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He thought he could handle me. He was confident when we met. The kind of man who thought he’d seen and done it all. “I don’t scare easy,” he said with a cocky smile, sipping his drink. I smirked. “You haven’t met a woman like me yet!” We went back to my place, and I could feel the energy shift as soon as the door closed. He kissed me hard—hands on my hips, tongue demanding. But I let him have his fun… for a minute.

Then I shoved him back against the wall, dropped to my knees, and yanked his pants down. “Still feeling brave?” I asked, stroking him slow, watching his breath skip beats. His hands reached for my hair. I slapped them away. “No touching!” I demanded. That was the first rule. “You don not get to touch the queen until I tell you too.The second came after I dragged him to the bedroom and told him to strip.

He obeyed, surprisingly quiet now. I tied him to the chair—naked, exposed, and so fucking hard he was dripping. “I’m going to ruin you,” I whispered, straddling his lap, grinding against him with just enough friction to drive

He Thought He Could Handle Me

him mad. I teased him with my tongue, my fingers, my breath. But never enough. When he begged, I tightened my grip. If he whimpered, I would moan in his ear. And when he finally cracked, yelling my name like a prayer, I still didn’t let him cum.

“Say it damn it!!” I demanded. “Say you’re not in control anymore!!” “I’m not,” he gasped. “You are. You own me.” Only then did I ride him. Slow, deep, relentless. And when he came—loud, shaking, completely undone—I kissed his cheek and whispered, “Told you. You couldn’t handle me.” ……Now? He doesn’t even try. He just follows my rules… and begs for more.

 

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