The room was plunged into darkness, only the flickering flame of a lamp casting long shadows on the wall. The silence was so thick it seemed to hold an ancient expectation, a secret about to be revealed. He entered, his breathing ragged, as if entering not just a room, but a destiny. She, seated with the posture of an enthroned queen, let her eyes rake over him like a cold blade. There was no rush, only the certainty of someone who knows everything belongs to them before even touching. Bruna didn't rise to receive; it was he who had to approach, kneel before that presence that blended delicacy and steel. "Kneel," she said in a low voice, a melody that brooked no reply. He obeyed, captivated by the order. His knees touched the soft carpet, but the weight on his shoulders came from her, from her gaze, from the tiny smile that held sweet cruelty. Bruna leaned in slightly, her gloved fingers brushing his face with a tenderness that burned more than any blow. She leaned close to his ear, and her whisper sounded like a sentence: "I was hungry for this body that belongs to me. Make no mistake, it's not pleasure, it's power." Her hand descended, firm, marking the path to his manhood. She held him as if claiming possession and leaving no room for doubt. She smiled, the lopsided smile of a courtesan who revels in watching submission blossom in male eyes. The slowness with which she took him was almost calculated torture. Each gesture had the precision of a pagan ritual: it fitted him with exquisite malice, as if time itself were forced to watch. Her body moved artfully—her hips creating curves that weren't just desire, but a choreography of dominance. He closed his eyes, but Bruna wouldn't allow it. She held his chin, forcing him to stare into the abyss of her gaze. "Open wide. I want you to see your own ruin unfold within me." And so she rode him, first like a priestess in a trance, then like an empress demanding tribute to the limit. Her every shudder wasn't a surrender, it was an order: for him to resist, to hold firm even as his body begged for surrender. With each wave of pleasure that made her tremble, she returned even more voraciously. She tore from him not only moans, but his very dignity as a man. When her fingers tugged at his hair with restrained violence, he realized there was no escape. "Hold on. I'm not finished with you yet," she whispered, and the whisper had the weight of an invisible whip. From his back, the dance of her body was a private spectacle, obscene only for its perfection. He saw it all—the curve of her hips, the relentless rhythm, the way she consumed him completely. It was perdition in the flesh, and he was merely the stage for her sovereignty. The pleasure came like a convulsion of the soul: sweat, screams, and total surrender. Bruna remained on top of him for a moment, her breath shallow, her body still pulsing in small waves of victory. Then she rose with cruel calm, as if nothing had happened. She dressed slowly, the lace sliding over her skin like a silent affront. She looked at him over her shoulder, and in that gesture was the promise of another condemnation: "Next time, in front of the mirror. I want to see your full face when you succumb to me again." And she left. Without a kiss, without a promise. Leaving only her perfume suspended in the air, an indelible mark of her sovereignty. He remained, his body exhausted, his mind devastated. He knew she would return. She always did. And each return was a reminder that there was no escape from a woman who knows she owns her body, her night, and her perdition.