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Two words, and every part of me still pretending I’m doing this for her gives up. I would come from that alone if she told me to.
Heather looks at my mouth, still wet from her, and slides down my body. She pushes the skirt up around my waist.
“Hands on the headboard.”
I grab it.
She takes my cock in her hand, strokes it once, hard, then lowers herself one inch at a time, stopping whenever my hips rise, until I understand that even entering her happens at her pace.
“Heather.”
“Louder.”
“Heather.”
She seats herself all the way and stays there, watching my face while I try not to thrust. My hips want up.
“You wanted to make me feel good,” she says. “Then you take what I give you.”
She rides me. Shallow first. Then deep enough that my voice cracks around her name. I watch her face. When her mouth opens I try to match it. When she slows, I slow. When she takes me to the root I hold the headboard hard enough my fingers ache.
“Tell me I’m doing it right.”
Heather’s eyes sharpen. “You are. Stay.”
I stay. She fucks herself on me and a sound comes out of her that makes my cock throb inside her. I chase that sound with my body as much as she lets me.
“Tell me I’m good.”
“Not yet.”
I groan. It’s ugly. It’s loud.
“Louder,” Heather says. “I want him to hear what happens when you please me.”
I stop trying to be pretty about it. Every thrust she takes wrings a sound out of me. “Heather. Please. I can be better than him.”
She takes me deeper for that and keeps me there, grinding, using my cock like the point was never my orgasm.
“Tell me I’m good.”
Heather fucks down onto me harder. “Ask properly.”
“Please. Tell me I’m good. Please say it again.”
“Good boy,” she says.
My heels dig into the mattress. The headboard knocks once against the wall.
She slaps my hip and stills until the edge backs off. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m yours,” I say, too loud. “Tell me I’m yours.”
Heather leans down, hair in my face. “Who are you?”
“Jamie.”
“Whose good boy?”
