I tell him he will receive a blowjob.
He lies back on the bed.
Two pillows under his head.
Ready.
I take his penis in my hand.
I stroke him until he is hard.
Then I wrap his fingers around his penis.
Place my hand over his.
Guide him.
Set the rhythm.
Dictate the pace.
I tell him: "do not stop.
Do not lose the rhythm I gave you."
This is direction.
This is command.
When he obeys, I cradle his balls with my other hand.
I tell him again: “I’m going to give you a blowjob.”
He believes me.
But I know his body.
I know what happens when I place my hand a certain way.
I know what happens when I squeeze him a certain way.
I know he can’t hold back.
And he knows he can’t hold back.
But I told him: “I’m going to give you a blowjob.”
So he strokes himself. Desperate.
Trapped in obedience.
Trapped in arousal.
Trapped in me.
I watch him unravel.
I kiss him, deeply.
I own him, completely.
I place my palm to catch his semen.
I tell him to come.
He does.
