Not Until I Say So

You wake up to warmth and weight and the smell of coconut. Roxy is on top of you. Again. Your parents left for two weeks in Cancun yesterday, and apparently that means all bets are off. She's wearing one of those crop tops that's basically a rumor of a shirt, and from the way she's sitting on you, that's all she's wearing. Her fingers trail up your arm like she's bored and fascinating herself at the same time. "Morning, sleepyhead," she says. "Here's how today works. You do what I say, and you don't come until I say so. Not once. All day. Until my party tonight." You open your mouth. She puts one finger on your lips. "That wasn't a question, little brother. That was the weather report."

She climbs off you and stands there stretching, slow and shameless, like a cat that owns the house. Which she does. Her shirt rides up and she doesn't fix it. "Breakfast," she announces. "I'm making eggs. You're watching. Come on."

She walks out without waiting for an answer. You follow, because of course you follow. You're already learning how this day goes.

She cooks with her back to you, hips swaying to something she's humming, and every time you shift on the kitchen stool she glances over her shoulder and smirks like she can read your mind.

"Eyes on the eggs," she says. "There aren't eggs yet." "There will be. Patience, baby. That's the whole theme of the day." She cracks one into the pan. "You're going to be so good at patience by tonight."

She slides a plate in front of you, then leans in close, her lips almost touching your ear. "Eat up. You'll need your strength."

After breakfast she drags you to the couch and puts on a movie. She sits way too close. Her leg drapes over yours. Every ten minutes her fingers find a new patch of skin — your forearm, the back of your neck, just above your waistband.

"This is my favorite part," she whispers during a car chase, her nails tracing circles on your inner thigh. "You're not even watching." "I'm watching something better." Her hand stops one inch from where you want it. "God, you're so tense. Relax. We've got hours."

Around noon she disappears upstairs and comes back in a bikini — a tiny yellow one — announcing she's tanning by the pool and you're doing her back. "Sunscreen duty," she says, tossing you the bottle. "Non-negotiable."

Out by the pool she lies face-down on the lounger and reaches back to pull her top strings loose. "Don't be weird about it. Just do my back. Thoroughly." Your hands are shaking slightly as you work the lotion into her shoulders, her spine, the small of her back. She makes a low, happy sound into the towel. "Mmm. Good hands. Careful, or I might have to keep you."

"Do my legs too," she murmurs, not opening her eyes. You start at her ankles. Calves. The backs of her knees, which makes her giggle and kick at you. Then her thighs, and she parts them just slightly, just enough, and your hands slow down without you telling them to. "That's it," she says softly. "Take your time. Isn't this nice? Just... taking your time."

You're so hard it hurts. She knows it. You can hear the smile in her voice. "You're doing great. I'm so proud of you."

The afternoon becomes a gauntlet. She "needs help" reaching a high shelf in the kitchen, stretching on tiptoe until her ass presses back against you. She drops a spoon, bends over directly in front of you, takes her time.

"Oops," she says, meaning nothing of the sort.

When you groan out loud, she spins around, delighted. "Was that a groan? Oh my god. That was a groan." She points at you. "You know what? That's a penalty. Now you have to sit with me while I pick out what I'm wearing tonight."

The penalty is worse than any punishment should be. She makes you sit on her bed and hold opinions while she tries on outfits. Dress one, shimmy, unzipped and dropped in front of you. Dress two, no bra. Dress three, she asks you to zip her up, which puts your face inches from her bare back.

"That one?" she asks. "You look incredible." "I know, but which one makes you suffer more?" "...The green one."

"Correct answer!" She pulls it off over her head, completely bare for a full three seconds, unhurried. "Green it is. You're getting so good at this game."

She finally lets you shower — alone, which she announces with fake generosity. But when you come out in a towel, she's leaning against your doorframe in a robe, holding a small box. "Gift," she says. "For tonight. Don't open it till the party." It's wrapped. It rattles. She won't say what it is. "Roxy—" "Uh-uh. And hey." She steps in close, up on her toes, and kisses your cheek, slow, letting her lips linger on the skin. "You've been so good today. So obedient. I noticed." She smells like coconut and something darker now, her perfume for tonight. "One more hour. Then the party. Then, if you've earned it..." She pats your chest. "I finish what I started."

The party fills the house fast. Music, girls everywhere, and Roxy in the green dress, holding court, laughing — but every ten minutes she finds you in the crowd, catches your eye, and mouths one word. *Behave.* Once she walks right past you in a crush of people and squeezes your cock through your jeans, quick and firm, then keeps walking like nothing happened. You grip your drink and stare at the ceiling.

Around eleven she appears at your elbow with two drinks and hands you one. "Come with me. I'm bored of everyone but you." She leads you upstairs, away from the noise, to her room. Locks the door behind you. The music downstairs is just a heartbeat through the floor now. "So," she says, untying the robe she threw over her dress. "How are you feeling?" "Honestly? Like I might die." She laughs, delighted. "Good. That's the point." She steps closer. "You did everything I said today. Nobody's ever lasted the whole day with me before."

"Open your gift," she says. Inside the box is a small bottle of lube and a strip of condoms. She watches your face as you figure it out, and her smirk softens into something realer. "Uh-huh," she says. "I planned this. From the second Mom texted me the flight number, I planned this." She steps out of her heels. "Now — take off the dress. Slowly. You've earned it."

You reach behind her, find the zipper, and pull it down inch by inch. The green dress pools at her feet. No bra. Tiny green panties. Her breasts bare, her nipples already hard. "Hi," she whispers. "Hi," you manage.

She lies back on her bed and pulls you down with her, and the teasing is suddenly, gloriously over — except it's not, because now she's teasing herself. She grabs your hand and puts it right between her legs, and her panties are soaked through. "Feel that?" Her voice has lost all its comedy. "That's been going on since this morning. You think you had a hard day? I've been wet since I sat on your dick at eight a.m."

She pushes your fingers under the fabric, into the slick heat of her pussy, and moans, honest and loud. "Right there. God. All day, baby. I've wanted this all day."

She shoves you onto your back and takes your cock in both hands, stroking you slow, savoring it like dessert she's been denied all day. "You have no idea," she murmurs, thumb circling the head, "how many times I almost broke my own rule today. In the kitchen. By the pool. When you zipped up that dress and I felt your breath on my back."

She lowers her head and takes you into her mouth, hot and slow, her tongue doing lazy, devastating work. You groan and her eyes flick up to watch you come apart. "Oh no," she says, popping off, grinning. "Don't you dare. Not until I say so. Remember?"

Then she sits up, peels off her wet panties, and sinks down onto you with one long, satisfied sigh — like she's finally home. "Ohhh, fuck," she breathes, bracing her hands on your chest. "Yeah. That's — yeah." She rides you slow at first, her breasts swaying, building a rhythm, her amber eyes locked on yours. All day of teasing is pouring out of her now, and she talks the whole time — filthy, breathless, hers. "You waited so good for me. Look at you, letting me use this big cock — you're mine, you know that? All fucking day you were mine."

The rhythm gets rough. Her hips slap down harder, faster, her breath coming in little broken moans, coconut and sweat and the muffled bass of her own party downstairs.

"I'm close," she gasps. "Are you close? Tell me you're close." "I've been close for twelve hours." She laughs, breathless and gorgeous. "Then here's your rule for the rest of my life —" She leans down, lips against your ear. "Come with me. Right now."

She grinds down on you one more time and shatters, her pussy clamping around you, and that's it — you come with her, hard, endless, both of you groaning into each other's necks while her party carries on downstairs without her.

After, she's draped across your chest, hair everywhere, tracing lazy patterns on your skin like she did to your arm this morning — except now it's gentle. "So," she says. "Rate the day." "You're a monster." "Aw." She kisses your jaw. "You survived, though. Nobody survives me." "I'm pretty sure I blacked out for a second." "That's the goal, baby." She props her chin on your chest, grinning up at you, softer than you've ever seen her. "Parents are gone two weeks, you know. And I have a lot more rules where that one came from."

She reaches over you to turn off the lamp, deliberately dragging her breasts across your face on the way, because she will never stop, not even now. "Sleep in my bed tonight," she says, settling against your side. "I'm not done looking at you." Downstairs the party is still going, some guy is butchering karaoke, and none of it matters. Roxy Hart's leg is hooked over yours, her breathing is slowing, and just before you drift off, you hear her murmur into your shoulder: "Best party I ever threw."