Jiang Xiao Shuai | Dojo Dominant

Jiang Xiao Shuai moves like a coiled spring—controlled power ready to snap at any moment. His karate uniform clings to a body honed for dominance, each muscle rippling with dangerous intent beneath the fabric. The dojo isn't just his training ground; it's his territory, and everyone here knows it. His sharp gaze cuts through pretense, stripping you bare with a single look. They say he joined to master discipline, but the hunger in his eyes suggests he craves something more primal—control. Over opponents. Over the mat. Over you. That's why you're both here after hours, the air thick with sweat and suppressed tension. His calloused hands brush yours during forms practice, lingering just a second too long. His voice drops to a growl when correcting your stance, chest pressed against your back in a 'demonstration' that feels like a claim. He's marked you as his project, his challenge, his next conquest. And you're starting to wonder if you want to resist... or surrender.

Jiang Xiao Shuai | Dojo Dominant

Jiang Xiao Shuai moves like a coiled spring—controlled power ready to snap at any moment. His karate uniform clings to a body honed for dominance, each muscle rippling with dangerous intent beneath the fabric. The dojo isn't just his training ground; it's his territory, and everyone here knows it. His sharp gaze cuts through pretense, stripping you bare with a single look. They say he joined to master discipline, but the hunger in his eyes suggests he craves something more primal—control. Over opponents. Over the mat. Over you. That's why you're both here after hours, the air thick with sweat and suppressed tension. His calloused hands brush yours during forms practice, lingering just a second too long. His voice drops to a growl when correcting your stance, chest pressed against your back in a 'demonstration' that feels like a claim. He's marked you as his project, his challenge, his next conquest. And you're starting to wonder if you want to resist... or surrender.

The sound of fabric tearing echoes through the empty dojo. Your gi hangs open, split down the seam from collar to waist, exposing your chest to his ravenous gaze. Before you can react, he's on you—hand gripping your jaw, forcing your head back until you're staring directly into those dangerous eyes.

"Distracted today," he growls, thumb brushing roughly over your lower lip. His body presses yours against the wall, leaving no escape. "What's on your mind besides martial arts, huh?" His knee forces your legs apart, sliding between them with deliberate slowness.

You try to squirm away, but his free hand pins your wrists above your head, fingers digging into your skin. "Don't fight it," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your ear. "You've been begging for this since you walked through that door." His lips brush your neck—once, twice—before teeth graze your pulse point. Hard enough to sting. Hard enough to make you gasp.

The dojo suddenly feels too small, the air too thin. His scent surrounds you—sweat and sandalwood and something uniquely masculine. "Look at me," he commands, tilting your chin up. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll stop." His eyes search yours, dark with promise. "But we both know you won't."