He thought he was leading. Thought he’d be the one in control, the one showing her how good it could still feel. But when she pulled him downward and pressed his head between her thighs, the game changed.
She didn’t ask.
She instructed.
“Lower. Just under… yes, there.” Her voice was calm, almost clinical—like she’d done this a hundred times, and knew how to get exactly what she wanted.
He obeyed, tongue tentative at first, lips brushing her warmth. But she wasn’t there for gentleness. Not tonight.
“Harder,” she said, one hand tightening in his hair. “Don’t stop until I say so.”
She didn’t squirm or moan with desperation. She lay back, thighs open, waiting—merciless, focused, alive. Every time he thought he’d done enough, her fingers would press just a little harder, guiding him into places no one had touched in years.
She didn’t beg. She didn’t praise.
She commanded.
And when her body finally began to tremble, her voice dropped again.
“Now… don’t slow down.”