"No one's ever—just for me—"
"Can I be the first?"
"Yes." It came out sob-adjacent. "Yes, please."
The first touch of his tongue rewired my nervous system. Not because of the sensation—I'd learned to manufacture pleasure from far less. But because it was for me. No transaction, no performance, no purpose except making me feel good.
"Oh," I gasped. "Oh, that's—"
He hummed against me, the vibration making me arch. His hands stayed gentle on my thighs, not restraining but supporting, reminding me I could close them if I wanted, could stop this if I needed.
I didn't need. I needed more, needed this revolutionary act of receiving without giving, of being the center instead of the tool.
"I'm—" The feeling built different than I was used to. Usually, climax was a switch—flip it on command, perform on cue. This was gradual, inevitable, mine. "Nathan, I'm—"
"Let go," he said against me. "I've got you."
The permission undid me. I came apart with a sound that was half sob, half revelation, my body claiming something that had always been taken. He worked me through it, gentle and steady, until I pushed at his shoulders.
"Too much," I gasped.
He immediately pulled back, pressing kisses to my thighs instead. "Good?"
"I don't—I can't—" Tears came then, years of them. "It's never been like that. Never for me. Never because I wanted—"
"Hey." He moved up to hold me, gathering my shaking form against his chest. "It's okay. You're okay."
"I'm not okay. I'm crying after an orgasm like some broken—"
"Like someone reclaiming their body." He stroked my hair. "That's not broken. That's healing."
I cried harder, grieving the girl who'd learned to come on command, who'd been taught her pleasure was currency, notbirthright. Nathan held me through it, murmuring nonsense about strength and survival and deserving good things.
When the storm passed, I found myself straddling his lap, his hands loose on my hips, my face buried in his neck.
"Better?" he asked.
"Different." I pulled back to see his face. "You're still—" I gestured at his obvious arousal.
"I'm fine."
"But—"
"Bunny." He cupped my face. "This isn't a transaction. You don't owe me anything."
"What if I want to?"
"Then you can. But only if you want to. Not because you think you should."
I shifted against him experimentally, watching his pupils dilate. "I want to try. But—my way? My speed?"
"Your show." His hands stayed loose, letting me lead. "What do you need?"
"You. Inside me. But—" I bit my lip. "I need to control it. The pace, the depth, everything."
"Then take what you need."
I rose up on my knees, positioning myself, then hesitated. "Condom?"
