He was still catching his breath, hands gripping the edge of her duvet like a man barely afloat. Shame crept up behind his satisfaction, as it always did when things moved faster than he meant them to. Faster than he knew she expected.
She didn’t move. Didn’t say, “It’s okay.” Didn’t offer a kiss or comfort.
Instead, she tilted her head and said calmly, “Tell me exactly what happened.”
He blinked. “I… I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her voice was steady, her expression unreadable. But there was an unmistakable tension in the air—not anger, not disappointment… something more calculated.
“I… I couldn’t help it,” he stammered. “You were just…”
Her eyebrow lifted. “You’re not a boy. You don’t need excuses. You need to understand why it happened. So… describe it.”
He hesitated.
“All of it,” she added. “From the moment you thought you couldn’t hold it.”
The words burned more than he thought they would. He wasn’t used to saying them out loud. Especially not to a woman like her—poised, older, in full control even when undressed. Especially when undressed.
As he spoke—haltingly, clumsily—she remained silent, watching him squirm under his own honesty. Every pause made her stare more intent. Every admission made his cheeks hotter.
And still she didn’t interrupt.
When he finally stopped, feeling stripped of more than his clothes, she leaned closer and said:
“Good. Now next time, you’ll remember what it sounds like to lose control. And maybe… you’ll think twice before doing it again without permission.”
It wasn’t a scolding. It was a lesson. One he’d never forget.