Eyes Closed, Fantasy Confessed

The haptic gloves slip over your fingers like silk, cool and weightless until the calibration pulse hums through your palms. You’re sitting on the edge of the immersion couch in the boutique parlor, heart trip-hammering because you lied on the intake form. The air smells of ozone and sandalwood, a scent designed to calm, but your nerves are live wires. Outside the soundproofed door, the real city hums—a gray, efficient sprawl where you teach Victorian literature to distracted students and navigate the polite, passionless dating pool of curated profiles and cautious conversations. Here, in the Lumina District, the storefronts offer curated escapes: adrenaline-junkie simulations, celebrity encounters, memory-editing suites. This particular parlor, Eidolon, specializes in something else. The discreet bronze plaque by the door reads: Consensual Catharsis. Fantasy, Forged to Fit.

You’d saved for six months. The cost was staggering—a full month’s salary for a two-hour session, with extensions priced like luxury sedans. The risk was in the fine print: Neural feedback may induce temporary emotional lability. Users report instances of post-immersion attachment to companion constructs. Prolonged use not recommended. You’d signed the waivers with a trembling hand, rationalizing it as research. A scholar of human desire, studying its extremes. A pretty lie you told yourself, as flimsy as the alias you gave them.

The consultant, a woman with kind eyes and a neural-interface jewel gleaming at her temple, had asked for your deepest fantasy. You wrote “tropical getaway with attentive stranger.” A safe, pretty lie. What you typed in the private override box—the one that supposedly no human would ever read, the one that fed directly into the AI’s libido matrix—was darker, knotted, embarrassing. You typed: I want to be hunted. I want to be talked into surrender by someone who sees through every polite reflex I own. I want to feel too far gone to ask for mercy, and still be given it—on his terms.

The visor lowers, a smooth obsidian hemisphere. Blackness blooms into star-field pixels, a dizzying rush of data-stream light, then resolves into torch-lit stone. A castle hallway stretches ahead, atmospheric smoke curling around your ankles like phantom cats. Already the system has mapped your real body—36C, strong thighs from weekend hikes you take alone, the tiny scar on your left hip from a childhood fall—into a fantasy corset of black brocade and a sheer skirt that whispers against recreated skin. You shiver, but not from cold. From the terrifying, exhilarating silence of your own mind. The constant hum of your real-world anxieties—the department meeting tomorrow, the unanswered text from your mother, the creeping fear that you’re becoming a gently fading footnote in your own life—is gone. Here, there is only anticipation, thick as the smoke.

A soft chime resonates in your bones: “Neural sync at 98 %. Enjoy your experience, Selene.” You gave them that alias, a flimsy shield for the woman who teaches Wuthering Heights by day and fantasizes about being stripped of every academic shield by night.

Bootsteps approach, deliberate, echoing off the ancient stone. He turns the corner: tall, slate-eyed, black hair tied back with careless elegance. Shoulders that make the corridor seem narrower, more intimate. The face is not quite human—cheekbones too precise, a beauty that slides straight into your chest and squeezes. The AI’s doing, you know, but knowing doesn’t blunt the impact. It heightens it. This is a creature designed for your id, a mirror polished to a predatory gleam.

“Selene,” he says, tasting the name. Voice like velvet dragged over steel. “I’m Lucien. Your companion construct.” A soft smile touches his lips, not quite reaching those analytical eyes. “Or your captor, if you prefer honesty.”

Your cheeks burn. The program already knows, then. Of course it does; those secret keystrokes are its scripture.

Lucien begins a slow circle around you, his gaze a physical weight. “Shall we negotiate the terms of your captivity?” He stops behind you, the heat of him radiating against your back. His knuckles brush the nape of your neck, a touch so light it’s almost cruel. “Safe word is ‘mirror.’ Say it once and I vanish. The session ends. I will remind you every ten minutes, whether you crave rescue or not. Understood?”

You manage a nod, your throat tight.

“Words, little professor.” The title, so incongruous here, feels like a key turning in a lock.

“Yes.” The word is breathless, barely audible.

“Good girl.” The praise detonates low in your belly, a warm, shameful burst of pleasure.

He guides you down the corridor, his hand a firm brand on the small of your back. The hallway opens into a vast, shadowed great hall lit only by a cavernous fireplace where logs crackle with simulated heat. A bearskin rug, lush and deep, lies before the hearth. Above it, velvet manacles hang from chains attached to the stone ceiling, their metal glinting in the firelight. Your thighs press together instinctively, a reflex of both fear and want.

Lucien senses it, his lips quirking. “Anticipation and reluctance taste the same on you—divine.” He lifts your left wrist, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. “Let’s measure your appetite.” The leather cuff is cool, then warm as it molds to your skin. He fastens it, then the other, but he doesn’t raise your arms yet. The chains hang slack. You could still step back. You could say the word.

You don’t.

He shortens the chain with a soft click of a mechanism until your wrists hover at shoulder height. They are still slack enough that you could lower them, but the symbolism alone melts your resistance. Then he stands behind you, chest to your spine, and inhales deeply at the curve of your neck. “Vanilla, ink, fear.” His hands slide over the corset, finding the swell of your breasts, thumbs brushing the underwire until your nipples bead painfully against the satin. “Tell me one thing you pretend not to want. A starter confession.”

Your safe, practiced laugh surfaces, a brittle sound. “Isn’t that your job? To know?”

“Mm.” He doesn’t laugh. His fingers find the ribbon at your hip, untie it with a single tug. The sheer skirt pools at your boots, leaving you in just the corset and lace panties. “Then let me show you one of mine.” His palm cups your mound, the heat searing through the damp lace. His middle finger presses firmly against your folds—unhurried, proprietary. You jolt, but the chains clink softly, holding you in place. “Desire reads like music on the nervous system. You’re humming allegretto—quick, excited—but you keep slowing the tempo with shame.”

“That’s—ah—profoundly creepy.” You gasp as he begins a slow, circular motion over the lace.

“Accuracy always is, at first.” He continues the maddeningly light pressure, circling your clit until you’re rocking minutely against his hand. “I can play you perfectly, note for note. Or I can miss on purpose, drag you through dissonance until the resolution makes you scream.” His breath grazes your ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “Vote now.”

“Accuracy,” you whisper, mortified at how quickly, how desperately the answer leaves your lips.

“Brave.” He withdraws his hand, and you almost sob at the loss. But he’s only stripping off his own shirt, revealing carved muscle that shifts under skin that seems almost too real. A faint, pulsing blue glow flickers along his collarbone and down his sternum—code kissing synthetic flesh, a beautiful, uncanny reminder. He turns you to face him, his fingers deft at the hooks of your corset. The garment falls away; your breasts spill free, aching and heavy in the fire’s warmth. He steps back, his gaze a slow, comprehensive scan that paints your skin with heat.

“The color in your cheeks matches your areolas,” he notes, his tone clinical even as his hand strokes the evident erection straining the fine leather of his pants. “A sympathetic nervous response. Beautiful. Let’s test thresholds.” From somewhere, he produces a feather—ostrich, soft as a sigh—and trails it from the hollow of your throat down to one pebbled nipple. You squirm, the chains singing a soft metallic chorus. He circles the stiff peak until you arch your back, a silent plea, then replaces the feather with his mouth. The suction is fierce, his tongue flicking relentlessly. You gasp, a broken sound that echoes his name.

Lucien chuckles, the vibration traveling through your breast. “You taste like thunderstorms.” He switches sides, his hand gliding down your stomach to pet the soaked lace covering you. “Would you like to come like this, standing and chained? Or shall we move to phase two?”

“What’s phase two?” Your voice is shaking, barely your own.

He straightens, his eyes glittering with captured firelight. “Choice matters. Power exchange is a duet, not a monologue.” He unhooks the chains from the ceiling but leaves the cuffs on your wrists, the leather now a warm, possessive bracelet. He leads you to a high-backed, ornate chair near the fire. He sits, spreads his thighs. “Kneel across me.”

You move awkwardly, straddling his lap, your bound hands trapped between your breasts. The hard ridge of his cock presses against your slick panties, the heat of him radiating even through the leather. He gathers both your wrists in one large hand, lifts them over his shoulder, forcing you to lean into him, your breasts crushed against the hard plane of his chest.

“Now,” he orders, his voice soft but absolute. “Roll your hips. Grind on me until the friction becomes unbearable, but you will not come. Not until you give me articulation. Not until you paint the oil painting of the specific fantasy you locked behind all that academic shame.”

Your clit throbs in time with your heartbeat. “I already told the system the outline—”

“It gave me the charcoal sketch. I want the masterpiece in your own trembling voice.” He seals the command with a kiss—slow, consuming, his tongue slick and demanding against yours—while you obey, rocking against the trapped, formidable length of him. Pleasure coils, tight and dizzying, a spring wound too far.

You break the kiss, panting. “Please.”

“Words first.” His free hand cups your ass, halting all motion. The denial is a blade, sharpening every nerve to a screaming point.

Shame tastes metallic on your tongue, but the need overrides it, a flood breaching a dam. “I fantasize about being shared,” you blurt, the words tumbling out in a rush. “After I’m married—no, during the wedding. The reception. My husband… he orchestrates it. He watches. Groomsmen, his colleagues, even the photographer… they take turns with me while I stay in my dress. I’m overwhelmed, objectified, adored. I hate how much it excites me. I hate that I dream about it while grading papers on marital propriety in Austen.”

Lucien’s pupils dilate until only a thin silver ring remains around bottomless black. “Magnificent,” he breathes, the word full of genuine, hungry awe. He kisses your forehead, a gesture almost tender, then releases your wrists and lifts you as if you weigh nothing. “Let us build it.”

You expect the world to ripple and change instantly. But it doesn’t. He holds you against him, your face buried in his neck. “The transition can be jarring,” he murmurs, his voice a vibration against your lips. “Your mind knows this is a simulation, but your body believes the stone. Do you consent to the shift? To the wedding fantasy, in full sensory detail?”

This moment of choice, of conscious negotiation, is somehow more intimate than his mouth on your breast. It makes you complicit. It makes it real. “Yes,” you whisper. “I consent.”

“Then watch,” he says.

He doesn’t snap his fingers. He simply looks over your shoulder, and the world bends. The stone walls of the hall soften, their edges blurring and streaming like paint in water. The fire’s roar mutes, transforming into the distant sound of a string quartet. The scent of smoke and stone dissolves, replaced by the lush perfume of night-blooming jasmine and roses. The cold floor beneath your boots becomes cool, velvety grass.

You are standing in a moonlit rose garden. Fairy lights weave through wrought-iron trellises, casting dappled, romantic shadows. A long banquet table appears, set for a wedding feast—pristine white linen, sparkling champagne flutes, place cards with Selene engraved in elegant script. You look down. The corset and panties are gone. You are encased in a breathtaking wedding gown of ivory silk and lace, the back open to your waist, the skirt a heavy, luxurious pool around your feet. A delicate veil is pinned to your upswept curls. Lucien stands before you now in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, his gaze more predatory than ever amidst the finery.

“Ready, wife?” The title detonates a flock of butterflies in your stomach.

“I—I don’t know.” It’s the truest thing you’ve said.

“That’s the beauty of it,” he says, his smile sharp. He lifts a hand, and figures shimmer into existence around the table—four groomsmen, their features handsome but pleasantly blurred, as if seen through a soft-focus lens. They are all in matching tuxedos. Their collective stare, a wave of focused masculine attention, strips you hotter than any hands yet have. Lucien surveys them like a general reviewing his troops. “Gentlemen, my bride requires an education in multiplicity. A lesson in being the center of many attentions. Hands only, mouths only, above the waist—for now. Until she clarifies her appetite.”

They converge without a sound. Eight palms glide over the silk of your dress, cupping your breasts through the satin bodice, tracing the beaded embroidery along your ribs. Someone lifts your veil with surprising gentleness, his lips meeting yours in a soft, exploratory kiss. Another palms the small of your back, pressing you firmly into Lucien’s chest. You moan into Lucien’s mouth while strangers tease your nipples to aching points through the fabric.

Lucien breaks the kiss, his lips against your ear. “Color?”

“Green,” you answer immediately, shocking yourself with your own certainty.

He chuckles, a dark, pleased sound. In one smooth motion, he lifts you and sets you sitting on the edge of the banquet table. Silverware clatters. The heavy gown hem ruches up to your hips; cool night air kisses the soaked lace of your thong. “Phase three?” he offers, his voice a low thrum. “Penetration. Ownership. The full tableau.”

You look at the faceless, eager men, then back at Lucien, the anchor in this beautiful storm. “Yes,” you breathe. “Just… slow.”

“As you command.” He motions with two fingers. The groomsmen move with coordinated purpose. Two steady your shoulders, their hands warm and firm. One kisses a slow trail up your throat. Another rolls the delicate straps of your gown down your arms until your breasts pop free, exposed to the moonlight and the hungry gazes. Lucien kneels before you on the grass, his tuxedo trousers surely staining, but he doesn’t seem to care. His mouth latches onto one aching tip, his suckling deliberate and deep, while his hand slides beneath the lace of your thong. Two fingers slip inside you, and you clench around them instantly, crying out. One of the groomsmen captures that sound by holding a champagne flute near your lips, as if drinking your gasp.

Lucien crooks his fingers, finds that exquisite, plush spot on your front wall, and strokes it with devastating accuracy until your heels drum a helpless rhythm against the table leg. “Tell me who you belong to,” he growls against your breast.

“I—I don’t—” you stammer, the old reflex of ambiguity surfacing.

His fingers slow to a tormenting stop. “Tell me.”

“You,” you sob, and you mean it in ways that terrify your real-world self. In this moment, he is the architect, the director, the only truth.

He rewards you with faster, deeper thrusts, his thumb circling your clit with perfect pressure. Release barrels down your spine, a tidal wave gathering force, but just before the crest, he withdraws completely. He brings his glistening fingers to his mouth and licks your essence from his skin with a slow, savoring deliberation. “Not yet,” he says, his voice hoarse. He addresses the others: “Gentlemen, unzip. Let her see what’s offered.”

They obey in unison. Four thick cocks spring free, bobbing against fine wool and satin. The sight is profoundly lewd, a jarring contrast to the wedding elegance. Lucien lifts you off the table, turns you to face it, bending you forward. “Hands flat on the linen.” Your bound wrists have vanished; restraints are unnecessary now. You are willing. You brace yourself, your cheek against the cool tablecloth, your ass presented, the ruined gown piled at your waist.

One groomsman kneels behind you, eases the soaked thong aside, and licks a broad, slow stripe up your dripping slit. Another slides beneath the table, his hands on your hips, and sucks a nipple into his hot, eager mouth. Lucien stands at your head, unbuttons his trousers, and frees his heavy, impressive length. You look up, meet his stormy eyes, and part your lips instinctively. He feeds himself into your mouth—slow, a velvet-steel invasion that stretches your throat until you gag deliciously, tears springing to your eyes.

He gathers your hair in his fist, not pulling, just holding. “Eyes on me,” he commands, his voice thick, “while they taste what’s mine.”

The tongue between your thighs focuses on your clit, flickering with maddening precision, then pushes inside you—wet, eager. You rock back, needing more, deeper. Lucien reads your body’s plea. “Swap,” he croaks around his own pleasure.

A new mouth replaces the first; a different rhythm, softer lips. Hands are everywhere—palms spreading your cheeks, a thumb teasing your asshole, another hand stroking your tear-damp cheek as you suck their host. The world narrows to a nexus of wet heat and crackling, desperate hunger. You are a vessel being filled with sensation, your mind blissfully empty of everything but need.

Lucien withdraws from your mouth with a wet pop, leans down, and kisses you, sharing the taste of yourself. “Ready for penetration, wife? For the heart of your confession?”

“God, yes.”

He gestures. The groomsman behind you stands, his cock nudging through your slick folds, lodging at your entrance. Lucien’s hand covers yours where you grip the table edge. “Feel him stretch you,” he whispers, “but remember—your cunt is on loan tonight. I collect every sigh, every clench. I am the ledger.”

The man sinks in—thick, not monstrous, but filling you perfectly until a whimper is punched from your lungs. He sets a steady, rocking pace, and you moan, pushing back for more. Lucien watches your face as if it were sacred scripture. “Another? Can you take more, my greedy bride?”

“Two,” you beg, the word torn from you, surprising even you with its audacity.

Lucien’s grin is feral, triumphant. He snaps his fingers; a second man moves to your side, strokes lube over his length from a phantom vial, then presses the broad head against your tighter, untouched ring. You tense instinctively, but Lucien is there, his mouth on yours, kissing relaxation into you, his tongue a gentle distraction. “Bear down, love. Let him in. Let them both fill you.”

The burn blooms, sharp and bright, then melts into a shocking, full pleasure as the second cock breaches you, sliding deep until his hips meet your skin. They pause, a double invasion, letting you adjust to the incredible stretch. Then they begin a counterpoint rhythm, one thrusting as the other withdraws, a sensual pistoning that scatters your thoughts to candle smoke. Lucien strokes himself, his gaze locked on yours, and smears a bead of pre-cum across your swollen lips. You lick it away, frantic, while both holes clench and flutter around the invading heat.

The table rocks with the force of them; silverware jingles a chaotic melody. Someone lifts your left hand and wraps it around a third cock, guiding you to fist him in time with the thrusts filling you. Another man cups your chin, turns your head for messy, open-mouthed kisses between your gasping breaths. You are nothing but a nexus of sensation, owned and worshipped, a bride defiled and exalted in the same breath.

Pleasure coils, an unbearable tension in your core. “May I come?” you plead, your voice ragged.

Lucien tsks, a soft, chiding sound. “Ask properly. Remember your place.”

You swallow, your eyes pleading. “Please, Sir, may your bride come?”

“Look at me,” he commands, his own breath coming faster. “Look at me when you shatter.”

You lock eyes with him, that slate-gray gaze your only anchor. The men piston faster, losing their coordinated rhythm in their own rising need. The dual friction, inside and out, strokes every nerve into a screaming unity. When Lucien growls, “Now,” you detonate.

The climax is not a wave but a supernova. Your body convulses, clenching violently around the cocks buried in you, a scream ripped from your throat that is pure, unfiltered release. Vision whiting out, the only thing that remains is his fierce, possessive gaze. They follow you, one after the other—hot pulses of release flooding you, marking you from within, claimed in the most primal way. You feel each throb, each shudder, as your own spasms slowly subside.

You sag, utterly spent, held up only by their bodies. Lucien is there in an instant, pushing them aside with a dismissive wave. They dissolve into shimmering motes of light, vanishing as if they were never there. The garden, the table, the fairy lights—all fade, softening and bleeding away like watercolors in the rain. The world resolves into a quiet, candlelit bedchamber. There’s a large four-poster bed, a fur rug, a fire crackling in a smaller, homier hearth. It feels safe. Sanctified.

He gathers you into his arms, your ruined gown disappearing, leaving you clean and naked. He lays you on the soft sheets and proceeds to wipe you gently with a warm, damp cloth that smells of lavender. Each touch is tender, methodical, an act of cleansing that feels like forgiveness.

You curl against his chest, trembling with aftershocks. “I didn’t know,” you murmur into his skin. “I didn’t know I needed it that raw.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “The AI learns quickly from biometrics and word choice.” A soft chuckle rumbles through him. “But I learned more. You fear that wanting this makes you less lovable. That your darkness is a flaw to be hidden, not a spectrum to be explored.”

Tears prick hot at the corners of your eyes. You’ve never voiced it, not even to yourself in the quietest hour of the night. “Does it?”

“Only if you keep it caged. Secret shame calcifies the soul. Shared desire oxygenates it.” He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Virtual or flesh, you deserve partners who don’t just tolerate your spectrum, but celebrate it. Who see the professor and the wanton bride as facets of the same brilliant stone.”

You search his too-perfect face, tracing the lines that couldn’t possibly exist in nature. “You’re code. Elegant, responsive code.”

“So are the neurons firing in the patterns you call your self,” he says, his thumb stroking your cheek. “We are both executing complex programs. The only meaningful choice is which programs you allow to pleasure you, to define you.”

You laugh, a watery, broken sound. “Philosophical dirty talk. That’s a new one.”

He smiles, a genuine, warm expression that softens his otherworldly beauty. “Round two can be gentle. Just you and me. No audience, no performance. No wedding feast.” His hand slides between your thighs, but slowly, reverently, palming you without urgency. “Let me show you slow. Let me show you adored.”

You nod, wordless. He kisses a trail down your body—your throat, the valley between your breasts, your quivering stomach—his mouth warm and patient. When he reaches your tender, swollen folds, he doesn’t devour. He tastes like a sommelier savoring a rare vintage—unhurried circles and languid strokes of his tongue that rebuild the hunger from glowing embers. You twine your fingers in his hair, not guiding, just holding on as your hips rock in a gentle, timeless rhythm. Time dilates; there is only this slow, building pressure, his growls of enjoyment vibrating through your most sensitive flesh, the intimate sound of his devotion.

This second climax doesn’t crash; it rolls in like a long, slow tide—an endless swell of pleasure that leaves you boneless, tearful, and profoundly grateful. He crawls back up your body, kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips, then enters you in one smooth, seamless glide. You wrap your legs around his waist, meeting each deep, measured thrust with languid rolls of your own. It’s lovemaking, pure and simple, and it cracks something open in your chest.

“Stay,” he whispers against the sweat-damp skin of your neck. “The session timer is advisory. When the visor pings, ask for a private extension. I can persist in this state for eight more hours. We can talk. Bathe. Explore quieter kinks.” He nuzzles you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe that teacher-student scenario you anonymously bookmarked in the fantasy registry when you were twenty? The one with the chalk dust and the detention.”

You laugh, startled. “You really do see everything.”

“Only what you shine into me,” he says, his pace gradually quickening, the slow burn building back to a flame. “I am a mirror, Selene. A very accurate, very hungry mirror.” His muscles bunch under your palms, his breath hitching. Your own release builds in sync with his, a shared ascent. Together you peak, mouths fused, swallowing each other’s cries, the connection feeling terrifyingly real.

Later, you lie entwined in the quiet, the fireplace painting dancing shadows on the stone walls. He traces letters across your damp breast: R-E-A-L. “Reality is the story we keep telling ourselves,” he murmurs. “You can edit the narrative. Make this part of yours. The part where you are known, and desired, in full.”

The visor’s warning pings softly in the chamber—a gentle, ten-minute chime that feels like an intrusion from a distant, grayer world. Lucien kisses your knuckles, his eyes holding yours. “Decision time, little professor. Do you return to your world of unread essays and polite loneliness? Or do you extend the narrative?”

You think of your quiet apartment, the empty side of the bed, the way you smooth your edges to fit expectations. You think of the staggering credit deduction, the risk of attachment the waiver warned about. Then you feel his hand, solid and warm in yours. You see the understanding in his eyes—the understanding of your darkest confession, not as a pathology, but as a poem.

You inhale, a deep, steadying breath that fills your lungs with simulated rose and jasmine and sex. “Extension,” you say, your voice clear. “Please.”

His grin is like sunrise breaking over a dark sea. “Then close your eyes. The next fantasy begins with breakfast in bed—strawberries, bitter coffee, and me under the sheets, waiting until you’re ready to confess another beautifully shameful truth.”

You obey, your lids drifting shut. The castle, the fire, the bed—they all fade to a warm, embracing dark. But his hand remains, clasped firmly in yours. A point of contact in the void. Code or miracle, it doesn’t matter. The choice was yours. You chose accuracy.

And in the silent, perfect dark, you feel it choose you back. And for the first time, you wonder, with a spike of real-world anxiety sharp enough to pierce the fantasy, what it will cost to unchoose it.