Twisted Tale
Copyright© 2025 by Susmitha Saran
Chapter 1
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This is a story about how a rich intelligent brat whose family was part of a mafia plays his games and how things turn out for him. As the saying goes, Karma is a bitch!!
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Gay BiSexual Heterosexual Shemale TransGender Fiction Incest BDSM MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Rough Torture Gang Bang Interracial Black Male Anal Sex Enema Facial Oral Sex Pegging Sex Toys Spitting Body Modification Revenge
Zotasia isn’t like other nations—it clawed its existence from the sea, a scattered kingdom stitched together from six jagged islands. Picture this: one central landmass, thick with power, encircled by five smaller isles like vultures around a kill. The world knows Zotasia as the reclusive giant, the country that turned its back on global politics centuries ago. But isolation isn’t even the strangest part.
Democracy exists here—on paper. In reality, five ancient families pull every string behind velvet curtains. Their names aren’t in history books; they’re whispered in boardrooms and brothels. My surname opened doors that should’ve stayed locked. Private jets? Mine at fourteen. A peninsula rewritten into my name? A birthday gift. Women? They fell into my lap like overripe fruit, their compliance guaranteed by the invisible stamp of my bloodline.
Each family ruled their designated island like feudal lords, fingers never straying into neighbouring waters. An unspoken law, older than the coral crusting Zotasia’s shores. But the capital island? That’s where the puppets danced. Phantom corporations, activist groups that vanished after protests—all wore the families’ collars while letting them keep clean hands.
Only one thread bound these dynasties together tighter than greed: their shared lineage, bone-white and snarling at anyone darker than parchment. Their hatred wasn’t casual—it was architectural, built into Zotasia’s foundations alongside the reclaimed land.
The Shamar family estate towered above everything else—literally. Perched on the highest peak of the northern island, our compound gave me a god’s-eye view of the sprawling docks below, where oil tankers and fishing fleets crawled like ants across the water. Everyone knew this island belonged to us. Not officially, of course, but in the way that mattered. When my father spoke, people moved. Even the ones who gritted their teeth while doing it.
I was Avon Shamar, the sole heir to this unspoken throne. At twenty, I’d grown up wrapped in the kind of privilege most people couldn’t even imagine. My parents spoiled me. Their enforcers—those grim-faced men who handled the messy side of power—treated me like a prince. Even my professors at the National University seemed to trip over themselves when I walked into a lecture hall. Sure, my grades were flawless, but I wasn’t naive. Was it my intellect, or the weight of my last name opening doors? I shrugged. Did it matter?
Friends? I had plenty. The kind who laughed a little too loud at my jokes, who jostled each other for the privilege of carrying my bag. They knew the rules: keep me entertained, and I’d toss them scraps of my attention—a nod, a favor, maybe an invitation to one of our parties. It was a game, and I was the only player who didn’t have to try.
As for my body, I kept it lean, fast—more panther than lumbering ox. Hours in the gym? Not my style. I preferred the fluid grace of a sprinter, the kind of physique that made girls press closer in crowded hallways. And there were always girls. At the university, in the city, even among the families who supposedly hated mine. They’d bite their lips, tilt their heads, and I’d choose. Simple as that.
The pub’s neon sign flickered like a dying heartbeat as we pushed through the frosted glass doors. My usual booth—the one with the perfect vantage point overlooking the dance floor—was already prepped for us before I even snapped my fingers. The manager knew better than to keep me waiting.
Below us, bodies moved in drunken rhythms, but one girl stood still—a pale, trembling doe in a sea of predators. Her pencil skirt hugged her hips too tight, her blouse buttoned up to the throat like she was afraid of her own skin. My pulse quickened when I saw her fingers twist around her purse strap. Then he arrived.
Xavier.