Always Meant For Her

She didn't have to knock anymore.

When she stepped through the door, the air shifted -- thickened -- like even the walls knew who owned the space now.

She set her bag down on the table without a glance at him, peeling off her jacket with slow, easy movements that made his heart hammer and his throat go dry.

There was no rush in her.

There never was.

She moved like the world bent to her schedule -- like he would wait a lifetime just to catch the curl of her lip when she finally decided to look at him.

And he would.

He had.

Since high school.

Back then, it had been innocent.

The way he followed her with wide, eager eyes.

The way he smiled too fast when she so much as spoke his name.

The way his hands shook the first time she let him kiss her behind the bleachers -- a kiss she gave, not because he earned it, but because she decided he could have it.

Even then, even before either of them understood the shape it would take, he belonged to her.

And now?

Now, there were no illusions left.

She finally turned her head, her gaze landing on him like a hand to the throat -- claiming, testing, daring.

"You're still dressed," she said simply.

The words weren't angry.

They were worse.

They were disappointed.

And disappointment from her felt like the kind of punishment he couldn't bear.

He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, yanking it over his head, stripping down clumsily until he was bare and exposed before her.

She watched, patient but merciless, one eyebrow arched ever so slightly -- the way she always had when she knew he could do better.

When he dropped to his knees, head bowed, it wasn't because she told him to.

It was because somewhere deep in him -- carved into his bones over years of soft smiles, sharp commands, withheld kisses, unbearable craving -- he already knew:

This is where he was meant to be.

At her feet.

Waiting.

She walked toward him, slow, boots tapping against the floor in deliberate, unhurried beats.

Every step was a reminder of how much higher she was than him -- not just physically, but in every way that mattered.

She circled him once, her fingertips barely grazing the line of his jaw, her nails scraping lightly down the back of his neck.

He shivered.

Not from cold.

From the unbearable pressure of wanting to please her.

"Better," she murmured, stopping in front of him, tilting his chin up with two fingers.

"But not perfect."

Her voice was low, dangerous, indulgent -- the voice of a woman who knew she could do anything she wanted to him, and he would thank her for it.

The corner of her mouth twitched -- not quite a smile.

A warning.

She dragged her thumb across his lower lip, slow and thoughtful, like she was considering what part of him to break first.

"You remember how this started, don't you?" she asked softly. "How you used to beg me just to kiss you a little longer? How you used to whimper into my mouth when I pulled away too soon?"

His throat bobbed with the effort not to sob.

She laughed -- a dark, honeyed sound that slid under his skin and made his cock throb helplessly against his stomach.

"I always knew what you'd turn into," she said, voice dipping to a near whisper. "I just waited until you were ready to admit it."

She stepped back, just far enough that he could see the glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

"Touch yourself," she commanded, her voice silk wrapped around steel. "But you don't get to cum unless I say so."

He obeyed immediately, wrapping a trembling hand around his cock, pumping in slow, desperate strokes.

She watched with the same detachment she might have given a pet performing a simple trick.

It wasn't the act itself that pleased her.

It was the control.

The absolute, helpless need written all over his face.

"You like this," she said, tilting her head. "Being made to kneel. Being made to beg."

A tear slipped down his flushed cheek, whether from pleasure, humiliation, or the pure unbearable pressure of craving her -- even he didn't know.

She crouched down in front of him, so close he could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume mixed with something darker -- something wet and wicked.

"Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me what you want to be."

He gasped, trembling.

"My... my cumrag," he choked out.

Her smile was devastating.

"Good boy."

She reached down and traced the slick bead of precum gathered at the tip of his cock, lifting it to her lips and sucking her fingertip clean with a slow, obscene flick of her tongue.

His whole body jolted like she'd struck him.

"You taste like desperation," she murmured, standing up again, towering over him.

"Keep stroking," she ordered. "But don't you fucking cum until I decide you've earned it."