Pegging Phone Sex Fantasy

Every girl has a fantasy she replays when she can't sleep. Mine was always the same: some beautiful, cocky boy, on his knees in my bedroom, realizing halfway through the night that he's not the one in charge here. My pegging phone sex fantasy, basically, except I got tired of imagining it and decided to go live it instead.

I met him at a gallery opening. He was one of those art boys, all cheekbones and rolled sleeves, explaining a painting to me like I hadn't understood it on purpose. I understood it fine. I just liked watching his mouth move while I planned his downfall.

When the wine ran out I told him to come see my collection. He thought I meant art. Reader, I do own art. But that is not the collection I was talking about.

My loft was all low light and bass from the neighbor's playlist bleeding through the wall. I poured him the good whiskey, sat him on the edge of my bed, and stood between his knees in my little black dress. I told him I had to tell him something about me before this went any further. He nodded, earnest, gorgeous, doomed.

I told him I liked being in charge. All the way in charge. The kind of in charge where he did exactly what I said and thanked me for it. I watched that land. Watched the exact second curiosity beat ego.

He was still there.

I opened my nightstand drawer slow, like a reveal, and let him see the lineup. The harness. The toys, graduated, because I'm considerate like that. His eyes went huge and his breathing changed and I knew, I just knew, that every filthy thought he'd ever had about this was flooding in at once.

I chose the middle one, because I'm kind but I'm not soft, and held it up where he could see. I told him this was going to be inside him in about ten minutes, and he was going to thank me for it. He nodded like a bobblehead. I prepared everything slow, making a whole production of it, while he watched, his face getting redder by the second.

I told him the rules: he tells me if anything hurts, because I take care of what's mine. He doesn't get to finish until I say so. And he looks at me the whole time. I want to watch his face change.

He agreed to everything so fast I laughed. Then I started him slow, because I'm a brat, not a sadist. I made him strip while I stayed dressed, because the power imbalance is the whole point. I had him get on all fours on my rug while I got the harness on, taking my sweet time with the straps, letting him watch me in the mirror getting ready to absolutely ruin him.

And then I took him for real, slow deep strokes, one hand fisted in his hair and the other wrapped around him, working him in rhythm. He made sounds I didn't know men could make, these broken little whimpers, and every one of them went straight through me. I talked the whole time, bratty and sweet at once, telling him how good he looked bent over for me, how this was always how it was going to end the second he started mansplaining that painting.

I flipped the rhythm on him halfway through, going still just to watch him push back onto me, desperate, chasing it. I teased him about who was greedy now, holding his hips firmly in place. He said please. He said it three times, each one more broken, while I smiled into the back of his neck.

I let him come eventually, because I'm generous, but only after he begged for it properly, out loud, using his manners. Then I held him while he shook, kissed his sweaty forehead, and told him he was my favorite art project.

He stayed the night. In the morning he made me pancakes wearing nothing but my apron, and I sat at the counter in his shirt eating them, already planning. I told him I had two more toys he hadn't met yet. He nearly dropped the spatula. I told him baby, there's always more.