LyraWhen the mistress announced the test’s start, fine mist curled around Lyra’s ankles, cold as death, thick as fog. She inhaled, and it took her, stealing the strength from her limbs. She tried to step back, but her muscles were no longer her own.The mistress circled her, rustling robes tracking her steps. “Do you feel that, little mouse?” she murmured. “what its like to lose control.”Lyra tried to claw her way out of the magic’s haze that spread through her like honey through tea. The paralysis forced surrender, weaving around her, brushing against her like a lover’s sigh, teasing, tempting. It stroked along the curve of her spine, danced across her collarbone. Every nerve sang, every touch burning pleasure into her senses. It was too much and yet she didn’t want it to stop.“Fascinating,” the mistress purred, watching her. “You’re so receptive.”The mistress’s fingers trailed Lyra's arm, featherlight and electric. The touch shouldn’t have felt good. It shouldn’t have made her b
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