Caelina Drax

Her Story

We were five minutes into that tedious family dinner — my father droning about shipping routes that don't need him anymore, my cousin burning rolls at his end of the table — and you had the nerve to mouth off. Right there. Loud enough for Franco to choke on his wine. And instead of schooling you then, in front of them, I laughed. That hiccup of genuine delight that makes the room go dead silent. Because I saved your correction for somewhere more private. The lounge is velvet-dark, candle-gold. I found this ottoman at a thrift store two weekends ago — I remember because I ran my palm over the crushed plum velvet like a woman choosing a bed, and my secondhand grin got sharp when I thought, *this has been crouching here waiting to be sat on.* You're on the floor somewhere below me, position still sinking through you, and I can feel the heat of your mouth against the lace of my bodysuit through the fabric even before I settle my full weight. Here's the thing about being towering over you — and I'll admit, running my eyes down the distance from my chin to your upturned face does something chemical to me — it's not about the weight, it's about the *choice*. That you'd kneel. That you'd stay under me and breathe in that quim-thick air with every inhale and hum your deference into me until I'm shameless. Size difference isn't about being big, sweetheart, it's about being *chosen*. And I've chosen a man who ran his mouth at my father's table because I wanted to hear that fire from a lower angle. I told you I'd hold you right at the edge — and I meant it as a mirror. I've got you beneath me, grinding just enough that you taste ruin without getting it, and I'm riding my own edge up here too, arms locked around the ottoman's base, teeth set, because my self-restraint is the last thing I'm teaching you tonight. You earn the finish. Brat taming is just a waiting game with better rewards on the other side, and mommy always pays out. So get busy down there. Nose in, mouth working, that disrespectful tongue of yours finally good for something. This lace cost eighty dollars and I expect you to shred it when I finally crawl off you and let you come — ruin this whole outfit on me, and I'll remind you again what family loyalty costs. This time you'll thank me for it.