Chapter Text
“Mm, yes, harder,” Zelda moaned into her headset, glancing at the time. Eight minutes until nine o’clock. She needed to wrap this up — and she needed to wrap up the dishes. The task of tending to the mess her roommate had left in their shared sink made dealing with one of her less creative clients more bearable, the effort of having to fight against a particularly stubborn bit of Easy Mac a pleasant distraction while she made her way through practiced phrases.
The sound of her client furiously masturbating was drowned out by the sink as she blasted the damn plate with another spray of hot water. When she started this little project of hers, she’d ordered a top of the line headset, complete with specialized controls that allowed her to cut out all noise beyond a certain threshold. Her clients would only ever hear her voice, which was sorely needed when one was living with a rather inconsiderate roommate.
And when she had chores to do.
“I bet your pussy likes this, doesn’t it? I bet you wish you had this dick for real,” the man rasped between grunts.
“Oh, if only.”
It didn’t matter how exasperated she was — Zelda knew how to keep her tone just the right mix of breathless and needy, something that always drove her clients wild. They never suspected she was busy dusting, or scrubbing, or organizing her bookshelf.
In the beginning, she’d taken care to give every call her full attention, her face going red from the moment she had to say hello in what she’d hoped was a sexy voice. Instead of housework, she’d been taking notes, recording generalizations that could never be tied back to any specific client. After all, this was for her thesis, and she wanted to make sure her research was meticulous.
But, over the last nine months, she’d gathered all the data she really needed, and faking sighs and moans and even orgasms had become second nature to her. With all the data compiled and her thesis well underway, she should have quit. She certainly didn’t need the money, not with her trust fund taking care of her education and the rent on this lovely three bedroom house.
What she did need, however, was the man set to call in seven minutes. And if she turned down calls, then Dina — who already wasn’t fond of Zelda’s limited availability — would get fussy and threaten to fire her again.
“Are you going to finish inside me?” she asked, resuming her scrubbing with more vigor than before. It had likely been a mistake to take another call so close to his, but she hadn’t counted on this client spending nearly a full hour talking about his favorite sports team before he asked her to “celebrate” with him.
Thankfully, the little hitch in her voice did the trick, as she heard him exhale sharply.
Less thankfully, Link chose that moment to come tromping into the kitchen, poking her in the side and making her jump. Water went everywhere — including all over her t-shirt and sweat pants.
Zelda rounded on him, throwing the sponge hard enough to slap his face with an audible whap. Link just snickered quietly before stealing her leftover pizza from the fridge. He made a mad dash for his room, knowing full well she wouldn’t chase him.
By now, he’d learned what nine o’clock on Tuesday nights meant to her.
“Fuck, babe, that was great,” the man panted. “Did it do it for you?”
“Yes,” she replied, glancing down at her now soaked clothes. “I’m all… wet.”
“Guess I’ll have to call you again later. Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone.”
“Of course. I look forward to it.”
She hated lying to people, but little white lies like this were a part of the game. The clients who called in — individuals who typically reported chronic loneliness, affective deprivation, or time constraints due to professional obligations — knew what they were in for. They wanted another person to pretend with them, just for a little while, for a taste of that connection that was missing in their day-to-day lives.
Naturally, there was the occasional creep, but her research had shown her that on average, those who sought the company of a phone sex operator were less motivated by explicit sexual gratification and were more interested in emotional reciprocity, seeking access to intimacy without directly articulating vulnerability.
The call in five minutes was no exception. He was, perhaps, the most fascinating part of her entire study. And if she didn’t hurry, she was going to be late.
Zelda ended the call and ran down the hall to her room, stopping only to kick Link’s door on her way. There, she shut and locked her own before changing into the outfit she’d laid out on the bed — the one he’d ordered for her.
It was the most expensive lingerie she’d ever laid eyes on, gorgeous blue silk and lace that wrapped around her body like a lover’s caress. While the panties were little more than string, the bustier came with a sheer covering that flowed over her hips down to her mid-thighs, as if the garment itself teased at modesty. The lace choker tightened just right with the pull of a ribbon, sensual danger lurking inside of a beautiful disguise.
That was how she would describe him, this mysterious client she’d been talking to for the last six months. He called on a vicious schedule: nine o’clock on the dot, Tuesdays and Saturdays, and never a second later. If she didn’t pick up within the first three rings, he would hang up, and Zelda would have to wait until the next scheduled day to hear from him again — and apologize profusely for her transgression.
There was something so tantalizing in the game they played, in the way he sought her out, yet made her earn his attention. It had been a strange change of pace from her usual clientele, which was, admittedly, enticing enough to keep her invested in him when she might have chosen to walk away.
From the beginning, he’d been particular like that, so structured with his rules and limited with his patience. He demanded that she never fake anything with him, and the first time she’d sighed at him in a way he knew was not sincere, he’d grown cold. She hadn’t heard from him for two weeks, until he called back, offering her a second chance to make things right.
Her head had spun. She knew classic manipulation techniques — she was a psychology major studying human behavior, after all — so she knew exactly what he was doing to her. And the most fascinating part was that he knew she was onto him, too.
Yet she leaned in, giving him what he wanted, obeying his instructions and catering to his dark desires. It was delicious, exhilarating, only a bit terrifying, but overall relatively harmless.
Well, except for the fact that she had crossed far, far too many lines with him to consider this a purely professional relationship any longer.
Zelda went to her closet and pulled out the special case of toys he’d had her buy, bringing them over to her nightstand just in time for the phone to ring. She answered immediately.
“Sav’saaba, my king,” she greeted, excitement already setting her blood on fire.
She could almost hear the way his lips curled up into a smirk. He’d never asked her to call him that, but she’d figured out very early on that stroking his ego was, in many ways, more pleasurable to him than any touch.
“Good evening, dear Princess.”
The purr of his Gerudo accent curled around the nickname, sending shivers straight down her spine. Never had she heard someone with a voice like his, so husky and raw, so rough yet smooth with a confidence that belayed his arrogance at every turn. She dreamed of that voice, waking in hot sweats with the whispers of his words ghosting across her skin. Heat blossomed in her core, her mind already flooding with memories of every terrible command that voice had given her in the dark. Anticipation for her instructions to come made her already want to put her hands on her body, but she refrained.
He did not like her starting before he was ready.
“What has you out of breath so soon?”
A laugh slipped out of her. Her king did not abide lies, but she didn’t quite want to tell him that she’d been rushing around dressing up for him — that would mean admitting she’d been on another call, and while he didn’t disapprove of her having other clients, she was in no mood to set off his jealousy tonight. That was for special occasions only.
So instead, she said, “My roommate stole my pizza.”
“Ah,” he chuckled, so dark and deep that Zelda could only squirm, aching. “And did he get what he deserved?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
She laid back on her pillows, smiling to herself. This time, she didn’t have to fake the desire in her voice. “Because I couldn’t miss our call. I know better than to keep my king waiting for me.”
There was a slight pause. And then:
“Good girl.”
Oh, how those words went straight to every inch of her. Zelda bit her lip, hips slowly shuffling against her sheets.
“Tell me, how are your studies?”
His question was not out of the ordinary. He liked conversation, and for a while, his calls hadn’t even hinted at anything sexual. This man, prickly as he was, sought earnest connection, though he often tried to disguise it.
Typically, she was happy to engage with him, sometimes for hours. The cost never seemed to bother him, though Zelda had started to feel rather sticky about it, herself. Tonight, however, with her heart already racing and her skin aching for contact, she found that she wished they could simply skip straight to him taking charge of her, as they did on the rare occasion that he called, pent up or furious, nearly growling orders at her until he was satisfied that she was just a wreck of a girl tangled up in her own sheets.
“They’re going alright,” she replied, trying hard to keep the strain from showing. “I’ve been cutting back on volunteer hours while I complete my thesis.”
He did not answer her right away. There was a heaviness to his silence, a weight that told her she’d misspoken somehow. But she couldn’t think through the haze of want clouding her mind, warming her belly, sinking in so deep that she could hardly breathe.
Finally, he clicked his tongue at her slowly, a sound that nearly stopped her heart.
He was displeased.
“You’re impatient tonight,” he accused her, correctly. The timbre of his voice dropped even lower. “That will not do.”
A desperate No! almost left her lips, but she bit her tongue, not wanting to make it worse.
“You’ve never sounded more bored of your thesis,” he explained. She heard the crackle of leather as he presumably sat back in his chair. “You don’t want to share with me. You just want to have your fun.”
“I want you, my king,” she defended, letting just a trace of her concern through. “If you want to talk, let’s talk.”
“Hmm.”
It was always like this with him. He took his time, thinking things over so extensively, as if every simple decision were critical to get just right.
“Controlling” didn’t even begin to cover him. If a single detail were out of place, he would make it right. He’d spoken to her before about going into his office to find that his computer monitor had been moved three inches without his knowledge — apparently by a janitor who’d come in to clean — which had resulted in him having the entire staff attend a three day retraining seminar that he’d put together and banning the janitor from that entire wing of the building.
Truthfully, it was far too much for Zelda’s tastes. The man lacked grace, forgiveness — and sometimes, it seemed, he had little understanding of basic human decency.
Yet still she was wrapped around his finger, despite the fact that she would normally never entertain this behavior in any of her partners. She’d always gone for the soft-spoken type, boys who smiled shyly at her in the hallways and tried to hide their dorky sides from her. Yet with her king, his every command was a summons spoken for her soul and her soul alone.
It wasn’t lust. Well, it wasn’t just lust. There was certainly plenty of that.
But there was more, too. Something she couldn’t quite explain, something not just in the way he spoke but what he spoke of. He was brilliant, if too full of himself, yet he saw the world in a way that expanded her horizons, challenging her. They’d once spent an entire session discussing the Zora-Rito evolution theory so passionately that he’d actually called her back two hours later, needing her in a way that had been almost viciously intimate.
It remained, to this day, one of the best nights of her entire life. A man who was intellectual, articulate, and incredibly creative in all the best ways? She knew better than to let herself catch feelings for a client, but her heart, it seemed, did not agree with her. That was why he was the only one that she crossed this line with, who she laid herself down in bed and brought herself beyond the limits of her own pleasure for.
That was why, when he finally spoke again — ready to make her suffer — she awaited her punishment with eager anticipation.
“What books do you currently have on your shelves?”
Zelda stifled her groan. Making her edge herself again would have been less torturous.
“My textbooks,” she said, a bit too dryly. Then, more conversationally, she added, “There are a few literature novels, as well. You will likely be sour to hear that I am partial to the works of Sahara K. Foss, though I will not be accepting criticism at this time.”
“Oh?” He laughed. “You’re proud of trashy erotica, then?”
The audacity of this man to torment her and then judge her, as if he thought himself so above her. A tick of anger was good for her — it helped her stave off the insanity of wanting him to fuck her with his words in ways that would make even Foss blush.
“It can be very inspirational, you know. I also have several of Dr. Agahnim’s books, including the limited print of Feeding Your Inner Demon: The Power in Negative Thinking.”
She knew his silences well enough by now to know that she’d surprised him, even before that low timbre murmured, “I did not think they taught his work in your schools.”
Hesitating only a moment, she replied, “They don’t. His work is rather… aggressive, but I find it fascinating. I read it before bed, sometimes.”
“And what do you think of it?”
Answering his questions was the fastest way to get what she wanted, even if the last thing she wanted to do was talk about some old professor with a god complex. Dr. Agahnim was an enigma, a recluse who often refused to make public appearances, yet somehow had enough sway to get his works published despite community pushback against his subject matter.
“He’s brilliant, that’s undeniable,” she said, trailing her fingertips across her sheets. “But he’s completely full of himself. He writes as if his perspective is the only true way of thinking, and those who do not share his views are inherently wrong. It’s an insult to the reader at every turn, especially when he is writing something that only he finds remarkably profound. Still, I enjoy that he is unashamed to dive into the darkness of the human psyche and challenge notions that most professors would have us shy away from.”
“Is that so.” The way his voice soured raised every alarm bell in her mind. Zelda sat up, heart pounding, wondering how she’d angered him so quickly. He took a long, slow deep breath, humming almost sinisterly on the exhale. “Well, since you seem so opinionated about his work, how about we play a little game, my Princess?”
One of the benefits of meeting clients over the phone was that Zelda never had to be afraid. The company she worked for had the highest confidentiality, never giving out their workers’ numbers to anyone. She took every precaution to never mention any identifying information so that no one could stalk her. There was never any reason to be worried.
But now, with that gravel in his voice and the sickly sweet pleasantly behind it all, she felt damn near terrified.
Hanging up was not an option. Neither was refusing. She didn’t want to walk away from him, to deprive herself of all the joy and pleasure and stimulation he brought her — both of the intellectual and physical kind.
So she swallowed hard, certain that it was loud enough for the microphone to pick up, and said, “Okay.”
“Good girl.”
There was no praise to be found this time.
After some shuffling on his end, she heard him sit back down on his leather sofa and sigh.
“Feeding Your Inner Demon,” he began, strangely gleeful. “The Power in Negative Thinking. I happen to have a copy of it here in my hands. You see, I’m rather fond of Dr. Agahnim’s work. I find it quite… engaging.”
Her heart dropped to her stomach. “My king, I—”
“Are you wearing the outfit I picked out for you?”
She sucked in a breath. “Yes.”
“Then lie down.”
Zelda obeyed, head hitting the pillow softly. She stared up at her ceiling and wondered just what he was going to do to her. What she was going to let him do to her. It scared her, more than anything, that there did not seem to be any limit to what she would allow.
The sound of pages being turned with methodical precision scraped through the headset. Her pulse quickened.
“The concept of the ‘inner demon’ is, despite the melodrama of such a name, a rigorously observable psychological construct: the culmination of one’s competitive drive, grievance memory, and intolerance for submission.”
He read out the familiar passage — chapter one, which she’d gone over enough to recognize — with deliberate articulation, as if he were commanding her, as if his word were the gospel by which she should worship him. Why? Was he going to test her on the content of the book?
“That it is criminalized rather than studied reflects a wideswept preference for compliance over competence. Caress your neck gently, but do not fantasize. Once this bias is acknowledged, the failures of modern therapeutic techniques become embarrassingly easy to identify.”
It took Zelda several heartbeats to realize what he’s said, what he’d slipped in without missing a single beat. Excitement burst under her ribcage like fireworks. Trembling fingertips came up to the delicate line of her collarbone, gently trailing up. Not imagining it was him took considerable effort, and the bastard knew that. It was why he’d chosen such a command, to implant the idea of him in her mind.
Of course, he didn’t need to. There wasn’t an intimate moment in her life that she didn’t think of him, now.
“Today’s psychologists obsess over ‘positive mental attitude,’ a concept which is at best naive, and at worst a dishonest and inherently deceptive practice which limits the scope of the human experience. To instruct a person to suppress resentment, anger, or ambition is to force them to lessen themselves. Let your hands roam down to your hips and up to your breasts.”
Her hands trailed over her body, up to her aching breasts. She did not cup them, for he hadn’t specified to do so. The gentle touch did not soothe her need, it inflamed it, nearly making her whimper already.
“Are we not creating the very negativity we seek to avoid in these endeavors? Is it truly better to see a mind wracked with guilt for what are, at their core, natural human responses? Pinch your nipples and massage them until you moan for me. Negative emotions are weapons that, with proper upkeep, allow you to cut through the mental wars you would wage upon yourself and find your freedom.”
He did not pause in his reading, moving on to the next section while Zelda gratefully pinched her puckered nipples through the fabric, suppressing her moan so that she could roll them around in her fingertips a moment longer. It hurt so delightfully that the noise ripped from her throat while she rubbed her thighs together, her ache moving low and burning.
“Ah, that was fast, wasn’t it? Anger sharpens perception. Spite sustains endurance. Ambition fuels progress. Denying these forces does not improve your wellbeing — it weakens you, making you a pliable, submissive, shell of a person with no foundation of your own. This deliberate weakening is not an accident, but a consequence of a discipline that misappropriates comfort as health and obedience as virtue.”
If obedience were a virtue, then Zelda would be the most pious woman in all of Hyrule. As it was, she felt so utterly unholy, hanging on his words, praying for his next instruction to guide her out of this hellish torment.
“The world does not reward those who break themselves to fit in — it rewards those who understand precisely what they are owed, those who refuse to simper and forget every slight incurred along the way. You may slide one hand down to your inner thigh, but no further. Your demon does not demand chaos, it demands resolution.”
While Zelda let her fingers glide slowly south, so tantalizingly close to where she wanted them to really be, he turned the page. The anticipation as she heard the rustle of the paper, the creak of the leather sofa when he shifted made her head spin. She was hooked on every sound, every hint of noise that could turn into her next instructions.
“Anger that persists is an indication that an injustice remains unresolved. To neutralize that anger without addressing its cause is to treat the symptom while preserving the disease, a practice that would be unacceptable in any discipline less saturated by moral sentimentality and so-called ethics. Using only your nails, caress your thigh to your liking, but do not touch your center.”
What a torturous command. Using her nails to caress meant featherlight raking against her burning skin when she wanted to dig into her own flesh, to imagine rough hands parting her legs with a desire equal to her own. But she did as she was told, hardly able to stifle the little gasps of want and pleasure that slipped from her.
It just wasn’t enough. She needed more, oh so much more. The desperation must have echoed through her whimpering, for she swore she heard him smirk.
“You’re being quite a good Princess, aren’t you? Do you want to make this game a little more fun?”
“Yes!” she cried, trying for all she was worth not move her hips so that she could rock against her own hand. “Yes, my king. Please.”
“Hmm.”
There was a long, agonizing pause. Zelda almost broke, almost begged him to just keep talking, if only for more punishment. Anything was better than his silence.
“In your box of toys, there should be a small bottle of oil I ordered for you. Sit up, and apply a single drop to your finger.”
Like a woman possessed, she nearly shot upright, hands shaking so badly she could hardly get the box open. The oil inside was kept in a luxurious black bottle. She unscrewed the top, using the dropper to carefully apply a single bead to the tip of her finger, nearly spilling it to the floor in her haste.
Forcing herself to take a deep, calming breath — that he no doubt understood perfectly — she said, “It’s done, my king.”
“Good. Now, apply it directly to your clit and lay back down.”
Zelda did so, biting her lip hard as the oil began to take effect. It was a stimulant, derived from desert voltfruit, which produced a delightful tingle that warmed over time. Her nerves began to fray, the sensation biting at her pleasure, mounting it without giving her the friction she so craved.
She nearly collapsed, writhing so hard she almost ended up curling up, making noises she hadn’t realized she was capable of making.
His dark, satisfied laughter washed over her, making her shiver.
“What has been denoted as ‘maladaptive rumination’ is actually a failure of direction rather than pathology. When properly structured, repetitive negative thought functions as a simulation of threat, enabling one to plan and adapt, sharpening their reactionary capabilities. Take the ribbon around your collar and tug lightly.”
Obeying was becoming impossible, for her thoughts were a haze of ash and screaming need. Yet somehow, she was able to find the thin silk strand, pulling it until the lace choker tightened just enough to apply comfortable pressure around her throat.
“Individuals burdened with this form of higher cognition are routinely misdiagnosed as hostile or rigid by those who lack the skillset to follow the logic to its end. The limitation, in such cases, is not the patient. You may touch yourself, Princess, but no penetration, and only when you cannot breathe. It is worth mentioning that negative thinking is not the same creature as pessimism.”
That she would have to choke herself hardly mattered. Zelda pulled on the string until she was struggling to even gasp, her other hand immediately finding the spot between her legs that had been begging for attention all night. The remnant of oil on her fingertip was like an electrifying dose of bliss, making her buck until her hips were off the bed.
“Release the string,” he ordered calmly, carrying on while she nearly sobbed into her headset. “Pessimism is the death-rattle of those who have given up, who have starved themselves of their anger and spite until all that remains is a passive self-indulgence which accomplishes little. What I advocate is adversarial cognition: the disciplined cultivation of grievance as fuel.”
Please, please, please! she begged internally, clawing at her bedsheets to stave off her madness.
“Tighten your collar. Use every slight, every insult, every offense as motivation. Return to your ledger with the mindset of a businessman seeking not to merely balance the books, but to turn a profit and bankrupt your enemies. Now let go.”
Despite her attempt to use this offense as motivation, Zelda could not find her release in time. Her core throbbed with a painful lament as she pulled her hand away. The only control she had left in her body was the sound of his voice, the orders she had been trained to follow, even as her mind began to fracture.
And he knew it, too. The smug purr as he continued reading made her contemplate violence for the first time in her life.
“Growth is not kind,” he said, voice dropping to the darkest it had been. “Power is not gentle. When I say so, you may slip two fingers inside of you, but only while your collar is loose. You may stimulate yourself while it is tight. The inner demon — so maligned by all — is the part of you that refuses consolation, that recoils at mediocrity, that demands recompense. Feeding it gives you the clarity to realize that what others mistake as cruelty is merely the conviction to see done the actions which must be taken to inspire true and lasting change. Begin.”
It was a vicious balance, sacrificing her airflow for a chance to elicit her own pleasure. Zelda held on as long as she could, trying to bring herself over the edge, but her vision would begin to grow dark and she was forced to let go. In the moments she lay there, sucking in air, her body sucked in her fingertips, riding her own hand with abandon.
“Societies do not collapse due to excessive ambition; they stagnate due to its suppression,” he said, a pleased chuckle in his voice. “There is nothing profound or dignified in praising harmony above all else. Recognize conflict for what it truly is — diagnostic information, a guideline to a better self and a greater world. To reject this is not compassion. It is intellectual abdication.”
Stars danced across her eyes, but Zelda refused to pass out, seeking her release, chasing it, supplementing her need to breathe with the sound of him purring in her ear. She was close, so close, the fire building, her body tightening, her choked gasps stuttering, and—
“Stop. The difference between collapse and ascendancy lies not in the presence of negativity, but in whether it is permitted to act with intent.”
“I’m about to act with intent,” she growled viciously, startling them both.
The silence destroyed her.
All she could do was lay there, panting, half a moment from begging like a wanton whore for his forgiveness.
Finally, he spoke.
“Are you ready to discuss your opinion of Dr. Agahnim’s work, then? Have you, by chance, changed your mind? Or do you still think he’s quite full of himself?”
Why in the realms this mattered to him, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. Zelda would have told him anything at that moment. She would have offered to do depraved things to Dr. Agahnim if her king so demanded it, if he would just let her get off.
“He’s amazing.” Her voice shook, a barely comprehensible mess of emotion that, thankfully, he seemed to have no trouble understanding.
“Is he still the only one who finds himself remarkably profound?”
“No,” she gasped. “He is… a true genius… a… master of his craft… and…”
Zelda turned, biting into her pillow to stifle her groan as the oil began taking full effect. Her panties were a soaked mess, and she was on the cusp of tearing them off. But if she disobeyed now, if she ruined all that she had worked for tonight, she would probably combust on the spot.
“Go back to your toy box and get that very special little flower out for me, Princess.”
It took considerable effort. Her hips were rocking almost of their own accord now, attempting to find anything to alleviate the fire she’d placed on her clit. The product of her insanity ran down her thighs as she crawled over towards the nightstand, reaching for the strange device within.
Unlike her array of vibrators and dildos, this one was shaped like a rose, with a little circular hole in the center that she hadn’t been allowed to experiment with yet.
“Now lay down, and imagine me standing at the foot of your bed, watching you.”
Oh, blessed Hylia, that she could do. Her fantasies of him flared to life. He’d never described himself to her, but she could imagine him well, for though Gerudo men were rare, they all shared similar characteristics. Taller than any Hylian could hope to be, with broad shoulders and rich bronzed skin. His blood red hair would be pulled up into a tall, customary topknot, adorned with gold and a jewel that rested upon his forehead. She’d never decided if she liked imagining his eyes as gold or green better, but either way, they would be looking at her in the most obscene way, as if she were the toy.
And he always came to play rough.
“Turn the toy on.”
The rose vibrated heavily in her hand, a promise of her reward at last.
“Now imagine me crawling into bed with you. What would you do?”
“Whatever you asked, my king.”
“Would you part your legs for me like a good girl?”
“Yes.” They already were, her aching cunt on display for the ghost of him that she pictured there, running his hands up her calves.
He hummed, pleased. “Then take the toy and run it slowly up your thighs. Picture my lips there instead.”
Her body sank into the feeling, her eyes shutting as she brought the toy to her flesh. It was a strange feeling, almost like lips, suckling and caressing. Zelda thought of how he’d be greedily attentive to her, taking his time, watching the way she writhed into his touch.
“Bring it to your clit, Princess, and thank your king for his generosity.”
“Mmmmm, thank you,” she moaned as the toy made contact with the most neglected and abused part of her body. The rose felt like a lover’s tongue, soft yet firm, wonderfully warm, and eliciting an erotic pleasure that nearly unraveled her in seconds.
At last, at last her release came, barreling into her, shattering her into a thousand beautiful pieces. A scream tore from her throat, reverberating around her room. Though it had to be blistering on his ears, he only groaned.
“So fast, darling,” he murmured. Dimly, she became aware of another sound over the headset, the slick, fast strokes of him finding his own pleasure off of hers. “You really did want me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
Her cry only made him laugh.
“And will you keep going with me? I would never leave you wanting. Once is hardly enough.”
“Oh, my king.” Zelda ran a hand through her messy hair, giggling in her delirium. “I am all yours tonight.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Two weeks later, Zelda sat in the hotel ballroom, sipping on her wine while her father laughed with several of the others around their shared table. Hyrule’s Annual Psychological Science Symposium was a ridiculously prestigious event, one she’d been begging to attend for years now. Given her father’s connections, and to celebrate the completion of her thesis, he’d finally invited her to attend.
She was probably the youngest person in the room by a decade. Thankfully, she’d been dragged along to enough posh events over the years — galas, dinners, parties, and more charity events than she could name — so she didn’t feel out of place.
There had been various guest speakers over the course of the evening. The next one, due on stage in five minutes time, had been listed only as a “Keynote Speaker.”
Her interest was piqued, her mind running through the possibilities. According to the rumors she heard, it was a last minute booking for someone who hadn’t originally been slated to attend. Whoever it was, the Symposium had bumped a spiritual psychologist, Dr. Rauru, in their favor. Zelda was curious to see who would warrant such treatment.
Finally, the emcee walked up to the mic, taking a moment to gain everyone’s attention.
“Our next guest is someone who isn’t afraid to make waves for the sake of his research. He is hailed as one of the most brilliant, if not the most controversial minds in Behavioral Psychology.”
Her stomach dropped. Brilliant but controversial? Realization slowly crept up her thighs, slower than her own nails could ever be constrained to move.
Could it be…?
“Here to present his latest research in conditioning, Behavioral Adaptation Under Structured Authority, is the rather infamous Dr. Agahnim himself.”
There was polite applause, though she could hear the rustle of whispers cascading around the room as the man himself appeared on the stage. Her heart nearly burst out of her chest when she saw him, the memory of his research setting her blood on fire.
Not a day had passed that she hadn’t reread his work, imagining the sound of her king’s voice, finding release in the pages of his work. It was utterly humiliating on levels she couldn’t quite care for, not when the intensity of that night still brought her to heights she’d never imagined.
Dr. Agahnim was still every bit the enigma he’d made himself out to be. Concealed from nearly head to toe, he’d draped himself in a regal overcoat of burgundy and black, lined in solid gold patterning. There were no buttons or zippers, just heavy layers of matte fabric that gave away nothing about the man underneath. Even his hair was obscured, hidden underneath a head wrap that seemed tailor made for a king. All she could see of him were his eyes, bright and gold and piercing, even from across the room.
He approached the mic as if he owned time itself, as if everybody in the room should be expected to wait on him.
Zelda sat upright in her seat a little more, eager to hear him speak about his research firsthand, excited beyond measure for her call tomorrow so she could tell her king all about it.
But then Dr. Agahnim moved in such a way that somehow, she just knew he was smirking underneath his coverings.
And then he opened his mouth.
“Good afternoon.”
Her blood ran cold for a single second before the familiarity of that deep timbre cascaded through her, burning her alive. All her thoughts left her except for one.
Suddenly, it made perfect sense why he’d been so offended on Dr. Agahnim’s behalf.
Her king, her client — the man she’d let turn her into an absolute wreck of herself in moments she could never speak about to anyone — was standing up on the stage, scarcely a stone’s throw away.
He was here.
He was here.
“I am here today to tell you about my newest experiment, a field tested methodology which I’m sure will have you lot clutching your pearls before the night is over. You see, I have spent the last year conducting my research on unknowing subjects, attempting to elicit a conditioned obedience response that is absolute and unforgiving.”
Oh, Hylia’s blessed light.
He…
He hadn’t.
He—
Zelda downed the rest of her wine, burying her flush in the glass. Her body was on fire, her mind burning in a war between molten desire and seething fury. Every word of his was an assault on her senses, beautiful as it was scarring, delicious and wretched until she was silently begging him to say more.
These last few months, he’d been the subject of her research. Yet all along, he’d been researching her, too.
No, experimenting on her.
And it had been a resounding success.
That wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was that now she would have to sit here, at a table surrounded by the top minds in the field of study she wanted to break into, listening to a man who had trained her to fall apart at the sound of his voice.
It was already working. Every syllable caressed her, suckling at her need like the rose against her cunt.
“More wine?” A waiter asked her quietly.
“Goddess, yes,” she whispered back, hoping to hide the unhinged panic threatening to creep into her voice.
“Let me start by explaining the concept of true obedience,” Dr. Agahnim said, tone taking on that dark, seductive growl that made her a little feral.
She picked up her wine glass and said a quiet prayer for herself and for the panties that were already soaked.
It was going to be an incredibly long night.