“Everything is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.”
Oscar Wilde
Male. 33. This is my corner of the internet, I post adult content here.
If you are under the age of 18 years, please leave now.
The factory shut down early on Fridays, the way it always did when the week finally let go. By twelve-thirty, the machines had gone quiet. Steel and oil were traded for open windows and the hum of the road. Scott drove home with one elbow resting against the doorframe, the sun slipping over his shoulder, the radio humming low with half-played songs.
By the time he unlocked the front door, the house was exactly as it should be - silent, sunlit, the air faintly scented with pine from the cleaner he'd run through the floors the night before.
He didn’t rush. He never did.
Lunch came together with mechanical ease - reheated lamb from the night before, a handful of herbs from the kitchen windowsill, lemon, cracked pepper, couscous. The dog, always expectant on Fridays, waited patiently by the counter and was rewarded with a bite or two once Scott had finished eating.
Then came the walk. A loop around the block, shoes soft against the pavement, the leash slack in his hand as the dog led the way. He greeted a neighbor with a nod, took in the crispness of the late afternoon sun, and circled back to the gate.
As always, the postbox on the front wall held its usual contents: one folded newspaper, neatly wedged between advertising inserts and glossy pizza specials. He pulled it free, ignored the pamphlets, and tucked the paper under his arm.
Back inside, he moved through the house like he belonged to it - like it responded to him.
Boots off. Belt loosened. Paper carried into the living room where the leather chair waited, creased and familiar. He sank into it and opened the broadsheet, letting the ads fall in a soft cascade onto the floor.
The headlines were mundane and comforting. Local councilor under review. Farmer’s market moving dates. Rugby semi-finals this weekend. He let the rhythm of the small-town news wash over him, the rustle of the paper and the distant ticking of his analogue watch the only sounds.
Until he heard her.
The crunch of tyres on gravel. The excited bark of the dog. A car door closing, heels clicking on the path to the back door.
She greeted the pup first, voice soft and affectionate, then opened the kitchen door with a soft thud and a clatter of keys dropped into the ceramic bowl on the counter.
Scott didn’t look up. He knew her movements by heart.
Lisa passed through the living room on her way to the bedroom, pausing beside him. She leaned in and kissed him - a soft, familiar press of lips to lips - and he responded with the same, one hand brushing lightly along her side.
“Afternoon,” she murmured, her voice like exhale.
“Welcome home,” he replied.
She disappeared down the hall, heels muffled by the runner. Then the silence shifted - less surface-level, more intentional. The quiet of someone changing not just their clothes, but their state of being.
When she returned, it was without sound.
Lisa entered the living room barefoot and completely naked. She moved slowly, not hesitantly but with purpose, as if every step was deliberate. She lowered herself to her knees before him - out of sight behind the open newspaper.
Scott didn’t acknowledge her presence right away. Instead, he turned another page, fingers crisp against the corner of the paper, eyes scanning a piece about the local power substation upgrades.
But a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The paper rustled as Scott turned another page. The light from the window shifted, dappling across his forearms, catching in the fine blonde hairs and the creases of muscle still tense from the week. He could feel her there - still, poised, her breath barely disturbing the air.
He let the silence stretch, not cruelly, but purposefully. Giving her space.
Finally, without lowering the paper, he said in a low, even tone, “Rough day?”
A breath from her - soft, shaky. Not quite a sigh.
“The worst,” she murmured.
He hummed thoughtfully, the kind of sound that asked for more without pressing. His eyes scanned the column about a proposed bicycle lane that had already stirred up a small war in the letters section. But his attention was on her.
“They cut two people from my team,” she said quietly. “No warning. Just... removed.” She paused. “I had to call one of them to tell him not to come in Monday.”
Still, he didn’t look down.
“And then... I got pulled into a strategy session I wasn’t prepped for. The CFO talked to me like I was the intern. And I...” her voice cracked slightly before she stopped herself.
Scott folded the page and laid the paper across his lap, finally looking at her.
Lisa knelt at his feet, her back straight, her eyes lowered. Her face was composed - but only just. Her hands were clasped, her fingers tight with tension. She looked like a woman holding in a scream with the last of her strength.
He reached down and brushed a thumb lightly across her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Her eyes shimmered for a moment, and she nodded, lips pursed against the pressure of it all.
“I didn’t come in here to complain,” she whispered. “I just…”
She looked up at him then, eyes clear, vulnerable. Something in her had broken open - but not in weakness. In need.
“I want to take care of you,” she said. “Please, Sir. Can I?”
He didn’t speak at first. Just studied her - the bare honesty of her, the way she had laid down everything she carried not just at the threshold of the house, but here, at his feet.
His voice, when it came, was quiet and sure.
“Are you trying to escape, or are you coming back to yourself?”
She blinked, startled by the question - but not put off by it. If anything, it seemed to steady her.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe both.”
Scott reached for his glass of water on the side table and took a sip. Then he set it down deliberately and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“You know you don’t have to give to be worthy of rest,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “But I want to.”
There was no desperation in her tone now. Only clarity.
“I need to do something that makes sense. That isn’t performative or political or… disposable.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And when I’m here - when I kneel for you - I remember who I am.”
His hand reached for hers and took it gently, threading their fingers together.
“Alright,” he said. “But not because I need it. Because you do.”
She nodded. A single, grateful motion.
And there, in the stillness of the living room, with the half-read newspaper beside him and the dog curled nearby, she exhaled for the first time all day.
Scott let her hand rest in his for a moment longer, then released it gently, leaning back in the chair with a calm exhale. His gaze lingered on her face - open now, softened, as if the act of asking had already lifted some invisible weight.
Lisa watched as he rotated the bezel on his watch, aligning it perfectly with the second hand. The soft click of each incremental movement seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. When he was done, he looked down at her.
“One minute,” he said. “No sound. No movement. Just breathe.”
She nodded. Lips sealed.
Then he picked up the newspaper again.
The world shrank to the rustle of newsprint and the steady tick of his watch. Scott’s eyes moved across the page with casual interest, but behind the lowered brow, he was acutely aware of every detail of her: the tremble in her thigh as her muscles protested from the week, the way her breaths smoothed out with each passing second, the tension unraveling like a spool inside her.
He didn’t rush. The minute was for her - but also for him.
To feel her devotion settle into the room like incense.
To let control bloom in quiet, not in action.
Exactly sixty seconds later, he spoke - soft and low.
“Good girl.”
The words fell like warm oil across her shoulders, and something in her posture eased.
She moved.
Not hungrily, not urgently, but with reverence.
Her fingers came to rest on his belt buckle, and she exhaled once through her nose before lifting it slowly, loosening the leather with practiced care. Not a sound betrayed her - no clink, no snap. Only the whisper of fabric shifting, the occasional breath that barely reached her throat.
The belt opened.
She coiled it neatly, laying it beside him on the armrest without needing to be told.
Next came the button, the zipper, all unfastened slowly - ceremonially.
His trousers loosened. The waistband parted.
Scott turned another page, eyes still on the print.
But when her lips brushed just above the fabric of his briefs - barely a kiss, more breath than contact - his hand left the paper and curled lightly over the crown of her head, grounding her with nothing more than presence.
She didn’t move further.
She waited.
"You needed this," he said. "Didn’t you."
She nodded, just once. She didn’t speak - her voice would’ve cracked.
"You've been strong all week. You carried everything.”
A pause.
"But not in here."
She sat back on her heels, thighs apart, arms behind her slightly to keep balance. Her chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths. She wasn’t hiding anymore.
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