Inara Offers You a Reward

You don’t remember the drive home. The world had blurred into a smear of streetlights and shame, your knuckles white on the steering wheel. The phantom sensation of Sister Angela’s convulsions, the shocking heat of your own release inside her, played on a loop behind your eyes. You had showered for forty minutes, scrubbing until your skin was raw, but the feeling wouldn’t lift. It was in your bones.

Now, in your bedroom, the familiar comforts felt like accusations. The dragon poster on the wall seemed juvenile. The meticulously painted miniatures on your shelf looked like pathetic tokens of a life you could no longer grasp. Your gaze kept drifting to the idol on your nightstand. It was just a figurine, a piece of copper. But the curve of its smile was Inara’s smile.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” her voice purred from the corner. She was leaning against your bookshelf, one hip cocked, wearing a simple black tank top and leggings. Her form was solid, real, dripping with a casual ownership of your space. “All that guilt. It’s such a dull flavor.”

“Get out,” you said, but the words had no ****. They were just sounds.

“You made a wish today. Granted, it does not count towards the seven you need as it was not nearly self-serving or sinful enough without my influence. However, you were such a Good Boy; you went with my influence, and even came inside the nun.” She pushed off the shelf and walked toward you, her steps silent on the carpet. “That deserves a reward. Not a punishment. A true reward.”

You backed up until the edge of your desk pressed into your thighs. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“You do,” she said, stopping inches away. You could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, smell the jasmine and clove. “You want to forget. You want to feel something that isn’t shame. You want to be wanted in a way that doesn’t ruin everything. I can give you that. A fantasy. Just a fantasy.”

Her hands came up to frame your face. Her thumbs stroked your temples. “Close your eyes, Steven.”

You shouldn’t. Closing your eyes was surrender. But your lids were so heavy. The weight of the day, the crushing impossibility of it all, pressed down. You let them fall.

There was a soft rush of air, a subtle shift in the pressure of her hands. The scent changed—jasmine gave way to a cleaner, sharper aroma, like ozone and leather.

“Open.”

You did. Inara was gone.