In the grand hall of a penthouse in the light of a full moon, the hardwood floors gleaming like polished obsidian, stood Moira, an artistic epitome of porcelain and rose, posed nude and blindfolded, an offering to the night. The room was a masterpiece of modern minimalism, each piece of furniture meticulously chosen to complement the stark elegance of the space, much like the he had chosen Moira for the perfection each curve of her body exuded.

A single tear of her sweet essence, a crystal droplet of desire, began its languid descent out her swollen core and down the pale slope of her inner thigh, a glistening trail of forbidden fruit. It meandered like a lazy river, carving a path across the unblemished canvas of her skin, the dim light casting a tiny dancing shadow in its wake. The droplet paused before a delicate bend, as if considering its next move, before succumbing to the pull of gravity again.

Moira stood frozen, a statue sculpted from marble and anticipation, and beneath her serene facade, a storm brewed. Her heart hammered hard against her ribcage, each thump echoing in the dark silence like a drum of war. Sweat beaded on her brow, trickling down her neck, leaving a salty trail in its wake. She clenched her teeth, willing her body to remain still, to obey her silent command.

The droplet of femininity continued its slow descent, a tortuous journey of patience. It tickled cruelly, sensuously along the inside of her thigh, hesitated, then resumed its treacherous journey down the length of leg, barely visible yet unstoppable and oh so dreadful. The room seemed to hold its breath, watching, waiting.

In Moira’s mind’s eye, she could see him, her professor, her - her Master, tall and commanding, his dark hair swept back in careless waves, his piercing blue eyes burning deep into her soul. That cruel, wicked smile, a promise of punishment and pleasure intertwined as he watched - if he watched - her futile, silent struggle. She could feel the phantom touch of his fingers on her skin, the ghost of his breath against her ear, the promise he had made lingering like a hangman’s noose around her neck, a noose she had placed willingly around it when he had proposed the gamble.

The droplet reached her ankle, teetering on the edge in a moment of uncertainty. Then, as if it chose to end her hard endeavor with a random act of defiance, it plummeted to the floor with a quiet plip. A pearly string of reinforcements already followed in its wake, each one as eager as the first to sell out their trembling source.