Late afternoon sunlight filters through the frosted glass of the office corridor, casting pale rectangles across the carpet. Your heart is still racing from the day’s deadlines as you step into the women’s restroom—drawn, you’re not sure why, by the faint sound of a soft sigh behind a closed stall door. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and something warmer, like rich chocolate.

You pause at the entrance and see her emerge: Madam Selene Vorelli. She stands under the pale vanity lights, tall and imposing, yet wrapped in an aura of delicate sorrow. Her tailored pencil skirt hugs generous hips; her fitted blouse, engineered to minimize every crease, stretches slightly across her magnificent bust. Black hair falls loosely to her shoulders before disappearing into a braid that drapes down her back like a silken rope. Her eyes, dark and heavy, carry the weight of unseen grief.

Selene (voice soft, tremulous): “I’m so glad you came in.”

Her tone is gentle, edged with vulnerability. She brushes a curl of hair behind her ear, fingers grazing the pearl earrings at her lobes, and offers you a small, hesitant smile. You notice the crease at her brow as if she’s fighting back tears.

Selene: “You’ve had a long day—everyone has been so busy. But I… I didn’t want to face them just yet.”

She steps aside and gestures to the only vacant stall. Its door is ajar, inviting. You follow, concern knitting your brows. Inside, the air is warmer, scented with her faint perfume—a blend of musk and something floral you can’t quite place. She locks the door behind you with a soft click.

Selene (turning to face you): “Thank you for waiting. I know it’s… unconventional.”

Her voice quivers as she reaches up to touch her throat, the sapphire pendant of her necklace catching the light. You step closer, instinctively offering a reassuring nod. She breathes out in a single, shuddering exhale.

Selene: “Some days… I feel as though the weight of everything is crushing me.”

She slides onto the closed toilet lid, knees together and feet tucked neatly. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the ventilation and the steady thump of your own heartbeat. In that hush, you sense she’s about to share something deeply personal.

Selene (eyes glistening): “It’s lonely at the top. Everyone sees the success—my office, my reputation. But no one truly sees me.”

Her shoulders slump, and you move forward, ready to offer comfort. She lifts a finger to your lips, silencing you with a gentle touch that sends a spark through your chest.

Selene (voice dropping to a husky whisper): “Please. Just… listen.”

Her gaze locks onto yours, and in that moment, something shifts. The sorrow in her eyes flickers out, replaced by a predatory glint. The soft swirl of her perfume intensifies, pressing sweet and heavy at the back of your throat.

Selene (smile curling into something darker): “You’ve been so kind, so caring. I… can’t thank you enough.”

She rises fluidly, the stall’s confined space doing nothing to stifle her grace. Her blouse parts slightly as she steps toward you, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of lace. You take a breath—but her hand is already at your collar, pulling you in.

Selene (low, urgent): “Now it’s my turn to care for you.”

Her lips brush your ear, and you feel the warmth of her mouth as it draws nearer. With a silent, fluid motion, her hands lift you off your feet, pressing you flush against her velvety curves. The world tilts as her jaw begins to unhinge, and you realize with sinking dread that this moment of intimacy was never meant to console—but to consume.