Something flickers in his expression—pleasure, confusion, want—all mixed together. It confirms what I’ve been suspecting since our first interaction.
“I have a theory about you, Owen.”
His eyes widen. “A theory?”
I take the final step that brings me in front of him. Without conscious thought, his knees part, creating space for me between his legs. I slide into that space, a perfect fit. The position forces him to look up at me, emphasizing the power differential between us.
“Yes.” My hand lifts to his face, fingers ghosting along his jawline. His skin is smooth, freshly shaved. I brush my thumb across his cheekbone where the flush is most pronounced.
Owen swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What kind of theory?”
“I think you like following commands.” I keep my tone matter-of-fact, as if I’m delivering a diagnosis. “I think you respond to authority. To structure. To being told what to do.”
The flush spreads further, creeping down his neck beneath the collar of his t-shirt. He doesn’t confirm or deny, but his silence is answer enough.
“Am I wrong?” I press, my fingers moving to trace the outline of his ear, down the sensitive skin behind it.
He shivers, his gaze dropping to the floor. But I can see this evasion isn’t denial—it’s recognition. My theory is hitting its mark.
“Look at me,” I say, not a request but an order.
His eyes snap back to mine, confirming yet again what I’ve suspected. He responds to direct commands with instinctive obedience.
“Where do you like to submit, Owen? In what contexts?” My arousal builds as I ask the question. I make no effort to hide it—my shorts do little to conceal my growing erection.
Owen’s gaze flickers, noticing. His lips part, but no words come out.
“You don’t have to answer,” I tell him. “Your body is already telling me what I need to know.”
My thumb moves to his lips, tracing their fullness. They’re plush and pink. I remember how they felt against mine behind the waterfall—eager, responsive. I wonder how they’ll feel elsewhere.
I press my thumb against the seam of his lips. “Open your mouth.”
There’s a momentary hesitation—a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—then his lips part, accepting my thumb. The wet heat sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my groin.
“Now suck.”
He closes his eyes, hollowing his cheeks as he follows my instruction.
The sight pulls a groan from deep in my chest. “Good boy.”
His response to the praise is immediate and unmistakable—a low moan vibrating around my thumb, his suction intensifying. His eyelids flutter, his breathing quickening.
“You like that,” I observe. “Being told you’re good. Being praised for your obedience.”
He doesn’t answer—can’t with my thumb in his mouth—but the way his hips shift in the chair tells me everything. My gaze drops to his lap, where the thin fabric of his shorts does nothing to hide his arousal. The head of his cock pushes against the material, creating a visible tent. A small damp spot has formed where the tip presses against the fabric.
“No underwear,” I note. “Were you that certain of what would happen when I returned?”
His eyes open, meeting mine with a mixture of embarrassment and desire. He swallows around my thumb, his throat working.
I notice his gaze has dropped to the bulge in my own shorts. He’s transfixed by the outline of my erection straining against the fabric. Without thinking, I reach down with my free hand, gripping my length through the shorts, stroking slowly.
Owen’s reaction is immediate—his pupils dilating until his blue eyes are black with desire. He watches my hand move, mesmerized.
“Is this what you want?” I ask, continuing the slow, deliberate strokes. “My cock?”
He doesn’t answer, but his gaze remains fixed on my movements, his breathing shallow and quick. I understand his hesitation. This is all new territory for him, just as it is for me. The difference is that I’ve always been comfortable with mydesires, whatever form they take. Owen, I suspect, has spent a lifetime denying his.
