First Yes
✦ 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 & 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✦
This is a work of dark fiction. It contains explicit sexual content, emotional manipulation, consent ambiguity, age-gap dynamics, and psychological grooming.
Lucien is not a hero. He is written to be dangerous, seductive, and deeply manipulative.
This story explores how control can wear the mask of love and how someone can lose themselves by simply saying “yes.”
If you or someone you know is in a relationship that feels isolating, confusing, or controlling, please reach out for help.
You deserve safety. You deserve to be heard.
Fiction is a fantasy. Real life should never feel like this.
Resources (US & Canada):
📞 National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233
📞 Talk Suicide Canada: 1-833-456-456
📱 Text support: Text HOME to 741741 (Crisis Text Line)
This story is not about redemption. It’s about obsession, surrender, and the kind of man your friends warn you about.
Read with care. Lust with caution.
Love yourself more than he would.
TEASER:
“He never asked for more. He just made her want to give it.”
Lucien (POV)
She was still pretending, still holding on to the illusion of control, the delicate little boundary she thought she’d drawn between flirtation and surrender.
Lucien let her. He loved watching them cling to it, watching them inch toward the edge and pretend they weren’t falling.
Her dorm room was dim, fairy lights strung above her bed like a child’s dream. She was wearing that oversized hoodie again, bare-legged beneath it. The way she tucked her knees up, phone resting on her thighs, made her look small. Vulnerable. Like she was trying to disappear into comfort.
Exactly how he liked her. And he watched. Still. Quiet. Letting her believe she was the one steering.
“So...” Abby’s voice was soft, but there was a tremor beneath it. “I finally finished that art history paper. The one on Bernini.”
Lucien sipped his drink, eyes narrowed. He let the silence stretch just a bit too long before answering.
“Send it to me,” he said finally, voice smooth.
“Why?” she asked with a nervous smile. “You’re not my professor.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“No,” he said. “But my opinion matters to you.”
There it was. That blush, blooming up her throat. A subtle shift in her posture. The smile wavered, lips still curved but thinner now. A little uncertain.
Good. He let the moment settle, then asked, casually, “What are you wearing under that hoodie?”
Her laugh came quick. Too quick. “Lucien—”
“I asked you a question.”
There it was. The first time he said it that way, low, firm, expectant.
She blinked, visibly flustered. Looked down. “Just... shorts, I guess?”
“You guess?” he echoed. “Or you know?”
“I know…” Her voice was quieter now. “Why? Why are you asking…”
Lucien smiled slowly and tilted his head, letting his eyes linger on her thighs.
“No reason,” he said. “Just wondering how much you trust me.”
That made her pause. Then she laughed. “What does that have to do with my shorts?”
“Everything,” he said, voice velvet-soft. “Because if you trust me... you’ll show me.”
Her smile faltered. “I—Lucien...”
“It’s not a big deal,” he said smoothly. “Just your legs, sweetheart. You wore those shorts outside today, didn’t you? Probably passed a dozen strangers.”
“That’s different.”
“Of course,” he nodded, tone still light, teasing. “Because I am not just anyone.”
She shifted in her bed but didn’t respond.
He leaned closer to the camera, lowering his voice. “Abby. I’m not asking for anything inappropriate. Just a little peek. You can keep the hoodie on. I just want to see your thighs.”
Leave her something to keep. Take something small now.
“I don’t know...” she said, voice almost a whisper. “It feels... weird.”
“I think you mean exciting,” he corrected gently. “Don’t confuse nerves with guilt. You wouldn’t be this nervous if you didn’t want to.”
Her eyes flicked down. She bit her lip. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of the hoodie.
She’s cracking. Don’t rush. Let her believe it’s her choice.
“You want me to think about you, don’t you?” he added. “You want me to want you when I close my eyes tonight.”
Abby (POV)
Her heart was pounding.
It was just her legs. Nothing serious. Nothing sexual. She wore shorts around campus every day.
But somehow, it felt... different. Because it was for him. Because he asked her in that voice.
He hadn’t pressured her. Not exactly. But something about the way he said it made her feel like saying no would be disappointing, would break something fragile between them.
She didn’t want that.
“I... I guess I can show you,” she said, her voice small.
Lucien didn’t say anything—just watched.
She slowly uncrossed her legs, let the blanket slip away. Her thighs were bare to the camera now, pale and soft beneath the hem of her shorts.
Lucien didn’t speak right away. But she saw it—the approval, his approval. He smiled, not with his mouth, but with his eyes. Like she’d handed him something precious.
Lucien (POV)
Lucien’s gaze raked over her exposed thighs, drinking in every inch of creamy skin. He let the silence stretch, savoring her nervous anticipation.
There it was. Her skin. Just a glimpse. But it wasn’t about the skin. It was about the yes.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured. “I hope you know that.”
She blushed, tugged at the hem again like she wanted to hide. He let her, let her feel modest, let her feel like she was still in control.
Then, gently: “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”
She looked up. He could see the confusion, the weariness on her face.
“I... I thought you wanted to see...”
He smiled, slow, indulgent, dangerous.
“I only ever follow your lead, Abby. You just don’t realize how clearly you speak without saying anything at all.”
She didn’t say anything.
And he knew, he’d won.
Not because she showed her legs, but because she would spend the next 48 hours asking herself: Did I want to? Or did he make me?
That confusion? That delicious guilt? That was the real kink. That was what mattered.
Perfect. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“May I tell you what I saw?”
She blinked. Nodded.
“I saw someone brave enough to be soft. That’s rarer than you think.”
Her smile was small and tentative. That kind of smile that only blooms when someone finally feels… enough.
“I don’t take trust lightly,” he said. “When someone chooses to let me see them… it’s a privilege. Not a given.”
Lucien let it sit. A pause. Then— “And… I saw a glimpse of pink.”
Her breath hitched.
He kept his tone warm, unthreatening, composed.
“Not intentional, I’m sure. But—” he let the word linger, like an inhale drawn slow over her spine, “it was… lovely.”
She didn’t speak, but didn’t pull the camera away either.
“Soft. Innocent. Honest.” So he continued. “Very Abby.”
A pause.
“Do you know what I thought when I saw it?”
She shook her head, barely.
“I thought… what a gift, to be trusted like that.”
Still no movement, no withdrawal. The faintest change in her breath, shallower now. Her gaze flickering, unsure whether to break it.
“You don’t need to do anything more,” he said gently. “Truly.”
“But I wonder…” he mused, “what other secrets you’re hiding under that innocent exterior.”
Lucien took a slow sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact.
She swallowed hard, unable to meet his eyes. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her shorts nervously, almost like she is in guilt or perhaps a little thrilled?
“You’re quiet,” he said softly. “Thinking?”
She gave a faint nod.
“Good,” he murmured. “Thinking means I’m under your skin.”
He let the silence linger, just enough.
“Tell me,” he said, voice dipped in silk, “did it feel wrong?”
Her voice was barely audible. “A little...”
He smiled. “Don’t be. Abby, you looked fantastic.”
Another pause.
“But I want you to understand something,” he said, voice lowering, the edge sharpening just slightly. “I never take what isn’t offered. That’s not who I am.”
She blinked. Nodded, hesitantly.
He let the silence cushion her. Let the flattery sit long enough for her to start wanting to offer more. He watched her through the screen, her legs still exposed, her breath a little shallow.
Then, he softened again. “I know that wasn’t easy. Sharing that. Letting yourself be seen. And you didn’t just let me look.”
He smiled faintly. “You let me see.”
She shifted, her breath catching.
“You’ve given me something no one else has.”
A pause.
“That little glimpse… beneath the hem of your shorts. The quiet way you said yes without words.”
He sipped his drink. “And now I can’t stop imagining...”
He didn’t pounce, didn’t ask outright. Instead, he pivoted, enough to give her ground again.
“May I tell you a story?”
That made her blink. Nod.
“There was a portrait I once saw in a private collection in Florence. A woman, seated at the edge of a velvet settee. Fully clothed. But her eyes—” Lucien smiled faintly, “her eyes gave everything away.”
He took a measured sip of his drink.
“The painter didn’t ask her to disrobe. Didn’t need to. Because the most beautiful parts of her weren’t in her skin. They were in what she chose not to hide. You remind me of her. That same quiet courage.”
Abby didn’t move. She shifted, cheeks flushed, fingers curling tightening on the cuff of her oversized sweater.
He smiled, slow and soft.
A silence, thoughtful and thick.
Her cheeks flushed, fingers curling around the blanket beside her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice suddenly gentler. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
She looked up, startled by the softness. “I—I’m okay.”
Lucien smiled. “Good. Because this isn’t about pressure, Abby. I only want what you want to give me.”
He let that hang. Let her feel safe in it.
Then—
“But I have to admit,” he said, letting the pause stretch, leaning forward just enough for the firelight to catch in his eyes, “now I can’t stop wondering about them...”
She blinked. “What?”
“Your panties,” he said plainly.
She froze. He watched her mouth fall open slightly. Watched the conflict flutter in her throat.
He chuckled softly. “You don’t have to show me,” he said gently. “But after that sliver of pink… I can’t help but imagine...”
“I’d be honoured.” His voice dipped, “with just a peek of fabric.”
He gave her the out but filled it with implication.
“I just thought,” he added, “after everything you’ve shared with me... after trusting me like this... that I have earned your trust to see more of you.”
Her silence deepened. Then, softly, “I don’t know...”
Lucien tilted his head. “Of course not. This is new for you,” he said. “And I would never want you to feel used.”
He paused.
“But... do you really think I’ll be able to stop imagining it now? The colour. The texture. The way it probably hugs you just right...”
He watched her squirm.
“You don’t have to show me, Abby,” he repeated, softly now. “But if you do... I’d be very, very grateful.”
She hesitated. Another long pause. She looked down. Then slowly, shyly, adjusted her camera ever so slightly. She showed him.
Just a flash of fabric. Soft pink. Something sweet, cotton… almost childish and so innocent. Her thighs mostly hidden, but it was there.
He inhaled through his nose, letting it sear.
She’d done it.
For him.
And she didn’t even realize—he’d guided her there.
Lucien’s smile didn’t widen. But it deepened.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “You’ve made me very happy tonight.”
He let the compliment rest. Let it fill the space. Then circled back. Gently.
“I love that shade on you. Pink suits you. It’s soft. Unassuming. But it lingers.”
A pause.
“Like you.”
She laughed, half-embarrassed. “Stop...”
“I’m not asking for more,” he added. “Not tonight.”
A pause.
“Unless… there’s something that matches.”
Her breath hitched.
“I mean… your bra.”
Abby’s smile faltered. She hugged the hoodie tighter around her.
He softened immediately. “But only if you want to. Only if it feels right.”
“I... I don’t think I’m ready for that.” She shook her head.
Lucien nodded. “Understood.”
He let that sit, as if tucking something away for later.
“I misread,” he said gently. “I guess I just misunderstood the kind of trust we were building.”
That made her sit up straighter. “No, that’s not—”
“It’s alright,” he said, his voice still soft. “I guess I got the wrong impression. I thought you trusted me. That we weren’t playing games.”
“I’m not playing—”
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “I got carried away. My mistake.”
Then, almost like a whisper: “I should let you go. You probably have homework.”
He clicked off the call.
Left her with the silence.
Alone with herself, with the silence.
Abby (POV)
She sat in the quiet, still holding the phone. Hands clenched around the edges of her hoodie.
Had she ruined it? Said the wrong thing? Had she said too little? Given too little?
The silence didn’t just ring.
It echoed.
It accused.
