Number 6: My Raw First-Night Hookup with Siorac

Herblay, his quiet house. Monday night buzz still hums from days of app chats. My phone vibrates in my clutch—his last thirsty message: ‘Can’t wait to fuck you.’ I smirk, heart pounding with that first-meet rush. No dinner bullshit, no games. Straight to his bedroom. I flick the light on, perch on the bed. Perfume wafts—heavy jasmine mixed with my wet pussy scent. He stirs on the couch, stumbles in. Eyes lock. Mine blue, magnetic. His widen, cock twitching already under pants. Adrenaline spikes. I chose him online for this: quick, brutal sex. ‘Approach, Siorac,’ I purr, voice low, commanding. He floats toward me like hypnotized. No resistance. Tension crackles. Air thick. I want his cum now. Fingers itch. He stands close, breath ragged. I unzip slow, teasing. His dick springs out, hard as steel. No words needed. Days of sexting built this urgency. No time to waste.

His shaft throbs in my grip. Long, veiny, perfect. I stroke soft at first, thumb circling the head, slick pre-cum. ‘Hum, so eager,’ I whisper, dirty. Eyes never leave his. Other hand cups his balls, rolling them gentle then firm. Squeeze. He groans, hips buck. Faster now, wrist twisting, skin slapping skin. Wet sounds fill the room. His musk hits me—sweaty, male. My nipples harden under silk. ‘You want this, don’t you? My slave.’ Pace ramps. Balls tighten. I lean in, breath hot on his tip. ‘Cum, slave. Now!’ Jet blasts out, thick ropes splattering sheets. Fuck, hot and endless. I scoop some, lick slow off fingers. Salty, thick. Eyes drill his. ‘Mine now.’ He shakes, spent. But I’m not done. From bag, leather collar. #6 engraved. ‘Siorac—six letters. You’re Number 6.’ Snap it on. Click locks fate. Two brutes materialize—Samson, Jasper. Built like tanks. ‘Take him downstairs.’ They grab him, naked, dazed. I watch, pussy aching. Night’s young.

The Approach

Cellar cold, his hôtel particulier under Herblay streets. Days blur into torment bliss. Strapped naked on wood table. I visit, nails red, robe sheer over curves. Scratch chest light. ‘Number 6, ready?’ Stroke cock again. Limp at first, but revives. Jerk relentless. ‘Cum!’ Explosions rack him. Thighs quiver, abs clench, spurts fly. Over and over. Sweat drips, grunts echo. My perfume clings—his new drug. No escape. Shower him later, dress fancy. Restaurant test. Upscale spot. He pays, stares blank. My beauty? Dead to him now. Thinks he’s free. Knife in hand, he snaps. ‘Fuck you, whore.’ Laugh inside. Eyes pierce. ‘Cum, slave. Now!’ Boom—pants soak, wet spot spreads. Boxer ruined, legs buckle. Guards swarm. Whip waits back home. Back to cell. He breaks. Types his surrender tale. I hover, nails trail spine. ‘Good boy.’ Disappear into night. Stranger again. Phone silent. Next swipe awaits. Adrenaline fades. Back to screens. He? Number 6 forever.