Monday morning.
The classroom smelled like old money and expensive perfume.
Sunlight slanted through tall glass windows, catching on diamond-trimmed pens and glossy acrylic nails. The room wasn't learning — it was posing. A parade of future CEOs and scandal cover-ups in uniforms that cost more than most families made in a month.
Arisa sat among them now.
The girls.
The elite clique.
Valeria. Sonya. Elara.
Three tiers above royalty — crueler, richer, and terminally bored. They talked during lectures, laughed at teachers, and scrolled through their phones like the world belonged to them.
Across the room, Riven sat at his usual desk.
Alone. Corner seat. Notebook open. Eyes unreadable.
NPC mode engaged.
Arisa's phone buzzed in her lap.
A private notification.
Not from the school system. Not from her synced planner.
From them.
💌 "Weekend dump 💦 check the drive, bet you can't last 2 mins 😂"
She blinked.
Thumb hesitating.
Curiosity won.
She tapped the link.
A folder opened. Video thumbnails gleamed like temptations.
She picked the first one.
The screen lit up under the desk — camera steady, high-res. Valeria was on top of her boyfriend, moaning in rhythm with the bass of a background song. The lighting was flawless. Angles perfect. Hair cascading like a movie scene. But this wasn't a leak.
It was a flex.
Valeria casually sipped juice beside her, as if the girl on screen wasn't her. As if she didn't just make Arisa's stomach twist.
Another girl leaned over — Sonya, with glittering lip gloss and a lazy grin.
"You check it yet?"
Arisa nodded weakly.
"Cute, right?" Sonya giggled. "She has like, zero stamina. We're giving her tips."
Arisa's pulse skipped. She didn't know where to look. She didn't know what face to wear.
Her phone pinged again.
💌 "Your turn tonight, Ash."
Her hands went cold.
She tried to smile — a weak thing, all nerves and no teeth.
They didn't give her space to think.
"Just be natural."
"You got that mirror in your room, right?"
"One hand. Just start there."
"No cheating. We'll know."
They laughed — light, teasing, like it was just another sleepover dare.
But it wasn't.
It was a ritual.
A pressure test wrapped in lipstick and pink emojis.
Between classes, Arisa checked the group chat again. Couldn't help it.
Each scroll deeper pulled her tighter into the spiral.
"Used the pink one, 7/10. Too soft."
"Tried it on the stairs… mom almost walked in 😂"
"He moaned when I did that swirl thing—try it."
"Hands only tonight. Let's see who cracks first."
She didn't want to read more.
But she needed to.
Her body responded in ways that betrayed her.
Fingers tingled. Thighs pressed. Her breath came shallow.
It wasn't arousal — not fully.
It was conditioning.
A low-grade fever of want and shame and addiction.
She was used to being the spider — not the fly.
Used to pulling strings — not getting tangled.
But now?
Now she was the target.
And for the first time in a long time, Arisa felt… wanted. Pulled in.
Not because they needed her.
Because they chose her.
Final bell.
Last ping.
💌 "Tonight. No excuses. Just show us you're not frigid."
💌 "We'll video call. Don't worry — just us girls 😘"
Arisa locked her phone and tucked it away.
Her fingers trembled.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.
She wanted to belong.
She wanted them to look at her the way they looked at each other.
Even if it burned.
And that —
That was exactly what they'd planned.
Across the room, Riven didn't blink.
He didn't move.
Just sat in the same stillness he always did.
But his gaze drifted toward the window.
Reflected in the glass — Arisa's face.
Lit by her phone screen. Flushed. Hungry.
He saw it.
All of it.
And said nothing.
Because if she was going to break,
She had to walk into the fire by choice.
The room was too quiet.
Arisa stood in front of the mirror, shirt half-off, fingers still trembling from the last text.
"We're waiting. Lights off. Show us what he didn't."
Her phone buzzed again — the demon girls weren't just calling. They were summoning.
Arisa swallowed hard.
She typed back with steady fingers.
"Give me 10 mins. Need to shower first."
They responded in seconds.
"Ooooh yes. Make it slow. Clean. Wet. 👅"
She turned off the phone screen and tossed it onto the bed, then turned toward the bathroom—
And froze.
There was someone in the chair.
Her study chair. By the desk.
Where no one should be.
Riven.
Arms crossed. Legs relaxed. Back resting like he'd been there for hours.
Watching her.
She didn't even scream. Her voice failed before it could rise.
The phone slipped from her fingers and landed on the carpet with a dull thud.
"You weren't supposed to be here," she whispered.
He didn't blink. Didn't smirk.
"I never left."
He stood, slowly. The silence in the room pulled tighter with every step he took toward her.
"They're going to touch you tonight," he said, his voice flat, knowing. "Aren't they?"
Arisa's breath caught.
His eyes dropped — not to her face, but lower.
Her thighs instinctively pressed together.
Too late.
He'd already seen everything.
"You hid me from them," he murmured. "Good girl."
There was a flicker of praise in his tone, but it died quickly — eaten by something colder.
"But they'll know," he continued. "One touch… and they'll feel it. And you? You won't even flinch."
He reached into his coat and pulled out something small — a hard, steel case. Medical.
She stepped back.
"You're not going to—"
"No."
"Not again."
"I'm here to fix, not to break."
But the way he said it made her knees go weak.
Not comfort.
Not mercy.
Ownership.
He knelt, opened the case, and spoke without looking up.
"Lie down."
Arisa didn't move. Not right away.
Then she obeyed.
Not because she was afraid.
Because somewhere deep inside, she already knew — this wasn't about her anymore.
The Procedure
The kit clicked open with surgical precision.
He wore gloves. Pulled out sterile wipes. Swabbed her carefully — clinically. No intimacy, no affection. Just cold control.
She felt the gel first — cold and numbing. Her body reacted out of habit, twitching, bracing. But it wasn't pain he gave her.
It was distance.
Then came the applicator — a slender, plastic stem, tipped with an invisible film. The biopolymer membrane.
Ultra-thin. Medical-grade. Designed to mimic untouched.
When he slid it in, she gasped — not from sensation, but from shame.
Because she wasn't flinching from being used.
She was flinching from being rewritten.
When he was done, he didn't speak. Not yet.
He reached for a small glass vial — perfume. He dabbed a drop between her legs.
A subtle scent. Familiar. Masculine. But disguised enough to be mistaken for luxury.
> "They'll think it's you," he said quietly, wiping his gloves. "But it'll always be me."
He closed the case. Zipped it shut. Wiped down every surface he touched.
Then he stood. Walked toward the door.
No glance back. No comment. Not even a warning.
Just presence.
Just power.
When the door clicked shut, Arisa remained lying there, stunned.
Fixed.
Reset.
Branded.
---
The Phone Buzzes
She sat up slowly, legs still slightly numb, scent still lingering in the air — his scent, beneath the fake sweetness.
Her phone was glowing again.
💌 [Demon Girls Group]:
"We're waiting. Lights off. Show us what he didn't."
She stared at the message.
And this time, her breathing wasn't panicked.
It was calm.
Measured.
Controlled.
Because she knew…
No matter who touched her tonight…
They'd never reach the part that belonged to him.
Alright, let's dive in:
Arisa is back in her room.
Lights low. Towel wrapped around her from just finishing her bath.
Her long blonde hair — now styled differently, more mature, tied in a loose, damp braid — hangs over one shoulder.
Steam still lingers in the air, curling against the glass of her mirror.
She's glowing — not just from the bath, but from nervous anticipation.
Phone vibrates.
It's the girls.
Group call: active.
She tightens the towel.
Exhales.
Connects.
"Just Girls, Right?"
The screen splits into four — each girl lounging in her own chaos of satin sheets, LED lights, or twisted sheets of luxury.
But it's Clara who speaks first.
Leaning forward, all lips and gaze and too much confidence.
"There she is. Our golden girl."
Arisa smiles faintly. "You said just upper, right?"
Another girl laughs. "Oh honey, that's just what we say to get you started."
Clara tilts her head.
"Show us what he missed."
"You did say you're single, right?"
She doesn't flinch.
She leans back in her chair, holding her phone steady.
The towel slides just enough.
Her collarbones glow under the soft light, and the top curve of her breasts peeks out — tasteful, suggestive, but far from full exposure.
The girls gasp, giggle.
Someone whistles.
Clara smiles — but it's the smile of a lioness watching a deer think it's in control.
"You're a tease," Clara purrs.
"I like that."
Arisa plays shy, turning her head slightly.
But her eyes flick back to the screen — calculating.
"You want more?" she whispers.
"Not tonight. Maybe… if you earn it."
🔥 Private Message: Clara → Arisa
[Private DM ping]
💬 "Stay back after the others leave. I want to see something."
🪞 Parallel Action:
In the mirror, Arisa glimpses herself.
Not the victim. Not the girl being pulled into a game.
The one playing it back.
She hides what Riven sealed.
She protects what only he claimed.
But she lets the rest of her become the bait.
Because Arisa, for all her madness, knows one thing:
Power is given to those who act powerless at the right moment.
As the other girls start signing off, Clara lingers.
Her voice is smooth.
Silk over a knife.
"Take off the towel."
Arisa smiles — sweet, sharp, patient.
"Tomorrow."
And ends the call.