Bratty Pegging: My Rules

He begged for it for a month. Not cute begging, either. Full, shameless, texting-me-at-midnight begging. And normally I don't reward desperation, but his was so specific and so polite that I got curious. So I told him fine. Yes. But bratty pegging in my house comes with rules, and rule number one is that I decide everything.

We did it after the rooftop pool party wound down. Everyone else had gone home, the string lights were still on, the water was doing that glowing turquoise thing, and it was just us and the city humming below. Perfect crime scene.

While everyone was still here I'd been dropping hints all night, little ones, brushing past him at the bar cart, whispering later when nobody was listening. By the time the last guest left he was wound so tight he could barely form sentences. I waited until the gate clicked shut behind them. Then I turned, smiled, and told him okay, let's talk about his begging.

I told him to strip, and tossed him the spare thong I keep in my pool bag for emergencies. This was an emergency. His face went through five emotions at once, but he put it on, the little lace thing stretched hilariously across his hips, and stood there while I walked a slow circle around him, inspecting.

I laid out rule two: he counts. Every thrust, out loud. Lose count and we start over. Rule three: he doesn't touch himself. Not once. His hands stay where I put them.

He nodded, eyes huge, and asked about rule four. I told him rule four was a surprise. He'd know it when it happened. I smiled my sweetest smile.

I changed into the harness behind the cabana curtain, taking my time, letting him hear the buckles. When I stepped out he made a sound like a teakettle. I pointed at the daybed. He arranged himself on all fours on the cushions, thong shoved aside, and I swear the string lights reflected in his eyes.

I did a slow turn, letting him take in the full picture. I told him last chance to run, that the gate was right there. He didn't move. I told him that's what I thought, and reminded him about rule two. I prepared everything slow and theatrical, the way you pour the good champagne, while he watched with his mouth open. I warned him thirty-one was the number to beat, told him not to embarrass himself.

I told him to start counting, and pressed in slow. He gasped one. I set a rhythm like I was conducting music, deep and unhurried, one hand flat on the small of his back. He counted, voice shaking worse with every number, and at fourteen he moaned instead of counting and I stopped dead. I asked him what that was. He stammered fourteen, sorry, please. I told him to start over, and pulled back to the very beginning, and the devastated little noise he made was the hottest thing I'd heard all summer.

We made it to thirty-one on the second attempt. Thirty-one thrusts, counted out loud on a rooftop in the middle of the city, him in a borrowed thong and me completely in charge of the entire universe. I let him finish on thirty-two, which I did not make him count, because I'm a brat with a heart.

On the second attempt he got smart about it. He breathed through it, counted steady like a meditation, and I had to work to break him, speeding up without warning, slowing to almost nothing, whispering absolute filth about how good he looked stretched out for me. At twenty-nine his voice cracked. At thirty he was crying laughing. At thirty-one he shouted it like a victory, and I let him have his win, because queens are generous.

After, he lay face-down on the daybed, wrecked, while I coiled up beside him and trailed my fingers down his spine. I told him he did so good, that I was proud of him.

He whispered into the cushion, asking what rule four was. I leaned down, lips by his ear. I told him rule four was that he doesn't get to know when this happens again. Could be next week. Could be tonight. He'll just have to be ready.

I left him on the daybed and went for a swim, alone, in the glowing water, floating on my back and smiling up at the string lights. Behind me I heard him whisper-counting under his breath, practicing, like a good boy.

The next morning I found him in my kitchen, wearing the thong again under his jeans, making coffee like nothing had happened. I didn't mention it. I just walked up behind him, slid my hand down the back of his waistband, and felt the lace. I whispered good boy, and watched him nearly drop the mug. He'll wear it every day now, just in case. That's rule five, by the way. There was always a rule five.

He's still waiting. He texts me every day. I haven't decided yet.

Maybe tonight. Maybe.