Capture the King 🌶️🌶️🌶️

As featured in BUST Magazine: if you enjoyed Checkmate (3/9/25), you’ll savor its spicier sequel — a more carnal gambit where the king is made to surrender…

The penthouse is silent, save for the soft hum of a low, throaty saxophone, curling like cigarette smoke from the speakers into the air. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city gleams in a sea of gold and crimson—lights stretching for miles, indifferent to the game unfolding within these walls.

A chessboard sits between them, catching the molten glow of the low-lit sconces.

She lifts a glass of Bordeaux to her lips. Swirls, sips, watches. Not the board. Him.

He’s too confident. Too sure of his last move. How adorable.

She lets him have it. Lets him settle into the illusion that he’s still in control.

Then, with exquisite precision, she reaches out, captures his knight between her fingers, and moves her queen into place.

His king is trapped.

She watches realization bloom across his face—slow, inevitable, beautiful.

His exhale is quiet, his lips pressing together as he drags a hand through his dark, grey-speckled hair. “Shit.”

She tilts her head, resting her chin on her palm. Savoring.

“Checkmate,” she murmurs.

A long beat.

His gaze flickers to the board, then back to her. A slow smile tugs at his mouth as he sprawls back, arms behind his head—a doomed king feigning composure.

“Alright.” He leans back in his chair. “You win. What do you want?”

She stands.

“I want everything I’ve ever deserved,” she purrs.

The silk of her dress whispers over her thighs as she prowls around the table, a tiger in blush silk, stopping between his parted legs.

Her fingers trace the edge of his collar, then lower—skimming over his chest, unhurried. The buttons of his shirt yield beneath her touch, slipping open one by one.

She doesn’t rush.

Victory is meant to be enjoyed.

She pushes the creamy Zegna fabric from his shoulders, revealing smooth, muscled skin beneath. His breath hitches as she leans in, not quite touching, just close enough for him to feel the heat radiating between them.

His hands settle on her hips—tentative, waiting.

She tuts softly, nails like lacquered blades dragging over his chest, grazing lower.

“Not yet.”

A quiet exhale. His hands retreat, resting against the arms of the chair, capitulating to her. Owning his defeat.

She slides into his ample lap, pressing her weight against him. Her lips hover at his jaw, teasing. Drawing it out. Making him remember who’s in charge. Making him fully realize that he will get whatever she wants to take of him. Every sip, every drop, every gulp.

His pulse thrums beneath her mouth. She lingers. Lets him feel her breath, her warmth, her power curling around, inexorable as gravity.

“You knew how this would end,” she whispers.

A sharp inhale. His grip tightens, fingers digging into the curve of her hips as she finally—intricately—closes the distance.

Their mouths collide in a slow, devastating kiss.

She takes. He gives.

She bites. He retreats.

She waits. He resumes.

His hands return to her body, roaming now, desperate. She lets him touch, but only how she allows. Only where she allows.

Her dress slips from her shoulders, pooling at their feet.

His control, once so unyielding, unravels beneath her hands.

She pulls back just enough to see it in his eyes. The hunger. The complete, inevitable surrender.

The real game has only just begun.

She knows him—his incredible weakness for powerful women. For an untamed Goddess on her day off—her presence and countenance appropriately intimidating. Her supreme, unquestionable erotic hypnosis, combined with her submission to the primal need at her baby soft core are among the rarest of high art.

Her permission to him—to worship and serve her—is the crowing privilege he has earned tonight. That he’ll continue to earn for the coming hours.

“I am a searing alchemy,” she intones as she notices his heartbeat visibly pulse through his shirt, awaiting her instructions.

She pauses, branding her gaze into him. The Sheba to his Solomon.

“I am the empress concubine. My drawbridge melts chariots at its gate. When other men leave their cocks elsewhere, they wither in regret. Say you understand.”

“I understand,” he murmurs.

She nods, approvingly.

“I was built to buck and and reach. . . clinch and pop at the end of a luscious sword . . . on the shaft worthy of my thrusts’ embrace...the spank and shadow deserving of my decadence. And I intend to make full ruinous use of my spoils.”

She tugs at his wrists for him to rise, as he towers over her petite frame. Pulling down for him to kneel, she bends to whisper in his ear.

“I will adore being filled by you...held up with your cock alone …my neck in your mouth. Now.”

He abides, the captive king, relinquishing his body and soul in prone position on the plush carpet.

She mounts him mercilessly with her full wanton wing span and gasps at his sharp sting, taking everything she wants, needs, deserves—which is to fuck and to be fucked feral as she straddles him, seizing his thick, purple throb.

And when she’s finished, when he is wrecked and spent, she lingers—glistening, triumphant, leaving her juices on every surface that will haunt his absence from her.

xoxo, Firefly ❤️‍🔥

p.s. What games do you like to play . . . and win?

(more about me here)