The phone rested in his palm like a forbidden artifact—iPhone 17, sleek and cold, the first thing that had ever truly belonged to him. Not borrowed, not tolerated. His.
In the pitch-black of his room, the screen's blue glare sliced across his face like a blade, etching sharp angles and hollows that made him look older, harder, more dangerous than the boy he'd been forced to play for years.
He tapped open the message.
Not a text. A video. Thirty seconds of pure, calculated sin.
He glanced at the door—locked, deadbolt engaged—then pressed play.
The footage bloomed open on Melissa, perched at the edge of the master bed, the same bed where Harold had spent years failing to satisfy her, snoring obliviously in the background like a discarded prop.
Soft lamplight painted her in gold and shadow, turning the black lace lingerie into something obscene: sheer enough to reveal the heavy swell of her breasts, the dark peaks of her nipples straining against the fabric, the swollen lips of her cunt already glistening beneath the thong.
She looked like a stolen masterpiece, every curve a quiet theft from a man who didn't deserve her.
"Hi, baby."
The word slithered out, low and wrecked, thick with the afterglow of what he'd done to her earlier. It hit him like a shot of adrenaline straight to the groin, his cock twitching hard against the rough denim of his jeans.
"I know you're exhausted. I know today was... a lot."
She crossed one leg over the other in slow motion, the movement sending her breasts bouncing, nipples scraping lace like they were begging for teeth.
Her manicured fingers drifted down her throat, tracing the delicate chain of her collarbone, then lower—sliding between the deep valley of her tits, past the flat plane of her stomach, until they vanished beneath the thong.
"But I can't stop thinking about earlier. About what you did to me in the kitchen."
Her voice was velvet and venom. "How you split me open on that dragon cock. How you pumped me full until it dripped down my thighs. How you made me yours—body, soul, and greedy little cunt."
Phei's breath caught. His dick was already thickening, pressing painfully against his zipper, the denim suddenly too tight, too rough. He shifted, gripping the bulge without thought, the heat of it pulsing under his palm like a living thing.
"Harold's asleep." She leaned closer to the camera, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, wicked and dripping. "Went to bed an hour ago. Snoring like the useless lump he is. Completely fucking oblivious."
Her hand moved now—slow, deliberate circles over her clit, fingers pressing the lace into her slick folds.
The camera teased, never showing the full view, but the motion was unmistakable: she was fingering herself in the marital bed, rubbing that freshly marked pussy while her husband drooled three feet away, defiling the sheets with thoughts of the boy who'd claimed her.
"I'll be in the library at midnight. Our library. Where this all started."
Her breath hitched, hips rolling in needy little thrusts against her own hand. "I'll be waiting for you, Phei. Waiting for my Dragon to come split me open again, to shove that thick, addicted cock down my throat, up my cunt—anywhere you want. Claim what already belongs to you."
A soft whimper escaped her—half moan, half plea—her back arching off the mattress as her thighs clamped around her plunging fingers. She came hard, shuddering, the camera catching every tremor, every stifled gasp, the way her lips parted in silent worship of the boy who'd ruined her for anyone else.
"Midnight," she whispered, voice wrecked. "Be there."
The screen cut to black, leaving only the sound of Phei's own ragged breathing and the insistent, aching pulse of his cock demanding release.
Phei stared at nothing for a long moment, his pulse thudding somewhere behind his zipper. His cock strained against the denim, fully hard now, thick and aching with that new intensity the transformation had given him.
Every heartbeat made it throb.
She'd just sent him a video of herself masturbating. In Harold's bed. While Harold slept beside her. Thinking about him.
The audacity of it. The sheer bloody recklessness.
And it worked. Christ, it worked. He was hard enough to hammer nails.
His thumbs moved across the keyboard:
Phei: I'll be there. Midnight. Library. And when I'm done with you, Harold's going to wonder why his wife can't walk straight in the morning.
He added: Wear the black lace. Nothing else.
Sent.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Melissa: Yes. God yes. I'll be ready for you.
Phei: Good girl.
Phei set the phone on the nightstand, adjusted himself through his jeans—still rigid, still pulsing with the memory of her voice—and checked the time.
10:47 PM.
An hour and thirteen minutes.
He could wait. Use the time to rest his eyes, let the adrenaline from dinner fade, maybe shower before he went down there. Prepare himself to give his marked woman everything she was asking for.
Phei lay back against the pillow, fully intending to just take the edge off, just close his eyes for a few minutes until—
****
Light. Wrong light. That particular golden violence that only existed when you'd slept through something you should have bled for.
Phei's eyes snapped open like a trap springing shut.
The clock on his nightstand glowed 5:45 AM, the numbers mocking him with their calm precision. He'd just closed his eyes. Just for a minute. Just to—
Reality slammed in like a door kicked off its hinges.
Midnight. The library. Melissa waiting.
He snatched the phone with fingers that had turned to ice. The screen flared to life, a cascade of notifications that read like a slow-motion execution.
Seventeen messages. All from her.
Melissa (12:03 AM):I'm here. Waiting for you.
Melissa (12:15 AM):Are you coming? I'm ready.
Melissa (12:31 AM):Phei? Where are you?
Melissa (12:45 AM):Baby, are you okay? Did something happen?
Melissa (1:02 AM):I'm still waiting. Please come.
Melissa (1:23 AM): Are you asleep? Did you fall asleep?
Melissa (1:45 AM):Okay. I understand. You must be exhausted.
Melissa (2:11 AM):Going back to bed. Harold almost woke up. That was close.
Melissa (2:30 AM): I'm not mad. I promise I'm not mad.
Each timestamp was a fresh cut. He could map her descent through the hours: hope at midnight, worry by one, quiet excuses by two. The arc from where are you to I understand was its own exquisite devastation—a woman rewriting her own abandonment to protect the boy who'd failed her.
The last one was audio. 2:47 AM.
He pressed play, breath held.
"Hi." Melissa's voice emerged soft and frayed, the kind of calm that cracks at the edges if you listen too closely. "I wanted to leave this so you'd know I'm not upset. You've had an insane day. Your body's been through hell. You needed sleep more than you needed... more than you needed me."
A pause. The faint rhythm of her breathing.
"I understand that. I really do. And I'm not disappointed—" Another pause, longer, heavier. "Okay, I am a little disappointed, because I was really looking forward to... but that's selfish of me. You needed rest. And I should have realized that instead of sending you that video and making demands when you were already running on nothing."
Her voice dropped, rawer now, stripped of pretense.
"I just wanted to feel you again. To be reminded that I'm yours now, not his. That this is real and not something I'm going to wake up from and realize never happened."
A shaky exhale, almost a laugh at her own expense.
"Sleep well, my Dragon. We'll have other nights. Get your rest. You're going to need your strength."
The message ended.