Time was indeed the essence.

Phei lay on his bed, staring at the clock as it mocked him with its slow progression. 10:47 PM. Two hours and forty-three minutes until showtime.

Two hours and forty-three minutes to figure out what the fuck he was actually going to do when he got there.

Because he couldn't just rely on the voice alone. The Charm Speech was a tool, sure, but it wasn't a magic "fuck me" button. He had to know what to say. How to act. What to do.

He couldn't just barge into the library and go "Aunt Melissa, strip, let's fuck."

That would be death by a thousand humiliations. Actually, knowing Melissa, probably death by one very effective call to Harold followed by actual death.

No. He needed a plan. A real one.

First thing: know what Melissa wanted and what words would actually be effective.

He knew what she wanted—at least, the porn she watched was honest enough. She liked being dominated. Rough. Held down. Used. The kind of stuff that made Phei uncomfortable to think about too hard because it was his aunt and also because he had exactly zero experience with any of this shit.

But knowing she liked dominance and actually knowing how to dominate sexually someone were two completely different things.

Phei sat up, grabbed his cracked-screen phone, and opened the browser.

He was a virgin. Completely. Utterly. He'd only ever come by himself while watching her masturbate, hadn't even touched himself most times because the risk of getting caught was too high and the shame was too overwhelming. He knew nothing about being a Dom in a scenario like this.

What to say. What to do. How to act.

So, he spent the next hours on the internet, and not just porn sites.

Porn could help, but only by like thirty percent. Porn was made to stimulate people who already knew what they wanted, not teach virgins how to actually seduce someone. He needed real information.

He found forums. Reddit threads. Blogs written by people in the Hardcore and Light BDSM community. Articles about dominance and submission dynamics. How to read body language. How to establish authority without being threatening. How to walk, talk, and carry yourself when you're trying to dominate someone who's never submitted before.

Good thing he was smart. A fast learner. Had to be, to survive this long in the Maxton house.

He took notes mentally. Practiced under his breath.

"Look her in the eyes. Don't break first."

"Speak slowly. Deliberately. Like you have all the time in the world."

"Don't ask permission. Give commands. But make them sound like offers she can't refuse."

"Touch matters. First contact has to be firm but not violent. Claiming, not grabbing."

Phei stood up, walked to his mirror. Tried different stances. Different expressions.

The sites said you had to walk like you owned the room. Shoulders back. Spine straight. Steady steps. Not rushed, not hesitant. Confident without being cocky.

He practiced walking across his room. Back and forth. Adjusting his posture. His gait. Trying to channel something he'd never felt in his entire life: power.

It felt ridiculous. Like playing dress-up in someone else's life.

But he kept at it.

The words were harder. How do you walk up to someone—your aunt—who's masturbating and take control of the situation without getting your face clawed off?

The sites said: establish yourself immediately. Make your presence known but don't apologize for it. Don't ask "what are you doing?" because that gives them the power to explain, to deflect, to turn it around on you.

Instead, you acknowledge what's happening. Own it. Make them feel seen but not judged.

Phei whispered the lines to himself, testing how they sounded with his new Charm Speech voice. They came out smooth. Confident. Almost believable.

Almost.

The real test would be when he was actually standing there, watching her, trying not to shit himself from fear.

Because here was the problem the websites had made very clear: most mature subs didn't immediately submit to young Doms. Success rate was like 60/40—sixty percent rejected the first attempt, forty percent required consistent effort over time to break through their resistance.

And Phei didn't have consistent time. He had tonight. One shot.

The only advantages he had were theoretical:

One—Melissa's fetish probably wasn't new. Two months of watching her wasn't the only time she'd been into this. She'd probably grown up with these desires, these cravings. Which meant they were strong. Deep-rooted. Unsatisfied.

Two—if her cravings were that high and that long-denied, she might be desperate enough to take a risk. Might override her logical brain screaming "this is your nephew" in favor of "this is someone who can finally give me what I need."

But then there were the disadvantages:

One—she having spend so much time with her cravings denied; she might've have come to terms with her desires never being fulfilled. Accepted that Harold would never dominate her, that her fantasy would stay a fantasy.

If she'd made peace with that, nothing Phei said would matter.

Two—it was him. Phei. The charity case she'd tormented for ten years. The kid she looked at like he was dirt on her shoe. Even if she was desperate, even if his voice worked, the sheer wrongness of the situation might snap her out of it.

Three— she fucking hated him.

Which meant his chances were, conservatively, 200% stacked against success.

"Fuck," Phei muttered, sitting back down on his bed.

Everything was against him. The odds. The circumstances. Reality itself.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered: "Let's take this like I'm courting my death."

Because that's what it was, really. Walking into that library was no different than stepping off that rooftop. Same energy. Same outcome if it went wrong.

Death, one way or another.

Phei opened his eyes and looked at the clock: 11:47 PM.

Time to get ready.

He stood up, walked to his tiny bathroom. Splashed water on his face. Brushed his teeth—couldn't show up with trash breath. Ran his fingers through his black hair, styling it as best he could. It actually looked decent when he put effort into it, falling across his forehead in that messy-but-intentional way that looked good on other people.

On him? Well. It helped. Wasn't going to make him handsome, but at least he didn't look actively terrible.

His face was still the problem. Too plain. Too forgettable. The kind of face that disappeared in a crowd. But there was nothing he could do about that except hope the Charm Speech made up for it.

His body was another issue. Tall, yeah—he had height going for him at least. But skinny. Spaghetti limbs and no muscle definition. He looked like a strong breeze could snap him in half.

Still, he changed into clean clothes. Black jeans that actually fit instead of hanging off him. A dark gray t-shirt that was plain but at least didn't have holes in it. Nothing fancy, but presentable.

Being appealing was the first step. Looking like he gave a shit about his appearance instead of looking like the kicked dog they all treated him as.

Phei checked himself in the mirror one last time.

Not good. But not terrible. The best he could manage with what he had.

12:03 AM.

Forty-two minutes until Melissa would be in the library.

But Phei needed to get there first. Needed to be waiting. Needed to already be in control of the space when she arrived.

He took one more deep breath, felt the Charm Speech humming in his throat like a living thing.

[DURATION: 22:01:34 REMAINING]

Twenty-two hours left.

But he only needed the next two.

"Alright," Phei said to his reflection, his voice smooth and confident in a way that felt like wearing someone else's skin. "Let's see if I'm actually insane or just desperate."

Probably both.

He turned off his light, opened his door as quietly as possible, and stepped into the hallway.

The mansion was dark. Silent. Everyone asleep or pretending to be.

Phei moved like a ghost through the corridors, his practiced silence carrying him down the stairs, across the main foyer, toward the east wing.

Toward the library.

His heart hammered against his ribs. His hands were shaking slightly. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, go back to his room, forget this insane plan.

But he didn't.

Because what was left to lose?

The library door was closed. No light yet. He was early, as planned.

Phei slipped inside, closed the door behind him with barely a sound. The room was pitch black except for the ambient light from the windows, the moon casting long shadows across the bookshelves.

He knew this room. Had cleaned it enough times. Knew where every piece of furniture was, where Harold's desk sat in the center, where the leather chairs were positioned.

Phei moved to the far corner, behind one of the tall bookshelves where he'd have a view of the desk but wouldn't be immediately visible when Melissa entered.

And then he waited.

12:14 AM.

Thirty-one minutes until she'd arrive.

Thirty-one minutes to second-guess everything. To feel his conviction waver. To imagine every possible way this could go catastrophically wrong.

But Phei forced himself to breathe. To remember why he was doing this.

Seven days until death. Seven different ways to die. And the only path forward was through Melissa, through this quest, through breaking every taboo he'd ever been taught to respect.

He was courting death.

Might as well do it with style.

The clock on Harold's desk glowed softly in the darkness: 12:16 AM.

Twenty-nine minutes.

Phei settled into the shadows and waited for his aunt to arrive.

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