He kneels in front of me before the mirror as he was told, his perfect cheeks are pressed into his heels, the dimples in the small of his back are dramatically shadowed in the low light. These details make my mouth wet and I can’t decide where to look first or longest. I drink him in. He’s anxious under my gaze and he shifts, the floor is so hard. I consider for a moment that I could have set down a cushion or a towel, but supplication is not about comfort.

He smiles shyly at me in the mirror and leans back into me, not nuzzling or playful, reverent and bewitched. His nakedness is pale and beautiful but I resist his skin and I begin to pet his hair. Softly, lovingly, and then a tug, enough that his head rolls back on his shoulders. I look down his chest to his cock, it’s hard and throbbing, the tip is glossy. This pleases me. Hands on his thighs, the back of his head against my stomach, he sighs as my hands travel down his neck and back up through the back of his hair, two pairs of blue eyes, locked in the mirror until he catches himself and his gaze drops. He’s perfect; taut and responsive, eager but patient. He arouses the professor in me; I want to teach and enlighten him, correct and discipline him. I want to help him become what he knows he is. I want to be the one to take him there. This is our promised land and they are heavy promises we have made.

My palms slide out over his shoulders and chest and I lean down and touch the tip of his cock with my fingertip. Swirling it there, I pause before I bring the sticky bead of precum to his lips, smearing them more roughly than I mean to as he leans into my hand.

I kiss him and whisper for him to touch himself for me, to put on a show. He shudders at my words and I can feel the heat of him blushing. I can almost smell his embarrassment at the thought. The kiss ends and I look at him in the mirror. He is slowly, obediently pumping his cock, idly, patiently with palpable want in his eyes. He arches his back and flexes his chest, making his stomach hollow slightly, a golden dish above his pelvis, obscured by the shadow of his slowly stroking arm. I stand behind him still and watch, my fingers on his lips and in his mouth as he strokes. He’s careful with his teeth, sucking my fingers and pleading with calf-like whimpers. He’s been begging for this for days, for me to watch, to make him and watch him. He’s earnest with his movements, there is no clowning here. He moves effortlessly, unrehearsed. This is only the first scene, act one.

He tells me he wants to cum and I smile, he pauses, rephrases his statement as a question and waits for my answer. I nod, allowing him to grow ever closer. The more he sees he pleases me the more fervent his strokes become. As he nears the finish, my hands close around his throat. He is vascular and strong, and I squeeze as we look into each other’s eyes. We hold our shared gaze and he, slowly at first, tips over the edge. He’s arching and grunting but I hold his throat snug enough to feel his pulse thudding on my palms and he continues to stare into my eyes in the mirror as hot, heavy droplets run down the glass; a sudden milky storm of pleasure. When he is spent, I let him go and his arms lay slack in his lap. His head tips back and I bend to kiss his parted lips before he leans forward, hands on the hard floor, tongue on the glass, all evidence cleared away. He sits up, triumphant and turns his face up to be kissed again. His tongue tangs of ejaculate and his breath comes quick and fast. I help him stand and lead him to the soft haven of the bed. As he lays back beneath me he whispers two words that set us forward into a tumble, into a reckless, riotous night.

Barely a whisper, eyes challenging more than pleading this time: Use me.

So I do.

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.