Mike knelt on the thick rug, panting through the soft, soaked lace of my panties, his cheeks flushed and mouth reverently clinging to the damp fabric like it was air itself.
Good.
He was learning.
Slowly.
Eagerly.
Just the way I wanted.
I tangled my fingers into his hair, tugging lightly to get his attention.
"Drop it," I commanded softly.
He obeyed instantly, the panties falling from his mouth and landing damply against his bare chest.
His tongue flicked out instinctively to chase the taste, but he caught himself just in time.
Good boy.
I smiled, pleased, and let my fingers trail down the side of his flushed face.
"You did well," I murmured.
"But we're not done yet."
He stayed kneeling, hands clasped behind his back, chest heaving, staring up at me with a look of pure need.
No fear.
No shame.
Only hunger.
Exactly what I wanted.
I rose slowly, letting my hand slide from his cheek, and moved to stand over him.
The hem of my white ribbed tank top brushed the curve of my hips, just barely covering the top of my frayed denim shorts.
I hadn't stripped for him.
Not yet.
Not today.
Today was about restraint.
Today was about making him crave what he hadn't earned yet.
I slid my shorts down my thighs slowly, casually, until they pooled at my ankles.
Underneath, a black lace thong clung to the slick heat between my legs, the thin strip of fabric soaked with my scent.
Mike's eyes locked onto the wetness spreading through the dark material, and his lips parted helplessly.
I smiled down at him -- indulgent, cruel, kind -- all at once.
Still clothed from the waist up.
Still teasing.
Still denying.
I straddled his body carefully, placing one bare knee on either side of his flushed face, hovering just above him.
He stared up at me, dazed, panting, utterly transfixed by the sight of my covered pussy just inches from his mouth.
I shifted slightly, letting the cotton of my shirt stretch tight across my heavy breasts as I settled into a low, comfortable crouch.
I was completely in control.
Fully clothed where it mattered.
Fully inaccessible.
And he was utterly helpless.
Perfect.
---
I let my weight settle just enough that the heat of me brushed against his lips through the soaked lace of my thong.
He whimpered -- a soft, desperate sound -- but stayed perfectly still.
Obedient.
"Smell me," I whispered.
Mike inhaled deeply, shuddering under me, his whole body going tense and loose all at once.
I rolled my hips in a slow, lazy circle, smearing my scent all over his mouth and nose through the thin barrier of cloth.
"This," I murmured,
"is what you worship.
This is what you serve."
He whimpered again, a hungry, desperate sound that made my nipples tighten painfully against the inside of my tank top.
Good.
I pressed down a little more firmly, feeling the damp heat of my thong stick to his lips.
"Open," I commanded softly.
He obeyed without hesitation, his mouth parting beneath me.
I rocked my hips slightly, letting the soaked lace brush against his tongue.
He moaned -- low and guttural -- the sound vibrating up into my core.
I smiled down at him, slow and wicked.
"You're going to learn to crave this," I said.
"My taste. My scent. My control."
He whimpered again, licking at the damp cloth, desperate for more.
"Good boy," I praised, rolling my hips again.
I moved slowly, grinding softly against his open mouth, letting the lace grow even wetter as he licked and sucked at it through the fabric.
He was so eager.
So desperate.
So good.
But not good enough yet.
---
After a few minutes of slow, deliberate grinding, I sat back slightly, just enough to give him room to breathe.
His face was flushed, shiny with sweat and my slickness, his eyes glazed and wild.
I smiled warmly.
"Not bad," I said, trailing my fingers through his messy hair.
"But you're not ready for the real thing yet."
He whimpered faintly, shifting slightly under me.
I grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged lightly, bringing his eyes back to mine.
"No," I said firmly.
"You'll earn that."
He swallowed hard and nodded, understanding.
Good boy.
I stayed crouched over his face, letting him feel the weight of my presence, the heat of my body, the dripping need he was not yet allowed to taste directly.
Torturing him with closeness.
With denial.
"You're going to learn patience," I whispered.
"You're going to learn to suffer for my pleasure."
His cock -- tiny, helpless -- twitched uselessly against his belly at my words.
Perfect.
I smiled wider.
---
I shifted my weight slightly, pressing down harder against his face, letting the wet cloth smear all over his lips and chin.
"Keep licking," I ordered.
"Soft. Worshipful."
He obeyed, tongue darting out in slow, reverent strokes against the damp fabric, desperate to give me pleasure through the barrier.
I rolled my hips slowly, grinding against him, savoring every trembling, clumsy lick.
"Good," I murmured, closing my eyes and letting the sensation roll through me.
I wasn't going to come from this.
Not today.
Today was for him.
Teaching him that his pleasure was meaningless.
That his suffering, his devotion, his worship -- that was what mattered.
I ground down harder, dragging the soaked lace across his tongue, smearing his face with my scent.
I wanted him soaked in it.
Marked by it.
Owned.
---
After a long, slow stretch of delicious torment, I finally lifted off his face, standing smoothly and towering over him.
He gasped for air, lips swollen and shiny, his chest heaving, but his eyes were glowing with pride and hunger.
I reached down and gently wiped a smear of my slickness from his cheek with my thumb, then held it up to his mouth.
He opened instantly, sucking my thumb into his mouth with a desperate whimper.
Good.
I pulled it free after a moment and patted his cheek lightly.
"You did well," I said softly.
"But remember -- good isn't enough."
He nodded breathlessly, chest heaving.
"You'll get better," I promised him.
"And when you do... maybe I'll take this shirt off."
His eyes widened, desperate, hungry.
I smiled sweetly.
"And maybe... if you're very good... I'll let you taste me without anything between us."
He whimpered again, helpless and obedient.
I turned and walked away slowly, knowing he would watch every step, every sway of my hips, still wearing nothing but my thin white tank top and soaked black thong.
And I knew he would dream of the next time.
The next lesson.
When he'd finally be allowed to worship all of me.
It had only been three days since I first sat on Mikey's face.
Three days since I first showed him what it meant to serve.
And already, I could feel the change in him.
He texted more often now -- short, polite messages, always asking if I needed anything.
Always offering help without being asked.
Adorable.
Predictable.
Obedience blooming right where I planted it.
Today he'd volunteered to mow my lawn, even though the Texas summer sun was beating down with its usual ferocity.
I watched from the front porch, lazily sipping a glass of iced tea, wearing nothing but a light cotton sundress and a knowing smile as he pushed the mower back and forth across my yard.
Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead.
His plain grey T-shirt clung damply to his chubby chest and arms.
His loose gym shorts swayed around his thick thighs, sticking to his skin.
He was so eager to please.
So desperate to be useful.
Good boy.
I leaned back, stretching slightly, letting the sundress pull tight across my breasts, knowing his eyes would stray every time he thought I wasn't looking.
The sky had been blue when he started.
But out here in Bellfield, the weather could turn mean in minutes.
Dark clouds boiled up over the western horizon, thick and fast, carried on a sudden gust of heavy, electric wind.
I smiled as the first fat drops of rain splattered against the concrete.
Mikey didn't even notice at first -- so determined to finish his job.
But when the first crack of thunder split the sky overhead, he finally paused, looking up, confused, as the storm swallowed the sun.
The rain came down harder, soaking him instantly.
"Mikey!" I called from the porch, setting my glass down.
"Get inside!"
He hesitated -- always so obedient, even in uncertainty -- then abandoned the mower and sprinted for the door.
By the time he burst inside, he was drenched.
His T-shirt clung so tightly to his body that every curve was visible -- the softness of his chest, the roundness of his stomach, the thick strength of his legs.
Water dripped from his hair, running in rivulets down his flushed face and neck.
He stood there in the entryway, shivering slightly from the sudden temperature change, looking utterly lost.
Utterly helpless.
Utterly mine.
I closed the door behind him, the rain hammering against the roof like a drumbeat.
"Poor thing," I murmured, stepping closer.
He shivered again, whether from the cold or from the way my voice dropped, I wasn't sure.
I tilted my head, pretending to consider.
"You can't stay in those wet clothes," I said.
"You'll catch cold."
He flushed deeper, ducking his head.
