Dear FemdomU Forum:

I want women to understand something very simple about men’s bodies and desires. If you are comfortable taking control, if you move through the world like you already own every inch of it, including the bulge that forms in a man’s pants when you cross your legs just so, willing men appear everywhere, their pupils dilated, their breathing shallow. You don’t have to hunt like some desperate cougar stalking prey. You only have to notice who is watching, who adjusts himself when you bend over, who swallows hard when you lick your lips. Men are gloriously transparent creatures; their arousal rises to meet you, quite literally.

And when you acknowledge that power with a knowing smile? Their knees go weak faster than their resolve. Trust me, ladies, nothing makes a man harder than a woman who knows exactly how wet she makes him.

Right now, that man is Greg.
We work together, but in vastly different areas of the company. There is no professional authority between us. He is simply about ten years younger than me, eager, attentive, and very easy to mold once he understood who was in charge. He’s very handsome, with those broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist I can wrap my legs around. When I strip him down, his body is a testament to disciplined hours at the gym, defined without being showy, useful strength rather than vanity muscle. And God, the way his ass flexes when I dig my nails into it. He keeps himself immaculately groomed, knowing I prefer access without obstacles. The first time I wrapped my hand around him, I remember thinking he was perfectly proportioned, thick enough to make me gasp, long enough to hit every spot that matters, and responsive enough that I can make him throb with just a whispered command. Some men disappoint after the third or fourth encounter. Greg somehow manages to rise to the occasion every single time.

When I want him, I let him know. Sometimes it’s a short call to his workstation. “Greg, I need those figures… immediately.” My voice drops on that last word, and I hear his breath catch. Other times I leave him an inter-office envelope containing nothing but a black lace thong, still warm from my body. He never hesitates.

We meet in three places. A supply closet on the fourth floor where I once made him kneel for forty-five minutes, his cock straining against his zipper while I stood over him, occasionally brushing my heel against his erection. A women’s restroom on the twelfth floor where I’ve bent over the sink, skirt hiked up, panties pushed aside, watching his face in the mirror as he slides into me from behind, struggling not to make a sound. Or the back seat of his car in the parking garage, where I’ve ridden him until his eyes rolled back and he had to bite his fist to keep from screaming my name.

Most of the time, I let him focus on pleasing me with that talented tongue of his, circling and flicking until my thighs clamp around his ears and I have to stuff my blouse in my mouth to muffle my moans. Then I send him back to his day with the taste of me still on his lips. He’s learned to remove his shirt most times, allowing my juices to run down his chin, onto his chest. He proudly wears my scent as he returns to work.

Occasionally, I want more than his mouth. I want to feel him throbbing inside me, hitting that spot that makes my toes curl in my expensive heels. And the best part is that he’s always ready, always hard enough to hammer nails when I reach for his belt. He never knows if I’ll let him come or leave him aching and desperate. That uncertainty keeps him alert, responsive, and beautifully obedient like a well-trained pet who’s been promised a treat but never knows when it will arrive.

He is mine. I take what I want, when I want it. One day I will grow bored and replace him, because that is how ownership works. Until then, he spends his workdays carrying reminders of me with him, quiet, proud, and thoroughly claimed.

And yes. It really can be that easy.

Sincerely,
Corina