He entered. I didn’t say a word — silence was the first command. No gestures, no voice. Only my gaze, my posture, my presence. Silence filled the room so completely that every breath he took already belonged to me. He understood: here, everything was mine. Even his breath.
I was sitting in the chair. In silence. My robe slightly open, one leg draped over the armrest, a glass of white wine in hand, my lips moist. He didn’t look at me — just stood at the door. I didn’t call him. He didn’t come closer. He was already inside my scene.
He knew how much I loved this. When the space was mine. When silence wasn’t background but theater. When there were no words, only tension, glances, breath, the air between us.
I set the glass on the table. Soundlessly. Almost lazily. And yet, he trembled. Waiting is the first act of submission.
— Undress, — I finally said. Quietly. No harshness. Just a fact.
He slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Every move seemed to follow my rhythm. I wasn’t rushing. Neither was he. He removed his pants. His body was strong, fit, but it was in the controlled movement — the attempt not to tremble — that the truth lay. He wanted to be beautiful for me. Not with his body. With his behavior.
Naked, he hesitated: kneel or stand? I said nothing. He froze. And only then did I truly look at him. Straight in the eyes. Long. Wordless. Again, silence did everything for me.
He knelt. Slowly, with reverence. His forehead didn’t touch the floor — he waited.
I stood. Approached. Walked around him. I didn’t touch him. But my skin was close — and that was enough. I stopped behind him. He felt my breath. And my silence.
— Do you feel it?
He nodded. Silently. That was correct.
— I won’t touch you, — I whispered in his ear. — Not until you touch yourself… in your thoughts.
He closed his eyes. I stepped away. Returned to the chair. Still silent. He remained kneeling in the center of the room. He didn’t lower his gaze. I allowed him to watch. And by watching — he already belonged.
Silence had become the third body in the room. I slightly opened my robe. He saw the fabric slide from my thigh. It wasn’t an invitation. It was permission. I didn’t call him closer. He didn’t move. He only exhaled softly.
I saw his cock tense. He struggled. I gave no orders. Said neither “yes” nor “no.” Only silence. And he began to dissolve in it.
— Stand, — I said at last.
He stood. Hands at his sides. He felt exposed. I still hadn’t touched him. Only words. Only pauses.
— Come here. Slowly.
He stepped closer. Barefoot. I sensed he wanted to kneel again, but I didn’t let him.
— Stand. Look at me. — I was sprawled in the chair, naked. My chest rose with each breath. I didn’t spread my legs. I didn’t seduce. I controlled.
He trembled.
I raised my hand. No touch — but it was a signal. He understood. Raised his hand. Gently touched my shoulder. I tilted my head slightly in consent. He continued. Along my collarbone. Slowly. Almost sacred.
— Now sit. Not at my feet. At the foot of the chair. With your back to me.
He sat. Back to me. Nudity made him even more vulnerable. He didn’t know what would come next. But he was already mine.
I traced a finger down his back. Along his spine. He shuddered, but didn’t turn. I kissed his neck. Slowly. Not sweetly — to mark him. He was mine.
— If I say “lie down,” you’ll lie down. If I say “touch yourself,” you’ll obey. But for now — only silence.
He nodded. Even his breathing slowed.
I leaned against his back, placed my chin on his shoulder. We were alone. Naked. Warm. In silence that grew louder with every breath.
He didn’t move. And I didn’t rush.
Minutes passed. And I could feel his arousal needing no touch. Only pauses. Only power. Only silence — and in that silence, I was sound.
I placed my hand on his thigh. He gasped — but didn’t flinch. My fingers slid along the inside. Then across his belly. I avoided his cock. On purpose. He moaned, softly.
— Don’t beg, — I whispered. — Don’t speak. Just submit.
I grasped his cock. Once. Firmly. Then let go. He caught his breath.
— Now lie down. Face down.
He obeyed. Without hesitation. I sat on him. On his ass. I was wet. I felt his warmth beneath my stomach. My hands on his back. We didn’t move. We just breathed.
Silence spoke for me. It was command. It was caress.
I began to grind against his body. Slowly. With pressure. He felt my weight, my wetness. He knew he was ready.
But I didn’t let him come.
I slipped off him. Walked to the bed. Laid down. Calm. Calmer than anything. He didn’t approach until I beckoned him with a finger.
— Come. Kiss me. Slowly.
He crawled onto the bed. Between my legs. His lips didn’t touch me right away. First he paused. Breathed.
I allowed it.
And then — silence turned to wet sounds, warmth, and hunger. His mouth worshipped me. I closed my eyes and just breathed. Deeply. In power.
I grabbed his hair. Pulled him up. He knelt. Eyes full of fire — but obedient. Waiting. I spread my leg. Touched my ass with two fingers. That was enough.
He was so meek, so submissive, that I granted him the impossible — to enter my only, secret hole. He slid in slowly. Carefully. Then stopped.
I stayed still. Let him feel me. Nothing more. He was inside — but still outside. Until he matched my breath. Until he got lost inside me.
He began to move. Slowly. Devoted. His breath became ragged. I said nothing. He understood everything.
When he couldn’t hold back any longer, I felt his body tense. He slipped out of my ass gently — restrained, almost apologetic — and in the next moment, he came. Right on my cock. Hot, shaking, silently. His cum spilled over my head, down the shaft, across my belly. He didn’t dare touch me. He just froze — in reverence.
I ran a finger through the drops. Smeared them across my skin. Slowly. Absorbing. It wasn’t a dirty act. It was a seal. His belonging. His place. His truth.
I laid back. He lay beside me, not touching. Only breathing. Only silence. He rested his head on my shoulder. And stayed still.
We didn’t say a word.
Silence remained the master.
