Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
In the past, the women I’d known had all taken the card without hesitation. They’d gasped at the gold foil, the suite name embossed in calligraphy, the hidden dragon seal burned into the corner like a mark of fate.
They understood what it meant.
They knew I was the Dragon.
They recognized my power.
They bowed to it in their own way—eager hands, flushed cheeks, doors left unlocked. Pussies wet and waiting for me to enter and fuck them until their soft, intimate walls were wet and drenched in my cum.
They wanted to be devoured.
They begged to be claimed.
But this American woman. . .my naughty Tiger. . .
She hadn’t taken the card.
She hadn’t bowed to my power.
But. . .at least she hadn’t run from it either.
I shook my head.
Tora. . .the more you make this difficult, the more your pussy will ache once I fuck you.
I should’ve felt fury, but instead, I felt something far more dangerous—admiration.
She was the first woman I couldn’t predict.
Tora.
I gazed out the window. Beyond the glass, Paris glittered in its own evening decadence. A thousand lights winked across rooftops. As usual, the city was trying to seduce the stars and it was winning.
But I didn’t care about the skyline.
I thought about the safe embedded behind the abstract oil painting on the far-left wall keeping my Tiger’s panties secure.
How is it. . .that she was supposed to be trapped by me today, but I am the one that is trapped? How did she so easily cage me while I was trying to cage her?
I thought back to those panties.
I never trusted FedEx with such an important mission.
I only trusted my obsession because that never disappointed me.
Therefore, the panties had arrived by private courier just before sunset, nestled in a black satin pouch inside a Decadent bag. Ziploc bags were airtight, efficient, and reliable. If sealed properly, they trapped everything—scent, heat, memory, lust.
A woman’s arousal didn’t fade easily.
It beautifully fermented.
Erotically evolved.
Deepened.
But only if handled correctly.
Preservation was an art.
Her panties had been worn less than an hour before departure. Still wet when she slid them off. Still warm from the dream she’d had of me. Still soaked from the ache between her thighs.
My courier knew better than to mishandle a relic so important to me.
Hand-carry only.
No pressure cargo.
No exposure to dry cabin air.
No fucking temperature shifts.
Nothing that would disturb the molecules of her scent on the panties or the delicate fingerprint of her pussy’s heat.
The black satin interior of the Decadent bag had been pre-warmed to the exact degree where desire lingered, and shame evaporated. The insulation was custom—engineered to maintain precise humidity.
I’d received integrity updates from the courier on the panties every two hours.
Logged.
Timestamped.
Coded with detail.
No drop in heat.
No wrinkle in the content.
By the time they arrived in Paris, the sky had burned gold and bruised violet.
I pulled them out of the bag like a madman. The wet center pressed into my palm like a brand. Still damp. Still glistening. Still holding onto the moment she thought of me and surrendered.
With the damp panties in my hand, I didn’t move at first. I just stared and let the silence stretch. Let the ache settle between my ribs like a second pulse.
The room didn’t breathe.
Neither did I.
Then and only then did I exhale and lift the panties to my nose.
The scent shot through me like a drug.
It wasn’t a gentle high. It was narcotic violence—a throbbing possession that hit my bloodstream before my lungs.
Before thought.
Before breath.
My cock jerked, thick and impatient beneath my slacks.
My throat closed… the hunger so sudden it made me dizzy.
My heart kicked, brutal and aching in its need to own her very soul.
I gripped the carved edge of the bedframe to keep from sinking into the plush carpet like a man drowning.
Her wetness wasn’t just perfume. It was the echo of her thighs one day opening for me, of her fingers spreading those wet pussy lips while moaning my name.
Black-amber.
Ripe plum.
Warm cotton soaked in sin.
I was ashamed to say this but thank God no one was around when I opened my mouth and put those panties between my lips.
I sucked on the white panties.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
I let the wetness seep onto my tongue.
The salt of her.
The sweetness.
The surrender.
Obsession had a taste and it was her pussy’s slickness.
Ecstasy.
Agony.
Consummation.
I groaned low and the ruined sound dragged through my teeth.
I unzipped my slacks, let my cock free. It was already hard, already leaking, already aching like it had waited lifetimes for this moment.
I took those panties out of my mouth and then slid the wet cotton across the swollen pierced head of my cock.
Let the fabric kiss the precum.
Let it bless the shaft.
Let it wrap around my cock like a vow.
I smelled her again while stroking myself slowly with the cloth.
Not just to cum.
But to remember and mark her scent on my body.
It hadn’t been masturbation.