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By (user no longer on site) OP
22 weeks ago
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La Belle et le Masque
The rain slicked the cobbled streets of Montmartre, turning them into a mirror for the city’s golden lights. From her balcony, Camille smoked a cigarette with slow, deliberate drags, watching the city breathe beneath her. Paris at midnight was a lover’s whisper—soft, dangerous, and full of promises.
She exhaled, watching the smoke curl around the dim glow of the streetlamps. Below, a black car idled, its presence neither casual nor accidental.
She turned inside, letting the heavy velvet curtains fall behind her. The air smelled of leather and musk, the remnants of the last time he had been here. Him.
A knock at the door. Three firm raps.
She hesitated, feeling the delicious tingle of anticipation snake down her spine. Then, barefoot, she crossed the apartment and unlatched the door.
There he stood, dressed in a dark suit that fit his body like sin, his face shadowed by the low brim of his hat. In his gloved hand, a black mask—simple, smooth, the kind that concealed more than just identity.
"Bonsoir, ma belle," he murmured, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
Her pulse quickened. "You're late."
"You enjoy the wait," he said, removing his hat, revealing the strong, sharp lines of his face. His voice was like the first sip of expensive whisky—warm, intoxicating, burning all the way down.
He held up the mask. "Put it on."
She did as he commanded, the silk ribbon tying it firm behind her head. Her world dimmed, the edges softened, and her other senses sharpened—the sound of his steady breathing, the scent of his cologne, the way the air changed as he moved closer.
A leather glove trailed down her arm, slow, deliberate. "You know the rules."
She nodded, already surrendering.
The first strike landed across her thigh—sharp, measured, just enough to sting. A test. She gasped, her fingers curling at her sides.
"Good girl."
The game had begun.
The ropes came next, binding her wrists behind her back. He worked in silence, looping the knots with practiced ease, the heat of his hands ghosting over her skin. She could hear the slow creak of his leather belt sliding from his waist, the quiet anticipation in the air thick as Parisian smoke.
"You trust me?" he asked, his breath at her ear.
"Yes." Her voice was barely a whisper.
A dark chuckle. "Then let's see how much."
The night stretched on, filled with whispered commands, gasps, and the deep, unshakable hunger that only Paris and midnight could bring.
By morning, he was gone, the ropes untied, but the imprint of him—of what they had done—remained.
Camille smiled as she reached for another cigarette, the scent of leather and sin still lingering on her skin.
Paris always kept its secrets.
And so would she.
*To be continued*
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