Have her strip too!

She stands in the middle of your room, hands empty, cheeks flushed, the faint damp spot on the front of her shorts darker than it was a few minutes ago. Her eyes keep dropping to the thick, upright cock she still has not been allowed to touch. The silence stretches. You let it.

Then you give the heavy length a slow, deliberate wave—just enough for it to bob and flex in the air between you—and speak in that same calm, even tone.

“It’s not fair that you get all the eye candy.”

Her breath catches. She stares at the motion of your cock like it is the only thing in the room.

“Strip. Everything off. Then clean my room properly—dust the surfaces, straighten the desk, wipe the windowsill, vacuum if it needs it. When my room is done to my satisfaction, we’ll go do yours and see how it goes.”

For half a second the old version of her flickers—some remnant of protest or sarcasm—but it dies almost immediately under the weight of the order and the sight of your still-hard cock. She reaches for the hem of her tank top without another word. The thin fabric peels upward and off, revealing small, firm breasts and the soft pink of her nipples already tight from the tension that has been building all morning. She drops the shirt on the floor, hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, and pushes them down along with her underwear in one motion. The soaked crotch of the shorts sticks for a second before peeling free. She steps out of them, completely naked now, and stands there with her hands at her sides, waiting.

Her body is lean and smooth from summer. A faint sheen of arousal is visible on the insides of her thighs. She does not try to cover herself.

You nod once toward the desk.

“Start there.”

She moves. Dusting cloth in hand, she works across every surface—desk, nightstand, dresser, windowsill—stretching and bending while your eyes stay on her. Every time she leans forward her breasts sway; every time she reaches higher the soft curve of her ass flexes. She is careful, thorough, almost painfully aware of how exposed she is and how your cock is still hard and heavy in the open air of the room. When she finishes the surfaces she finds the small handheld vacuum and works it over the rug and the corners, on her knees more than once, the position leaving her completely open to your gaze.

She does not complain. She does not stall. She simply cleans, naked and flushed, while your cock remains the only other thing in the room that matters.

When the last surface is wiped and the vacuum is put away, she stands again in the center of the room, breathing a little faster, a fresh gleam of wetness visible between her thighs. She looks at you—at your face for half a second, then straight back down to the thick, twitching length of your cock—and waits.

Your room is clean. She is naked. And the next room is hers.