Vienna’s Monocled Master 🌶
[Darlings, this is piece number thirteen of Two Minute Taboo. A baker’s dozen. An indulgent, delicious number. You’ve been fed regularly with a steady rhythm of sin twice per week—Fridays and Sundays. But even great experiences can start to feel ho-hum if too predictable. Pleasure is best savored, not scheduled—when the hunger lingers just a little longer before satisfaction.
From now on, you won’t know exactly when I’ll come to you—only that I will. Perhaps when you least expect it. Perhaps when you crave it most.
Stay ready. Stay wanting. ]
xoxo, Firefly ❤️🔥
(And now, without further ado . . .)
The café on Kohlmarkt glittered with low-slung elegance, its dark wood paneling and gold trim whispering the secrets of empires long extinguished. Outside, the snow fell in lazy spirals, turning the cobblestones into a lacework of light and shadow.
Inside, I adjusted my black opera gloves, their satin catching the flicker of lantern light, while the fur collar of my cape brushed against my cheek with decadent softness that stirred an ancient longing in me. The faint musk of Shalimar lingered in the air, blending with the earthy scents of coffee and melted chocolate.
He arrived like a shadow slipping into a dream, his tall, commanding frame moving with the kind of certainty that turns heads without asking permission. His coat, gunmetal grey and perfectly tailored, swept to his calves, while his ungloved hands remained tucked behind his back as if concealing more than just his intentions.
But it was the monocle perched beneath his arched brow—transparent sentinel in the amber light—that drew my attention. It was no mere accessory. It was a weapon of conquest, a focal point of control that reflected back my connective tissue in distorted fragments, daring me to look away and vaguely forewarning consequence if I did.
The soft rhythm of his boots crossing the floor matched the slow, steady drum of my pulse as he approached. His gaze was unrelenting, a tether of heat—binding, unspoken—holding me in place before he even reached the table.
When he stopped, standing just close enough to blur the edges of propriety, I raised my chin, my cheeks now flushed, my painted lips quivering into a timid smile that attempted to invite challenge as I gazed up at him.
“You sit alone in a city where no one is ever truly solitary,” he said, his voice decadent, tinged with the faintest trace of Hungarian. The monocle caught the flicker of candlelight, glinting like a reckoner’s eye as it studied me.
“Perhaps I prefer it that way,” I replied, tipping my head ever so slightly, lowering my eyes deferentially. The netting of my hat’s veil caught the light, painting filigree shadows across my cheekbones. His eyes followed the movement, lingering just long enough to send a delicious shiver down my spine.
“Or perhaps,” he murmured, his voice dropping to something murky and promising, “you are waiting, and have been doing so-- the forlorn and degenerate vixen-- until now.”
“Waiting for . . . what?” I provoked breathlessly, snapping my head up and widening my eyes at this prophet of my forbidden, dripping, imploring soul.
“For the sting of carnal honesty. For the one who sees the soft pink baby tiger at your core—the one who will stroke, suck, and feed your feral, wanton wildness.”
The words slithered through me, leaving no room for pretense.
He slid into the chair across from me, the scrape of wood against the floor startlingly forceful. His monocle flashed as he leaned forward, his voice now a silken blade.
“You await someone who will venerate you completely, who will savor your rawness and polish your savagery until it shines like duck fat. I see it in your eyes. You crave a cage, but only the kind that lets you growl for freedom while secretly reveling in the captivity where you are protected, leashed, fed, impaled, filled, and suckled like a grilled peach. Where the mighty baby tiger sleeps on Daddy’s chest.”
My breath hitched, my gloved fingers curling against the table’s edge. The storm outside churned faster, but here, in the small expanse between us, I had been made a willing captive—protected and fed by the consonance of my new keeper.
xoxo, Firefly ❤️🔥
p.s. Is there someone who you wish saw your raw connective tissue like this?