The Chrono Seductress
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 5: The Next Conquest
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 5: The Next Conquest - 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
The penthouse still stank of last night’s wreckage: the sharp, bleachy musk of Bob’s cum dried in crusty patches on the black silk sheets, the coppery tang of dried blood from bites that had reopened in the night, the heavy animal reek of sweat-soaked skin and overworked sex glands. The air was thick, humid, almost chewy. Nawana woke at 11:47 a.m. with the taste of him still on her tongue—salt, iron, faint whiskey—and the deep, bruised ache between her legs pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Her cunt was swollen, lips puffy and tender, inner walls raw from the relentless pounding. Every shift of her hips sent a sharp sting through her core, a delicious reminder that made her thighs clench involuntarily. Faint red handprints bloomed on her hips where Bob had gripped her; bite marks on the underside of her breasts throbbed with each breath. She hadn’t healed them yet. She wanted to feel the damage. Needed it.
She showered slowly under scalding water, letting it burn across every abraded inch. Soap stung the scratches down her back—long, parallel lines from Bob’s nails—and the hot streams ran pink for a moment before clearing. When she stepped out, steam curled around her naked body like smoke from a sacrifice. She stood dripping in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass, looking down at the snow-buried city, skin goosebumped, nipples tight from the cold kiss of the window.
By 2:14 p.m., she was dressed for the hunt: black leather leggings that molded to every curve like liquid night, a cropped black cashmere sweater that left four inches of smooth midriff bare, ankle boots with needle heels that clicked like gunshots on marble. Dark liner sharpened her eyes; blood-red lipstick painted her mouth like a fresh wound.
The lobby bar of the attached hotel was dim, warm, half-full with the after-lunch crowd. Low amber lights, slow jazz piano, the clink of ice in heavy tumblers. She took the far stool, ordered mezcal neat—the smoke of it burning down her throat like a promise—and waited.
He appeared at 2:37 p.m.
Six-three, lean but corded with muscle that spoke of disciplined violence rather than gym vanity. Late thirties. Skin the deep color of aged mahogany, close-cropped beard framing a jaw that looked carved from stone, a thin silver scar curving along the left side like a crescent moon. Charcoal suit tailored to perfection, no tie, top button undone to show the substantial column of his throat. He moved like someone who had learned early that stillness could be a weapon.
He noticed her instantly. Not the greedy sweep most men gave. Something slower. Hungrier. Calculating.
He ordered bourbon, neat, and took the stool two seats away. For five whole minutes, neither spoke. Just the low piano, the soft clink of glass, the faint creak of leather as he shifted. The silence stretched taut, electric.
Then he turned his head.
“You’re the woman who broke Bob.”
Nawana’s pulse kicked hard against her ribs. She took a slow sip of mezcal, let the smoke sear her tongue. “He talks?”
“Not with words.” His voice was low, smooth, edged with gravel that scraped pleasantly down her spine. “He walked into the office this morning like a man who’d been electrocuted and begged for more. Couldn’t sit still. Kept staring at nothing, rubbing his throat as he could still feel teeth there. When I asked what happened, he just said, ‘Don’t ask.’ Then he muttered your name under his breath like a prayer he didn’t believe in.”
She arched a brow. “He told you my name?”
“No. He whispered it when he thought I wasn’t listening.” A small, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “Nawana.”
The way he said it—slow, tasting every syllable—sent heat pooling low in her belly, made her swollen cunt throb once in response.
She turned fully toward him. “And you are?”
“Malik.” He extended a hand. Long fingers, strong knuckles, faint calluses on the pads that spoke of things gripped hard and often. When she took it, his grip was firm, warm, lingering. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist—once, deliberate—sending a shiver straight to her clit.
“I run security for the building,” he continued. “Among other things.”
“Security.” She let the word hang between them like smoke. “So you saw the cameras?”
“Cameras don’t see everything.” His eyes dropped to her mouth, then dragged back up. “Some things only show up in the way a man limps the next morning. The way he can’t meet anyone’s eyes. The way he smells like he’s been drowned in pussy and doesn’t want to wash it off.”
She laughed—low, throaty, the sound vibrating in her chest. “You’re not afraid?”
“I’m fucking terrified,” he said, voice dropping even lower. “And I’m still here.”
The piano slid into something slower, sultrier. The bar lights dimmed another notch.
Malik leaned in close enough that she could smell him: leather, oud, clean skin, the faint metallic edge of the scar on his jaw. “I want to know what you did to him.”
“I could show you,” she whispered.
He studied her for one long heartbeat. Then he stood, dropped a hundred on the bar, and offered his hand again.
They didn’t speak in the elevator.
Thirty-three floors up—his private residence, one level above hers.