The wind hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s grown more insistent – stronger, sharper, rattling the windows in bursts that sound almost deliberate, as if the weather itself is testing the frames for weakness. The rain comes in waves, heavy and relentless, and every few minutes there’s that deep, low howl that makes the walls feel thinner than they are. It’s been like this for hours. The kind of storm that empties the streets, that makes people rush home early, that turns the evening into something dramatic and vaguely ominous. But I’m not concerned. I’m perfectly warm, perfectly comfortable, and perfectly positioned to spend the rest of this wild night doing exactly what I do best – writing smut that will cost you more than you intended to spend.
There’s something about sustained weather like this that creates the ideal conditions for work. The world outside becomes irrelevant. The noise – constant, rhythmic, consuming – drowns out every other distraction. And the sense of being sealed inside, protected from the chaos rattling at the glass, adds a layer of satisfaction to everything I do. I’ve settled into the chair by the window, laptop open, blanket draped across my legs, watching the wind tear at the trees while I construct sentences designed to tear at something else entirely. Every gust that shakes the building reminds me how pleasant it is to be untouched by it. Every rattle of the windows reminds me that the only thing breaking tonight will be your resolve.
I don’t write erotica casually. I don’t treat it as entertainment, or as content to fill a schedule, or as something disposable that gets consumed and forgotten. What I write is deliberate. Calculated. Designed not just to arouse, but to control. A well-placed phrase can do more than a direct command. A scene that builds slowly, that withholds the release you’re craving, that leaves you suspended exactly where I want you – that’s the difference between fiction someone reads and fiction someone submits to. And submission, in this context, doesn’t end when you close the file. It begins there. Because the moment you finish reading, the moment that warm, aching haze settles over you, you’ll do exactly what you always do. You’ll send.
The wind is louder now, rattling the windows in a steady, aggressive rhythm, and I’ve poured myself something cold because writing like this requires focus – the kind of state where the words flow without hesitation, where the scenes construct themselves in layers, where I know precisely which detail to include and which to leave unsaid. I know what I’m writing tonight. I know the tone, the pacing, the exact moment the power shifts and the character realises he was never in control at all. I know how it will feel to read. I know what it will cost. And I know that somewhere out there, men are already wondering if I’ve posted something new, if tonight is the night they’ll finally show restraint, if this time they’ll manage not to spend money on another story they’ll read obsessively and then feel quietly compromised by afterward.
They won’t, of course. Restraint isn’t something they’ve mastered. Not when it comes to me.
The storm continues to build, wind howling against the walls, rain hammering the roof in waves that sound almost violent, and I’ve been writing for hours now without stopping. The document has taken shape exactly as I intended – controlled, seductive, psychologically precise. The kind of writing that doesn’t just describe desire, but manufactures it. That doesn’t ask for obedience, but assumes it. That leaves the reader feeling as though the act of reading was itself a form of submission, as though they’ve already agreed to something they didn’t realise they were consenting to. And the best part – the part that amuses me most – is that none of this will feel like manipulation to them. It will feel like choice. Like indulgence. Like something they wanted all along.
But we both know the truth. They wanted it because I made them want it. Because I understand how desire works, how control embeds itself in language, how a story can be engineered to produce a specific result. And the result, always, is the same. They finish reading. They sit back. They feel that warm, frustrated ache. And then they open their banking app and send, because the transaction isn’t separate from the experience – it’s the conclusion of it. The inevitable final line that completes the story I’ve been telling from the first sentence.
Another gust shakes the windows – hard enough that I glance up briefly, watching the glass shudder in its frame – and then I return to the screen. I’m nearly finished now, just the final paragraph left, the one that doesn’t resolve anything, that leaves the reader suspended in the exact state I intended. It’s late. The storm shows no sign of letting up. My glass is empty. And somewhere out there, men are scrolling through my site, wondering if I’ve posted anything new, checking their accounts, calculating how much they can afford to spend tonight, knowing perfectly well that ‘afford’ stopped being the relevant question a long time ago.
The question now is how much they’re willing to spend. How badly they need the experience of being controlled by something I created. How much they’re prepared to pay for the privilege of reading words I wrote while the wind rattled the windows and the rain hammered down and the world outside tore itself apart trying to get in.
The answer, as always, is more than they planned.
I’ve just saved the final draft. The storm continues – wind howling, rain lashing, that persistent rattle of glass in frames that sounds almost like impatience now – and I’m reading back through the document one last time, checking rhythm, checking pacing, checking that every sentence does exactly what I need it to do. It’s perfect. It’s deliberate. It’s expensive. And it’s ready.
The weather turned hours ago, and I’ve spent the time since doing exactly what storms like this are designed for – staying inside, staying warm, and writing something that will make the rest of your week feel like a pale distraction from the only thing that actually matters. If you’ve been waiting for something new, something that will cost you more than you intended but less than you’ll eventually spend, you already know where to find it.
The wind is still rattling the windows. I’m still perfectly calm. And you’re still going to send.