"Not every king rules. Some kneel—and that's where their kingdom begins."
---
Dominic Hayes—the man who once ruled boardrooms, bent governments, and walked through fire without flinching—was kneeling.
Again.
But this time, it wasn't just for pleasure.
It wasn't about lust.
It was worship.
Lyra stood before him, her red silk gown flowing like spilled blood down her thighs, her bare foot resting on the marble floor just inches from his trembling fingers.
"You know why I brought you here?" she asked, her voice calm, cool, wicked.
"To teach me," he whispered, eyes lowered.
She tilted his chin up. "To unmake you."
Dominic exhaled, and the sound was a prayer. "Then undo me."
Lyra turned, leading him into the darkened sanctum of her inner chambers. It was a room few had ever seen—half cathedral, half chamber of desire. Velvet curtains, golden chains, flickering candles, and a throne carved from black obsidian stood at its center.
But it was not her throne.
It was his.
She pointed to it. "Sit."
He hesitated. "I thought I was to kneel."
"You will. But only once you've felt what it's like to sit in a place of power that isn't yours." Her gaze was ice and wildfire. "Then I'll strip it away."
Dominic sat. The throne was cold. Heavy. And unfamiliar. It felt nothing like the dominance he once wielded in corporate towers.
Lyra moved closer, circling him. Her fingers brushed his shoulders, his chest, and finally the collar around his throat.
"This throne isn't for kings," she murmured. "It's a mirror. And what I see is a man still pretending to lead… when he was born to follow."
He trembled, his hands tightening on the armrests.
"Then take it," he whispered. "Take it all from me."
Lyra grinned like a goddess made of sin.
"Oh, darling… I already have."
---
That night, Dominic's cries echoed against candlelit walls.
His body was hers. His will was unraveling. His name—once whispered in fear—was now moaned in reverence.
He begged.
He offered.
He yielded.
And when he broke beneath her again, it wasn't defeat.
It was ascension.