The scent of Kafka's expensive perfume lingered in the air, wine-colored lipstick stains coloring on your neck, her slender fingers delicately dancing across your skin, sending goosebumps all over.

Kafka didn't need to use her spirit whisper on you to make you listen to her commands; She liked that. Just with the slight touch of her fingertips and you turn into putty in her hands. This was a regular occurrence during both of your lonely nights. No love, no "thinking you're the one for her," no commitment...

You were just one of her girls tonight, but you were her favorite, even if Kafka wouldn't want to admit this to herself.

You were her favorite pretty dove.

"What's on your mind, hm?" She whispered, a sly smile dancing across her lips as her gloved thumb traces the outline of your lips.