Stripped

She stood before him--bare, but not ashamed. The air kissed her skin in ways his fingers hadn't yet dared to. He remained seated, fully clothed. Crisp shirt. Dark slacks. That maddening calm in his eyes.

Not a single button undone. Not a single movement wasted. He simply watched. And that watching was everything.

The silk of his voice--low, measured--wrapped around her like a leash. "Turn slowly," he said. Not a demand. Not a plea. Just... truth. So she turned. Heat blooming from spine to thighs as she felt her own body through his silence.

Every curve, every breath, every shiver was a confession. And still--he didn't move. Didn't reach for her.

Didn't even blink. The restraint undressed her further than skin ever could.

She turned, slowly, as instructed. Every inch of her bare skin stretched into his stillness--his gaze a command stronger than rope. And when she faced him again, her breath caught.

He was standing. Close now. And yet--still fully clothed.

Except... No shoes. No belt. No watch. All removed silently, deliberately, while her back was turned.

He had been surrendering, too--piece by piece. But not to her body. To her control. His voice was lower now, not silk--smoke.

"I stayed clothed to show restraint," he murmured, fingers brushing her jaw. "But don't mistake that for power."

And then--he knelt. In his shirt. In his slacks. At the feet of the naked woman who had unknowingly stripped more than just herself.

"My turn," he said. "To be undone."

She tilted her head, studying him. Not with the wide-eyed awe he expected -- but with something deeper. Wicked. Tender. Sure.

"You knelt," she said, voice quiet but sharp as a blade wrapped in velvet. "Not to worship. To be claimed." His jaw tensed. Her fingers found it. Guided his gaze upward.

"You think restraint is power?" she whispered. "No. Restraint is an invitation."

She stepped forward, letting the warmth of her bare body hover just inches from his mouth. But still -- no contact. Instead, her hand moved to his collar. One button, undone. Another. And another. Slow. Precise. Like opening a gift she already owned.

"You dressed to hold control," she said, now tracing the fabric down his chest. "But you forgot--"

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "--I undress intentions first."

And just like that, she stepped back. Left him kneeling. Shirt open. Breathless. Waiting.

He stayed there -- on his knees -- like a man who had glimpsed paradise and was now sentenced to hunger for it. Chest heaving. Hands clenched. Eyes fixed on the space where her skin had just been. She hadn't moved far. Just enough to be out of reach -- but still in his world. Still in his every thought.

"Beg," she'd said.

And then... nothing. No command. No reward. No touch. Just her silence, folding over him like velvet wrapped in fire.

He swallowed hard. Tried to speak. Tried again. But the words caught. His pride still clung to his throat.

She tilted her head. Waited. And that--more than anything--wrecked him. Because it wasn't dominance. It wasn't cruelty. It was grace. She gave him the choice to suffer. And in that moment, he chose it. Because suffering for her felt like worship. Felt like belonging.

So he exhaled. And whispered -- "Please."

Not just for her touch. But for her gaze. Her approval. Her smile.

Her smile came. Soft. Vicious. Divine.

And he knew: The worst was over. The real pleasure was just beginning.

She moved like prophecy -- slow, certain, unshakable. This time, when she stepped close, there was no teasing distance. Her fingers slid into his hair -- and they gripped. She guided him forward, and his mouth met the heat of her -- soft, wet, unrelenting. And when he moaned, she didn't shush him. She let him break.

She leaned her head back, hips tilted toward his worship. One hand tangled in his hair, the other on his shoulder, steadying his surrender. And gods, did he surrender. His hands held her thighs like lifelines.

His mouth -- hungry, reverent -- moved with the rhythm of need and permission.

She looked down at him. Saw the ruin. The devotion. And whispered, "Good boy."

He came undone with a sound that wasn't words -- just want. Stripped. At last. And this time, not just in clothes. But in soul.

She pulled him to his feet. His mouth glistened, lips parted with awe and ache. But she wasn't done. With steady hands, she peeled open the last of his buttons. Slid his shirt from his shoulders like a whisper of consequence. Then -- his trousers. Undone. Peeled back. Released.

And there he stood: the man who had once remained clothed to maintain control, now fully exposed under her gaze. She didn't touch him. Not yet. Instead, she circled. Let her fingers graze--not his body, but the air around it.

He trembled. Not from cold. From anticipation. From surrender. And when she stepped behind him, close enough for her breasts to brush his back, she said, "You thought kneeling was your breaking point." Her hand wrapped around him from behind--firm, slow, utterly claiming. "It wasn't."

He gasped, back arching into her. She began to stroke--deliberate, smooth, devastating. And with her lips at his neck, she whispered, "This is."

HIM

He had never known stillness could hurt. Not until her silence turned every second into a scream beneath his skin.

He had always led. Always orchestrated. Until her gaze -- unflinching, mercifully merciless -- unmade him.

When she whispered "Beg," it wasn't cruelty. It was alchemy.

His breath caught not because of shame -- but because it felt right. He was trembling now, not from fear, but from clarity. This was what surrender was supposed to be: not taken, not forced -- given.

And when she guided his mouth to her, he didn't think. He only worshipped. The taste of her -- salt, heat, divinity -- shattered every wall inside him. Every moan he gave wasn't just lust -- it was devotion in sound.

When she said, "Good boy" -- he didn't just react. He belonged.

Even when she pulled him up, he felt smaller, humbled. Like a man reborn. The way her fingers undid his shirt, his pants -- he wasn't being stripped. He was being seen. And when her hand wrapped around him -- his mind dissolved. There were no thoughts left. No ego. No plan. Only her. And the breaking that felt like home.

He felt the first ripple in his spine before he could name it. A sharp ache building behind his hips, rising fast -- too fast. She whispered something at his neck, something like "this is"--but it blurred with the sound of his own gasp. Her hand -- goddess, her hand -- was merciless. Not rushed, but precise. Devastating. He could feel her control even in the rhythm of her palm.

His hands reached behind him, blindly gripping her hips, her thighs -- anything to anchor him. Her skin was warm against his fingertips, solid. Real. The only thing tethering him to gravity.

And when it came -- it wasn't a climax. It was an obliteration.

Heat surged through him, every nerve lit, every thought gone. He let go with a cry that cracked open from somewhere deeper than voice -- a raw, helpless sound that no one had ever heard from him before. He pulsed in her hand, again. And again. Body shaking. Spine arched. Mouth parted in broken prayer.

She held him as he spilled, firm and unrelenting, even as his knees began to give beneath him. His release spilled over her hand, slick between his thighs, down the inside of his leg. He didn't look down. He didn't dare. Because he knew she was watching him fall apart -- and he wanted her to see it all.

And as he sagged in her arms, wrecked and whispering her name, he understood: He hadn't been taken. He had been claimed.

HER

She felt it in his breath before his body even moved. That ripple--that first helpless tremor crawling down his spine. He tried to stay still. Tried to hold the weight of control a few seconds longer. But his body betrayed him beautifully. She saw his knuckles whiten where they gripped her thighs. Felt the desperate clutching. And smiled. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just truthfully.

He was close. And she would not let him hide from it. She leaned in -- let her lips brush his ear as her hand stroked him with terrifying precision. "Let go," she whispered.

He shattered. His back arched against her, muscles taut, every inch of him trembling. The sound he made wasn't words--it was surrender exhaled through pleasure.

She felt his release flood into her hand, hot and thick. Felt the way his body bucked with every pulse.

Felt the way his breath broke apart on her neck. And she held him there -- not out of mercy, but possession. She kissed his shoulder. Then his nape. Then, finally, she whispered: "Mine."

And gods help him --

He whispered back, "Yes."