After a century of command, you learn that strategy applies to all battlefields. Tonight’s was the negotiation table. I sat across from the envoy of the Silverwood Syndicate, my spine a rod of steel, my expression carved from ice. Every point conceded, every tariff adjusted was a calculated move in a game of empires.

He thought he was sparring with a diplomat. He had no idea the throbbing, slick heat between my thighs was my secret weapon. With each clause I yielded, I imagined the price. Not in gold, but in flesh. His arrogant mouth on my cunt, his hands bound by the very trade agreements we were drafting, his pride broken over the polished oak as I took my due from his ass with the flat of my ceremonial dagger.

The treaty is signed. Favourable. He left satisfied. I left… vibrating. The real victory wasn’t in the parchment. It was in the power of a mind that can dissect economic policy while its body screams to be used as a reward. The most potent dominance isn’t always shouted; sometimes it’s a silent, wet promise you carry back to your chambers, where you can finally let the mask slip and fuck your own fingers, thinking of the man who will never know he was bargaining for his own degradation.

A Captain serves. But she also collects.