He stood at the edge of her bedroom carpet, the room dim but unmistakably hers—clean, lavender-scented, with every object in its place. There was something clinical yet sensual about it. She sat on a velvet chair, legs crossed, not saying much. Just watching.
“Go ahead,” she finally said, her voice low and warm. “But slowly.”
It was a simple instruction. One that shouldn’t have made his throat dry or his hands awkward. But under her gaze, it did. He reached for the top button of his shirt, only to realize he couldn’t quite remember how to breathe.
He wasn’t used to this kind of attention—not from someone who didn’t flinch, didn’t fidget, didn’t try to look away. Her eyes never left him. They didn’t devour, exactly… they studied. Measured. As if every movement he made told her more than he ever could.
By the time he reached his belt, he could feel his chest rising faster. Not from arousal—yet—but from the heat of exposure. Not just of his body, but of his habits, his hesitations. She wasn’t admiring him like a lover… she was evaluating him like a subject.
“Hands to your side,” she murmured when he paused. “Don’t cover anything.”
And so he stood there, bare, breathing shallow, unsure if he was trembling from anticipation or the cold draft brushing his skin. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes trailing down, not hungrily—but thoughtfully. Like she’d seen it all before, and now she wanted to see how he reacted to being seen.
He thought she might get up. Come to him. But instead, she said, “Now tell me… how does it feel, knowing I’ve already made up my mind?”
That’s when he realized: the undressing wasn’t for her to enjoy what she saw. It was for him to feel what it meant to be exposed—and owned.