velvet. Leather and gravel and secrets. It didn’t simply promise me things. It warned me.
I want to see what that man looks like when he’s fucking me. I want to see how his face changes when he slides inside me. If his jaw clenches, if his eyes go dark, if he watches every reaction with obsessive focus.
I want him hovering over me, hands fisted in the sheets, hips rocking against mine while I’m gasping for breath and begging him not to stop. I want to find out what it’s like to be devoured by someone who doesn’t even let me see his face.
It’s reckless and twisted. I’m probably setting myself up for something I’ll never recover from.
And I don’t care.
I want him. All of him. And that want is certain to ruin me.
The need doesn’t fade. It sharpens, grows teeth, and turns feral.
I shift on the bed, and the slip rides up my thighs, clinging to every inch of damp skin. I bite my lip until I taste blood. The blindfold still binds the world in black. I don’t dare take it off. As long as it’s on, I’m still his.
My hand moves on its own, guided by desperation. My fingers trace up the inside of my thigh, slowly and trembling. I’m bare. Soaked. My cunt pulses, knowing what’s coming and unable to wait another second.
“My Wolf,” I whisper into the dark.
I picture him behind me, his breath hot on my neck, his hand fisted in my hair, that voice—low and brutal—telling me what I’m about to beg for.
Say it.
“Fuck me, My Wolf. I want your cock inside me. I need your cock inside me.”
The words spill out, raw and heavy with need. My pussy clenches around nothing, and my body pulses as if it’s already on the edge of release.
I collapse forward, forehead pressed to the sheets, and let the ache bloom. Every breath is a confession. Every tremble is a cry for him.
But it’s not enough.
I shift restlessly, and my hand brushes something velvet and soft. I lift the pouch onto my lap and tug the cord free. Inside rests smooth silicone, firm and thick, built to be gripped and explored.
My breath catches, and my thighs snap together.
He left this for me—a message written in hunger.
Still blindfolded, I run my thumb along its length. Designed to stretch me open and ruin me beautifully.
Of course, he knew.
He’s ten steps ahead. Watching. Planning. Knowing what I need even before I do.
My entire body tenses.
He didn’t just leave me empty. He left me this. A command disguised as a gift.
I’m soaked and aching. My hand trembles as I grip the toy tighter. This is what he wants. Me, alone in the dark, wet and ready, wearing the slip he chose, blindfolded and desperate.
He didn’t finish me. He made me crawl to the edge and then handed me a vibrator to finish myself.
It’s not just control. It’s domination.
My lips part and a quiet gasp escapes as heat floods my core. The toy hums in my grip, a loaded threat in silicone. I sink into the pillows with it clutched tight, hips shifting as the slip rides high, nothing but flimsy fabric stretched thin over soaked skin.
I don’t warm up—I’m already fucking burning.
My pussy aches, throbs, and clenches around nothing, demanding to be filled.
I vibrator the toy against my entrance, slick and swollen, and the relief is instant.
Not enough, but something. My mouth opens in a silent moan as I slide it in, not gently or slowly—but deep.
God, the stretch. The pressure. The way it fills me.
I fuck myself hard, hips rolling, eyes still covered, body unraveling fast. Every thrust drives the toy deeper, the vibrations striking raw, sensitive nerves. And still I chase it, relentlessly—fuck, I chase it hard.
Every sound I make is his. Every filthy thought, every slick drag of silicone, every whispered plea—it’s all for him.
“My Wolf,” I gasp, the name punching out of me as I rock harder, faster, lost to the pace I’ve set. “Fuck, please.”
I imagine him behind me, watching, whispering filth in my ear. I imagine his hands gripping my hips, forcing me to take more. To take everything.
My thighs quake, and my stomach coils. My pussy clenches around the toy as the orgasm hits violently. I bite the pillow to muffle the scream, riding it out in jerky thrusts until I can’t move anymore.
The vibrator slips from my hand. I don’t care. I lie there wrecked, trembling, sweat-slick and flushed, heart jackhammering in my chest.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the blindfold still wrapped around my eyes. I can’t move. Don’t want to. I float in the wreckage, soaked in my release.
When I reach up, my fingers are clumsy. I push the blindfold away and blink into the shadows.
Everything is quiet.
I rise on shaky legs and make my way to the mirror. I barely recognize the woman staring back—messy hair, flushed skin, lips swollen from biting.
Then I see it—the necklace. The delicate gold chain fastened around my throat. I touch the pendant, flipping it over.
The letter is there—B—to rest against my skin, unbeknownst to the rest of the world. Our secret.
A breath shudders from my chest, shaky and quiet.
“I’m yours, My Wolf.”
I don’t know his name or his face. But I know this: he owns me.
Let him come for me.
I’m ready.