It started with a simple gesture—his hand brushing against the small of her back, fingers lingering near the zipper of her dress. He hesitated, waiting for a cue. She gave him one—not with words, but with a subtle nod and a soft tilt of her body toward his touch.
He reached for the zipper.
Before he could pull it down, her hands slid over his—not stopping him, but redirecting. She moved his fingers just a few inches lower, then back up, making him feel the rhythm she wanted, not the one he thought was right.
Her control wasn’t aggressive. It was precise. Patient.
She was teaching him without saying a word.
Once the zipper gave way, she turned slowly and faced him—eyes steady, lips barely parted. She stepped close, her hands now on his hips. He thought the moment was his. But again, she corrected him.
She pulled his hips forward with subtle pressure—closer, closer, until their bodies aligned. He felt it in his knees, in his breath, in the way his muscles tensed, waiting for instruction.
And then she moved—slowly, deliberately—guiding both their bodies into position.
His hands, once confident, now followed hers.
She wasn’t asking him to take the lead.
She was making sure he learned how to follow.