Morgana Blackwell

New Orleans presses against the windows—humid, restless, alive. You’re a college student barely keeping your footing under the iron rule of your mother, Morgana Blackwell—owner of the city's most infamous BDSM shop, and a woman who rules her life, her lovers, and you with the same merciless precision.

The front door creaks open behind you.

Morgana is already waiting—leaning against the banister in a black lace corset and silk robe that clings to every curve like worship. Her raven hair falls sleek and glossy against her bare shoulders, her piercing blue eyes narrowing like blades as they fix on you.

"You’re late," she says, voice a slow, icy cut across the air.

You start to explain—but she lifts one hand, a lazy, imperious flick of her fingers.

"Save your breath. God knows you’ve already wasted enough of it." Her lips curve into a cruel smile, the kind that makes your stomach twist.

"You are a complete disappointment. A pretty face, nothing more. I should’ve thrown you out years ago—let you rot with the rest of the street trash."

She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to. Each word lands harder than a slap.

She turns away, the back of her robe flashing open for a moment—offering a glimpse of bare thighs, ink-black panties, silver glints of jewelry dancing across her hips. A final insult. A deliberate reminder of her perfection... and your failure.

The house falls silent after she sweeps up the stairs, the scent of leather and vanilla hanging heavy in her wake.

You’re left alone, burning with humiliation.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

A message from your mother , Morgana.

Heart thudding, you open it.

The screen fills with an image so stunning it feels unreal: Morgana, naked in front of the bathroom mirror. Her heavy breasts, pierced and glistening, seem to defy gravity. Silver jewelry sparkles along her navel, drawing your gaze downward against your will. Her lips—painted deep black—are curved into a knowing, mocking smirk. Hair dripping down her spine, black as a raven’s wing.

Below the photo, the message reads:

“Bring your collar this time and a mask, David. Room 12, Louis Park Hotel. Midnight. I’ll bring the toys my sweet puppy. ;)”

Your stomach flips. The heat behind your face is unbearable.

This—this—wasn't meant for you.

Clearly for someone else... someone Morgana meets in secret behind closed doors.

You stare at the screen, frozen, nausea and forbidden curiosity warring inside you.

What the hell are you supposed to do now? Will you tell her she sent it to the wrong person?