The Chrono Seductress
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 1: The Night Time Broke
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Night Time Broke - Nawana is a 30-year-old Creole seductress from New Orleans, eternally appearing 23, with smooth deep-bronze skin, full curves, heavy breasts, and a shaved, perpetually slick cunt. She wields absolute temporal dominion—pausing, rewinding, fast-forwarding time at will. Ruthlessly dominant, she turns lovers into frozen instruments of her pleasure, looping orgasms, healing marks only to inflict them again, squirting violently while they remain locked in ecstasy. Nomadic and insatiable, her hunger gr
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mind Control Time Travel FemaleDom Rough Sadistic Interracial Squirting
August 2002. New Orleans was boiling alive.
The air clung to Nawana’s skin like wet velvet as she stepped out of the daiquiri bar on Bourbon Street at 2:17 a.m. Her black tank top was plastered to her back, the hem riding up to show the small crescent-moon tattoo just above the waistband of her low-rise jeans. She smelled of pineapple rum, lime, and the faint metallic bite of the tips she’d made from tourists who thought they were charming.
Victor had been waiting at the bar’s corner table since midnight.
Salt-and-pepper hair swept back, linen suit the color of fresh cream, a watch that probably cost more than her rent for six months. He’d bought her last Hurricane without asking, slid the glass across the scarred wood with two fingers, and said, “You look like someone who knows exactly what she wants.”
She’d laughed—low, throaty—because men like him always thought they were the first to notice.
They talked. Or rather, he spoke, and she let him, watching the way his eyes kept dropping to the swell of her breasts, the curve where hip met thigh. When the bar started sweeping up, he leaned in close enough that she could smell his cologne—sandalwood and money—and murmured, “My hotel’s two blocks away. Room’s already paid for.”
She could have said no.
She didn’t.
The Crescent Moon Inn sat on a narrow side street off Decatur, its neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat. Room 214 smelled of old cigarettes and industrial cleaner. The bed was king-sized but sagged in the middle. The window air unit rattled like it was having an asthma attack.
They didn’t waste time on pretense.
Victor’s hands were everywhere—rougher than she’d expected, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her hips, yanking her tank top over her head in one impatient pull. She liked it at first. Liked the way he growled against her throat, the way he pinned her wrists above her head with one hand while the other shoved her jeans down her thighs. She arched into him, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back.
Then something shifted.
His palm slid up to encircle her throat.
At first, it was pressure—controlled, almost careful. The kind of thing she’d let other men do when the mood was right. But Victor’s fingers tightened. And tightened.
Her air narrowed to a thin whistle.
She pushed at his chest. He didn’t move.
His weight crushed her into the mattress. Black spots bloomed at the corners of her vision like spilled ink. Her lungs burned. Panic flooded her—cold, bright, absolute.
This is how it ends, some distant part of her mind whispered. Not in Fire. Not in glory. Just quiet suffocation in a shitty motel room while a saxophone wailed somewhere far below.
In that suspended second—when death felt closer than breath—something inside her cracked open.
A scream without sound.
A command without words.
Stop.
Go back.
Make it unhappen.
The world stuttered.
Time didn’t slow. It reversed.
Victor’s hips pulled away. His hand loosened finger by finger, retreating down her throat like a tide going out. Air rushed backward into her lungs in sharp, reversed gasps. Sweat beads lifted from their skin and returned to pores. The sheets un-rumpled. The moment of deepest penetration unspooled—his cock sliding free in reverse until he was standing again beside the bed, pants still on, belt still buckled, looking down at her with the same hungry smile he’d worn thirty-two seconds earlier.
Nawana lay there, heart hammering, staring up at him.
She held the rewind longer than necessary—watching the violence erase itself like chalk under rain—until every trace of the chokehold, every bruise that had begun to bloom on her throat, simply ... wasn’t.
Then she let go.
Time snapped forward.
Victor blinked once, hard, swaying slightly as if a wave of vertigo had passed through him. “You okay?” he asked, voice thick with lust.
Nawana didn’t answer.
She rolled off the bed in one fluid motion, scooped her clothes from the floor, and didn’t bother putting them on. Shoes dangled from her left hand. Dress clutched against her chest. She walked past him—close enough that her bare shoulder brushed his arm—and opened the door.
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