The stone staircase Ryan descended with the "unleashed devil" felt endless, as if it led straight into hell itself. Each step echoed like metal on bone, and the air was thick with the stench of sulfur and coagulated blood. The only light came from torches that flared to life automatically with each step forward, as if the dungeon itself was breathing.
At the bottom… there was a circular chamber. In its center, a black fountain bubbled with dark liquid, thick as ink. And before it stood a naked woman, her body covered in glowing red tattoos, her eyes blindfolded with a strip of black leather.
She was tall, sculpted like a sin-goddess—every muscle defined, every curve screaming perfection.
"The Blind Warden."
She slowly spread her arms as if welcoming a lover lost to centuries.
Her voice, low and deep, echoed like it was being spoken from inside your own ribs.
"Welcome, Ryan… I've seen you in the blood-dreams. You were stabbing me… pleasing me… breaking me."
He stepped closer without lowering his gaze. Her stance was an invitation—raw, primal, unquestionable. She didn't ask who he was. She didn't need proof.
She tilted her head slightly, smirking.
"Before you open the gate… you must prove you can endure pain… and pleasure… without limit."
She gestured toward the wall—where a long wooden table waited, laid with sharp tools: blades, clamps, hot wax, leather restraints.
Then she walked toward him. Ryan didn't move.
She reached for his belt, removed his weapons first, then stripped him down. She didn't see—she felt. Her fingers moved with deadly focus, as if reading ancient scripture carved into his flesh. Her covered eyes stared through the darkness, piercing deeper than vision ever could.
She whispered:
"I will lead you into a rite like nothing you've ever known. You'll scream. You'll break me. And I'll laugh."
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The Ritual Begins — Explicit Scene:
She sat him on the table. Chained his wrists—thin cuffs, tight and precise. Climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her body grinding against his rock-hard length.
Without warning, she poured hot wax onto his chest. He didn't flinch. Just smiled.
"That's it? Really?" he said.
She smiled back, wickedly. Then dug her nails into his chest, drawing blood as she slowly lowered herself onto him—inch by inch—until he was buried fully inside.
Her body consumed him like gasoline swallows fire.
She began to move—slow, circular, rhythmic—every thrust came with a new kind of touch: a twist to his nipple, a bite to his tongue, a slap to his neck. She made pain feel sacred. And turned pleasure into punishment.
In the heat of it, she moaned:
"Every scream brings you closer to the gate… every shiver unlocks another door."
He leaned in, bit her shoulder—hard. She didn't cry. She laughed.
"You might be worthy… not just to open the Shadows… but to rule them."
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Climax:
With a roar, Ryan broke the chains with brute force. Grabbed her by the waist, flipped her onto the table. Now she was beneath him—legs wrapped tight, body writhing—as he pounded into her with brutal rhythm.
The black fountain began to bubble louder. Its color shifted.
The Gate was awakening.
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Scene Ends — The Transformation Begins:
After they both collapsed, drenched in sweat and breathless, she whispered in a trembling voice:
"You're ready now… Open the gate… and unleash hell."