The private room exploded around us—not literally, though my overstimulated brain was having trouble distinguishing metaphor from reality at this point—plush pillows spilling like silk entrails across a red velvet carpet looking expensive enough to fund a small nation’s military budget.
The sandstone walls thrummed with a low, residual warmth, as if they’d spent centuries absorbing friction and were now politely returning it to the room, layered with something darker, lodged deep in my bones like a warning my body was far too distracted to process responsibly.
The air hung thick with scent—jasmine primarily, its sweetness almost cloying in concentration, mixed with the phantom traces of sweat from previous occupants, dust that had settled into corners no cleaning staff bothered reaching, and something else entirely that could only be described as sin distilled into atmospheric form.
It settled into my lungs with each slow, indulgent breath—a low, lingering burn that coated my throat in flavors I couldn’t quite name but was already certain I’d be tasting for days.
Around the room’s perimeter stood a clutter of dark wooden drawers, their surfaces crowded with golden incense lamps in every conceivable size—some tall and ornate with filigree patterns, others squat and functional, all of them poised expectantly, like props waiting for their cue.
Candles glimmered along the walls in lotus-shaped sconces, their flames too modest to banish the shadows outright but enthusiastic enough to set them dancing across the sandstone, tracing patterns that seemed vaguely obscene if you stared long enough.
Directly ahead of us sprawled a vast circular bed constructed from that same red velvet as the carpet, piled high with pillows and cushions in decadent shades of red and gold.
The Jackal women released my hand with deliberate slowness, her fingers sliding away one at a time as if savoring the loss of contact, before she began dancing around the room with a fluid grace that made physics seem negotiable.
She spun and twirled, her massive tail carving elegant arcs through the air, disturbing the candle flames and sending shadows wheeling across the walls. While she moved, she began undressing herself with the kind of practiced precision that came from having performed this exact routine hundreds of times for hundreds of different audiences.
Her fingers moved first to the golden collar piece at her throat, teasing the hidden clasp until it gave with a sharp, intimate click that cut through the low hum of the room like a promise.
The heavy metal slid free—exposing the smooth, sweat-kissed hollow of her collarbones and the plump upper swells of her breasts—before she tossed it onto a nearby drawer with casual disregard.
The silk strips followed, peeled away with agonizing slowness as she let the cool fabric drag across her sensitive peaks in long, lingering strokes. All the while her violet eyes remained locked on mine—watching, savoring, drinking in whatever expression was currently dominating my face.
The fabric clung for a moment before, with a slow roll of her shoulders, she guided the silk downward—letting it slither over the heavy curves of her breasts in a glossy cascade, tracing the undersides, skimming the soft dip of her sternum, before finally sliding free to pool at her elbows and drop forgotten to the floor.
Her breasts spilled free with a heavy slap to her ribcage—full and pendulous, the dark areolas puckered tight, nipples thick and erect, glistening faintly from the heat of her skin and the slow tease she’d subjected them to.
They swayed with her next breath, begging to be touched, sucked, bitten, while she stood there utterly unashamed, letting me drown in the sight of what she knew damn well I was trying—and promptly failing—not to imagine burying my face between.
She reached for the golden waist piece then, her fingers dancing across the hieroglyphics before finding the release. A soft metallic snap echoed, and the ornate band loosened, sliding down the generous flare of her hips to crumple at her feet in a glinting heap alongside the small purple patch that once covered her sex.
And there she stood, completely naked save for the bracers at her wrists and ankles, alongside the thin silver band marking her status.
Her cunt hung there shamelessly bared, a swollen invitation demanding worship and ruin in equal measure. The outer lips gaped wide, grotesquely plump and flushed a deep, angry violet.
At the apex, her clit throbbed fully exposed from its hood, a fat, pearl-sized knot so stiff it looked painful, glistening with a fresh bead of her arousal that trembled on the verge of falling.
Above it all, the coarse tuft of her fur was completely sodden—matted into sticky whorls, plastered to her mound by the sheer volume of her dripping need, strands of it glued together in filthy little clumps that smelled faintly of musk, salt, and pure animal rut.
With every subtle roll of her powerful hips, her lips parted wider, the tight entrance twitching and clenching visibly, forcing out another slow, viscous rope of her thick spend to join the growing wet spot on the floor beneath her.
Her hand drifted to one of the incense lamps then, coaxing a small flame into existence from nowhere I could see—magic or sleight of hand, impossible to tell in the dim lighting—before she resumed her circuit of the room, lighting each lamp in turn.
With every ignition the jasmine deepened, blooming into something rich and overwhelming, thick enough to taste on my tongue, blending with the heat seeping from the walls until the entire space felt like a fever dream of ancient temples and forbidden pleasures.
Then her orbit narrowed. The dance softened into something more intent, more focused, and she began circling me, her hands reaching for my figure without permission.
My opera gloves came off first, eased down my arms as though time itself had slowed to watch, before the garment finally slid free to join the growing collection of discarded clothing.
Cool air brushed my newly exposed skin and I shivered despite the room’s warmth, goosebumps rising along my forearms as the jackal women made a small, pleased sound deep in her throat.
My dress followed next, the fabric slipping down my shoulders, catching briefly at my hips before she tugged it past and let gravity complete its journey to the floor.
My lingerie disappeared piece by piece—the delicate bra unhooked and tossed aside, the small underwear that barely qualified as clothing pulled down my thighs and removed entirely, each garment treated with the same casual efficiency until I stood as naked as she was, my cock already half-hard and flushed an embarrassing pink.
The pouch I’d been clutching—the one containing all our chips, our entire remaining fortune—slipped from my grasp as she plucked it away with deft fingers and deposited it into a nearby drawer with barely a glance at its contents.
I didn’t protest, my brain calculating rapidly that I could overpower her if she decided to play any tricks, that my stolen abilities gave me enough edge to reclaim the pouch by force if necessary, that letting her think she had control was strategically advantageous.
"So," I began, injecting as much wit into my voice as I could muster, "do I get to know your name, or is anonymity part of the experience? Because I like to know who I’m being seduced by—helps with the mental catalogue I keep for situations that will haunt me later."
She laughed—that rich, rolling sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her chest. Then she pressed close against my back, her breasts flattening against my shoulder blades while her arms came around to cage me in place, one hand splayed possessively over my fluttering stomach while the other dipped lower, fingertips grazing the base of my aching cock without quite touching.
Her breath ghosted hot and damp against the shell of my ear, lips brushing the sensitive lobe as she purred, "Jazmin," letting the name linger between us in the humid air.
She began circling me again, slower now, raking over my naked body with clinical hunger. Her fingers trailed along my skin—shoulders, ribs, hips, thighs—mapping terrain with the thoroughness of a cartographer preparing for conquest.
"Such delicate features," she murmured, her voice taking on that particular quality of someone appraising merchandise. "Such a beautifully feminine figure."
Her gaze dropped lower, settling onto my cock with cold appraisal. The smirk curling her lips deepened into something cruelly amused, condescending, the kind of look that made my stomach twist even as my traitorous shaft gave a pathetic little twitch under her scrutiny.
"And what a cute little thing you’re working with," she purred, reaching out to trace her finger along the shaft with a pressure so light it was almost insulting. "Barely there, really. Like a child’s toy someone forgot to finish growing."
Heat rushed to my face—embarrassment mixing with arousal in ways that hinted terrible things about my psychology. I opened my mouth, desperate to spit back some cutting retort about how size didn’t matter, how skill and enthusiasm could ruin someone just as thoroughly.
But the words died unborn as she began to sniff me.
Yes, sniff me, like a dog investigating new territory, her nose pressing into the crook of my neck where my pulse fluttered wildly, until I could feel the damp heat of her nostrils flaring against my skin.
She made a sound of approval, low and rumbling, before moving to my collarbone and repeating the process. Then her hand moved, rough palms clamping around my slender wrist and yanking my arm high above my head.
The position stretched me open—ribs lifted, chest arched, every vulnerable inch on shameless display as she dove face-first into the soft hollow of my armpit.
She buried herself there with ravenous hunger, nose mashing into the damp, sensitive skin, inhaling so deeply I felt myself shiver in response.
"You smell," she breathed against my skin, her tongue darting out to taste the sweat gathered there, "absolutely divine. Like desperation, arousal, and something underneath that’s all your own—raw, primal, the scent of someone who’s been surviving on audacity and spite so long it’s soaked into your pores."
In all honesty, I should have been disgusted. Should’ve pulled away, made some comment about personal boundaries and appropriate conduct. But then I remembered who I was and instead simply stood there, frozen and compliant, letting her explore me while my cock twitched with interest despite—or perhaps because of—how absolutely degrading this situation was becoming.
She trailed lower, chasing my scent down my torso to my hips, inhaling with that same deep focus. Then, all of a sudden, her hands clamped onto my ass—fingers digging into the soft flesh and spreading my cheeks wide with shameless authority—before smashing her nose right against the tight, puckered ring of my hole. Her nostrils flared wide against that delicate skin, breathing it in as if she were sampling fine wine.
"Even here," she murmured, her voice muffled by proximity to flesh, "you smell incredible. Musky, clean, and just faintly dirty in all the right ways."
"I’m glad my hygiene meets your exacting standards," I managed to say, my voice coming out higher and more breathless than I’d intended as she circled around to the front of me once more. "Should I be taking notes? Perhaps there’s a rating system I’m unaware of? Do I get points for—oh fuck~"
The curse exploded from my lips as she nudged her nose directly against my cock, the contact sudden, electric, completely outside my prepared responses.
My composure, which had been holding together through sheer force of will and practiced deflection, cracked like poorly tempered glass.
At that same moment, my cock stiffened almost immediately, blood rushing south with single-minded determination, swelling from half-soft to achingly hard in seconds flat while Jazmin let out a few deep, approving growls, pressing her nose harder into the leaking tip and sniffing with an intensity that bordered on violence, inhaling my desperate musk like she wanted to drown in it.
Her hand trailed lower between her legs then, fingers rubbing against the slick heat of her cunt with wet sounds that echoed obscenely through the room.
I couldn’t look away—mesmerized, humiliated—as she shoved those thick digits knuckle-deep into her greedy hole, her walls visibly gripping and sucking them in, mashing against her fat, throbbing clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles that forced her hips to buck and grind forward in devastating rhythm.
Her face was flushed now, her breathing matching mine in tempo, ears flicking wildly at every choked whimper and gasp that escaped me.
When she pulled her fingers out they were absolutely coated—glistening wet with her arousal, strings of fluid connecting digits to cunt for a moment before breaking and spilling slow trails of cream down her palm.
She stood to her full height with a filthy giggle that made my cock throb even harder. Then, without breaking eye contact, she lifted those glistening, cunt-slick fingers to her parted lips and dragged them across her tongue in slow, deliberate strokes—savoring herself like the richest, most decadent dessert
"Delicious," she purred, voice husky and dripping with satisfaction as her tongue flicked out to chase the last clinging traces of her tangy flavor from between her knuckles. "Almost as good as you’re going to taste once I’m done playing with you."
I understood then with devastating clarity what I’d gotten myself into. I knew it, this woman was going to devour me completely—and the worse part was that I fully intended to let her.
In that moment, I let out a small whimper, soft and needy, pitched just right to hit her like a drug, knowing full well it would unravel whatever restraint she had left.
Jazmin’s response was immediate and overwhelming. She cooed—yes cooed, like I was some adorable creature that needed comforting—before closing the distance in one fluid step.
Her palms rose to cradle my flushed face with surprising gentleness. "Oh, poor baby," she murmured, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "Is someone getting desperate? Does my little plaything want to relieve himself already? We’ve barely even started and you’re already whimpering for release."
"I—" I started, but she pressed her finger against my lips to silence me.
"Shh. No talking unless I ask you a question. Just be a good boy and do exactly as I tell you." Her finger traced my lower lip before pulling away. "Now kneel."
I dropped to my knees without conscious decision, my body obeying before my brain could file objections. The carpet sank plush and soft beneath my trembling knees, cushioning the fall just enough to mock me—comfortable enough to stay down, but never enough to hide how pathetically submissive I looked groveling there while she loomed above me, towering and radiant with that wicked, knowing smile.
I was panting like a wild puppy—frantic little gasps that rattled out of my chest, doing nothing to slow the frantic hammer of my heart or the steady drip of pre-cum leaking from my aching cock.
Jazmin drank in the sight with obvious delight, her smile stretching wider, sharper, while her thick tail began wagging in slow, eager sweeps behind her, the genuine excitement in the motion making my balls tighten painfully.
She settled herself at the edge of the circular bed, her thighs spreading just enough to give me a perfect view of her cunt. But she didn’t invite me closer to taste, didn’t offer what my position and her spread legs clearly advertised.
Instead, she extended her foot toward me with balletic grace, the movement slow and deliberate. The arch of her foot hovered just above my aching cock before settling precisely along the throbbing underside.
Her sole pressed firm against my shaft—warm, slightly rough from her prowling, the faint texture of calluses scraping deliciously along the sensitive vein.
She began to grind upward with agonizing, unhurried pressure, the slow drag forcing my little cock to slide along the hot curve of her foot, pre-cum smearing in thick, glossy streaks across her skin with every inch she claimed.
"Such a pretty little cock," she purred while her other foot came up to wrap around the base, toes curling to grip with surprising dexterity. "So hard for me already. So desperate. I bet you’d cum right now if I let you, wouldn’t you?"
"Yes," I gasped, the word torn from my throat without permission. "Fuck, yes, I would—"
"Language," she chided, though her smile never wavered. "Good boys use polite words when they’re being touched. Try again."
"Please," I whimpered, my hips jerking involuntarily against her feet. "Please, I need—I’m so close already—"
"Of course you are, sweet thing," She cooed, the words dripping with mock sympathy and dark amusement as her arch pressed deeper, flattening my throbbing shaft against her skin and sending a fresh wave of heat straight to my core.
Just then, her rhythm turned punishing—faster, harder, grinding and squeezing with variations that kept me teetering on the razor’s edge of release without quite pushing me over.
Her toes curled around the head, massaging the sensitive spot just beneath the tip, before sliding down to stroke along the shaft while her other foot squeezed at the base hard enough to prevent release, trapping every surging pulse of cum inside me and forcing the orgasm to coil tighter and tighter in agonizing denial as my cock wept helplessly.
"Look at you," she breathed. "Shaking already. About to fall apart from just my feet. What would your crew think if they could see you right now? Their confident leader reduced to a whimpering mess."
"They—" I tried before clearing my throat to speak again, "Fuck, they wouldn’t be very surprised. Common occurrence, really."
She laughed, rich and delighted. "Honest answer. I appreciate that." Her feet resumed their punishing pace in ways that made my thighs tremble with the effort of holding myself upright. "Now let me hear you beg properly. Ask for permission like the desperate little slut you are."
"Please," I moaned, my voice breaking on the word. "Please let me cum, I can’t—I need—"
"Need what?"
"Need to cum for you," I sobbed, dignity completely abandoned in favor of sensation. "Please, just let me—"
My cock throbbed desperately, swelling even harder against her foot, every nerve screaming for release while I waited for her command, my body teetering on the absolute edge of orgasm but refusing to cross without permission because apparently my submission kink had decided to make an appearance at the worst possible moment.
Jazmin’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, her smile turning absolutely feral. "Then cum for me, pretty boy. Paint my feet. Show me what a good little mess you can make."
The permission broke whatever control I’d been clinging to.
I let out a sharp cry—wordless, raw, torn from somewhere deep in my chest—before my orgasm crashed through me with the force of a tidal wave held back far too long.
Thick, scalding ropes of semen erupted from my twitching cock, splattering her foot in heavy, pearly blasts as she gave one final grinding motion that milked every last drop from me.
White jets painted her bronze skin in obscene streaks—coating her toes in glossy puddles, flooding the rough curve of her arch, dripping in viscous rivers down the sides to pool and stain the carpet below in sticky, shameful patches.
I couldn’t stop. Wave after wave wrenched out of me, my balls clenching painfully as I kept spurting, gasping, shaking, utterly wrecked and reduced to nothing but a trembling, leaking mess.
When it finally ended—I collapsed forward slightly, catching myself with my hands on the floor while my chest heaved with ragged breaths.
Jazmin brought her hand to her mouth in mock scandal, her fingers splayed across her lips while her eyes danced with amusement. She giggled like she’d just witnessed the funniest thing in the world, her body shaking with mirth while I knelt there covered in sweat, shame, and satisfaction.
"Oh my," she cooed, pulling her cum-covered foot away with deliberate slowness. "Look at the mess you made. All over my foot. Such a naughty boy."
She crossed her legs with elegant precision, the movement causing the fresh cum to slide across her skin. Her soiled foot came to hover inches from my face—close enough that I could see every detail, every ridge and curve now decorated with my release.
The scent hit me immediately—musky, salty—mixed with the jasmine lingering in the air and the natural smell of her skin. The semen was still faintly steaming as it cooled in the air, creating small wisps of vapor that rose between us like ghosts of my dignity ascending to whatever afterlife awaited thoroughly destroyed pride.
Jazmin crossed her arms beneath her breasts, lifting them slightly in a display that was completely unnecessary given my current state, but effective nonetheless.
"Now then," she continued, her smile shifting from teasing playfulness to cold, iron command, her posture radiating the kind of raw dominance that pressed down like a physical weight. The shift in her voice alone sent a fresh pulse of shameful heat straight to my balls, making my cock jerk again before leaking a thin, watery dribble of post-orgasm to add to the mess already coating the floor.
"Sniff it," she commanded.