The Morning After

The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a hazy glow over the room. Olivia stirs slightly against you, groaning as she shifts, her body still draped lazily over yours. You’re awake before her, painfully aware of the ache still burning inside you, the frustration from last night lingering like an unfinished sentence.

You remember everything.

The party. The theatrics. The way Olivia had commanded you, claimed you, left you wanting. The tension with Daniel. Jessica’s teasing. The way you felt—both humiliated and thrilled by it all. It crashes into you all over again, the memories stirring that same unsettling mix of arousal and confusion.

But Olivia?

When she finally blinks awake, stretching with a groggy sigh, she doesn’t seem to register any of it.

She groans, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Ugh… my head." Then, after a pause, she glances at you, her expression unreadable. "You were really into it last night, huh?" she muses, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips before she yawns and stretches as if the comment meant nothing.

You sit up slightly, watching her. “Rough night?”

Olivia peeks one eye open, offering a small, half-smirk. “Clearly,” she mutters. “I drank too much.”

She doesn’t say we. Just she. As if she assumes you weren’t affected. Or maybe she knows exactly how affected you still are and is simply choosing to play it off. As if she doesn’t recall just how much she had taken from you last night—physically, emotionally.

You hesitate, searching her face for any flicker of recognition, but she just sighs and flops back against the pillows. “I don’t even remember how we got to bed,” she mumbles.

Your stomach tightens. She doesn’t remember? Or is she just choosing not to?

You’re about to ask, but before you can, she blindly reaches for her phone on the nightstand. The screen illuminates, and within seconds, she’s scrolling, her attention pulled entirely away from you.

“Breakfast?” you offer after a moment.

“Mmm.” She makes a vague noise of agreement, not looking up.

You linger for a second longer, waiting—hoping—for her to say something. But she’s completely absorbed in whatever’s on her screen, tapping and scrolling without a care. With a quiet sigh, you slip out of bed and make your way to the kitchen.

---

The scent of coffee fills the air as you prepare breakfast. Olivia shuffles in sometime later, looking half-awake, her hair a mess, her oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. She sits at the counter, phone still in hand, her fingers flying over the screen as she absently sips at the coffee you set in front of her.

She barely acknowledges you.

The silence stretches. You don’t know what you were expecting—some acknowledgment of last night? A continuation of her teasing? Or maybe some reassurance that everything was just a game? Instead, you get nothing.

“Anything good on there?” you finally ask.

She hums noncommittally, still scrolling. “Just catching up.”

Catching up. Or pretending to. Her fingers move over the screen, but you catch the way she flicks her gaze up at you occasionally, watching your reaction. Testing. It’s subtle, but it’s there—the lingering awareness, the way she seems to be enjoying this quiet power, even if she’s not outright admitting it.

Your stomach knots, but you don’t press. Instead, you start cleaning up the remnants of last night’s party—the scattered cups, the plates left out, the mess of cushions on the couch. It feels strange, moving around the space that had been the backdrop for so much humiliation just hours ago. Every item you pick up feels like a relic of something bigger than just a party.

Olivia, meanwhile, remains seated, sipping her coffee like a pampered queen recovering from a wild night.

“You gonna help?” you ask, glancing over at her.

She groans dramatically, setting her phone down long enough to rub at her temples. "Ugh, no chance. My head is killing me." She waves a dismissive hand toward you. “You be a dear and take care of it, yeah?”

The words aren’t just an offhand remark. They aren’t just a flicker of last night. They’re something more. A shadow of her Empress persona, slipping back into place as effortlessly as if she had never left it.

You hesitate for a second. You could push back, insist she helps. You should push back. But something holds you in place—the same ache that’s been gnawing at you since last night. Your entire body is still tense, still humming with the need she left in you. A need she never let you satisfy.

Maybe that’s why, when she shifts in her seat, stretching with that same lazy confidence, something inside you crumbles. Maybe that’s why, when she doesn’t even look up from her phone and simply expects you to obey, you do.

Your face burns. Your pulse pounds. Maybe if you weren’t so painfully horny, so utterly wrecked from last night, you’d call her out on it. Maybe you’d insist that she help clean up.

But you don’t.

Instead, you murmur, “…Yeah. Sure.”

You return to cleaning, barely hearing the sound of her sipping her coffee over the pounding in your chest. Maybe it’s the hangover. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or maybe it’s something worse.

Because even in the daylight, with no **** to blame, you’re still playing along.

The morning stretches on with Olivia lounging lazily around the apartment, still in her oversized t-shirt, scrolling through her phone between sips of coffee. She doesn’t seem to be in any particular rush to do anything productive. Meanwhile, you’re still moving around, picking up the last remnants of the party. It’s almost second nature now—the way she watches while you work.

Eventually, she stretches her arms over her head, sighing deeply. "I think I’m meeting Jessica for coffee in a bit," she muses, like she’s only just thought of it, though you suspect otherwise. She glances over at you, tilting her head slightly. "You’re okay with finishing up the rest of this, right?"

She asks, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her voice—like she’s feeling out the edges of her control, testing to see how much of last night still lingers. It’s a challenge, an unspoken question hanging between you both.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

She notices.

Before you can respond, she saunters over, her expression shifting into something softer—almost innocent. She looks up at you with big, doe-like eyes, her lips slightly parted. Then, with agonizing slowness, her hand slides down your front before cupping your already frustrated package through your pants.

Your breath catches.

She doesn’t squeeze at first—just holds you there, her fingers pressing lightly, waiting. Watching. Testing whether you’ll react the way she wants you to.

"You’ll do it, won’t you?" she purrs, tilting her head as her nails barely scrape through the fabric. "Because you’ve been so..." She pauses, watching your reaction carefully, searching for something. "...helpful lately." Her smirk is playful, but there’s a hint of uncertainty behind it, as if she’s waiting to see whether this will still work.

It’s humiliating how right she is.

She doesn’t need to say it outright—but she hopes she’s right. The truth is in her eyes, in the teasing curl of her lips, but there’s a moment, just a flicker, where she watches your reaction, waiting to see if you’ll actually go along with it.

And you do want to. That’s the worst part.

"Yeah…" The word comes out breathy, almost automatic.

Olivia smirks. "Good."

She finally gives a slow, teasing squeeze before pulling her hand away, the ghost of amusement flickering in her expression—like she’s still figuring out just how far she can take this. Then, instead of the kiss you were half-expecting—or hoping for—she presses a quick peck to your cheek, light and fleeting, before turning away.

"I’m gonna shower," she announces casually, already walking toward the bathroom. But she doesn’t just walk. She lets her fingers graze the hem of her oversized shirt, pulling it up slightly as she moves. Then, just as she reaches the hallway, she peels it off entirely, letting it drop to the floor without a second thought.

You watch, breathless, as piece by piece, her clothes trail behind her like breadcrumbs, deliberate and slow, drawing you in. She knows you’re watching.

She hesitates, just for a second—long enough for you to wonder if she’s waiting for you to follow. But instead, she steps inside, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Another test.

Another test.

What will you do?

Will you man up and step in with her? Take what you want? Or will you ignore it completely, pretend not to notice?

Instead, you choose the middle path. You step closer—just close enough to see through the narrow gap in the door. You shouldn't be watching, but you can't help yourself.

Through the steam rising from the shower, you see her silhouette shift, her hands trailing over her body, slow and deliberate. Then, a soft sigh escapes her lips, followed by a quiet moan.

Your breath catches. You know she’s putting on a show. She wants you to see this. Another test. Another push.

Your hand drifts downward, pressing against yourself through your pants, barely conscious of the movement. It feels illicit, like something you shouldn’t be doing, but that only makes it harder to stop. You feel dirty—like you’re doing something wrong. But that only makes it more thrilling, more naughty. You’re hard, you’re aching, but you don’t dare go further. Not yet. Not without knowing if she’ll push you even more.

Then, the water shuts off. You jolt slightly, realizing how long you’ve been standing there. You step away quickly, forcing yourself to return to cleaning before she emerges. But as you move, the strain in your pants is impossible to ignore, a constant, aching reminder of what just happened. Heart pounding, you quickly step away from the door, hurrying back to the mess of the party. You need to look busy, to pretend as if nothing happened.

But there’s a problem.

The pressure in your pants hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s worse now—the ache sharper, the fabric straining as you move. Every step is a reminder of how affected you still are, how much power she still holds over you without even touching you.

She doesn’t need to push any further.

She knows exactly what she’s doing. And when she steps out of the bedroom, she proves it.

And the worst part?

You’re still standing there, completely wrecked, left alone with the mess she expects you to clean up.

Again.

And you do.

When Olivia finally re-emerges, she’s dressed—overdressed, actually. A sleek blouse, fitted jeans, a touch of makeup like she’s putting on a show for someone. Maybe Jessica. Maybe you.

She pauses in the doorway, running a hand through her still-damp hair, eyes flicking to you. Then, with a slow, knowing smirk, she steps closer.

"Still working hard?" she teases, her tone light but the weight of her gaze settling low in your stomach.

She takes a step nearer—closer than she needs to—her hand trailing lower this time, fingers brushing against your package, just for a moment, as if confirming what she already knows. Your breath catches, and she hums in amusement. Then, just as you start to anticipate something more, she leans in, her lips hovering near yours, so close you can feel her breath. Your heart pounds, waiting, hoping—but before they can connect, she tilts her head at the last second, breaking away with a smirk.

"Be good while I’m gone," she muses, a playful lilt to her voice. And with that, she’s gone, leaving you there, breathless, frustrated, and painfully aware of the game she’s playing.

The door clicks shut. Olivia is gone.

For the first time this morning, the house is quiet—just you and the remnants of last night. The cups, the plates, the scattered mess. You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair as you look around. You should clean. You need to clean. But all you can think about is her.

Your mind won’t stop. The past twelve hours keep swirling inside your head, a loop of teasing touches, stolen glances, the heat of her breath just before she pulled away. Frustration knots in your stomach, twisting with something else, something exhilarating.

Your hands move on autopilot as you pick up a few stray cups. But before you realize what’s happening, a thought slips in, unbidden.

If Olivia were here, what would she make me do?

It’s dumb. It’s weird. But suddenly, it’s there.

You swallow hard, your pulse pounding. Slowly, tentatively, you stand in the middle of the living room and imagine her voice—soft, commanding, playful but firm.

Take off your clothes.

Your breath catches. You hesitate, glancing toward the door as if she might somehow be standing there. But you’re alone. It’s just you, the silence, and the thudding of your own heartbeat.

Your fingers twitch. Then, with a nervous exhale, you obey. Piece by piece, you strip down, every motion making your skin prickle with something that feels like both shame and exhilaration.

The cool air raises goosebumps along your bare skin as you stand there, feeling ridiculous—but also so turned on by the absurdity of it. The power she still holds over you, even when she isn’t here.

Then, another thought. Another command that isn’t real but feels real.

On your knees.

You sink down, your breath shuddering as your knees meet the hardwood floor. The position feels strange, submissive in a way you’ve never consciously thought about before. But it also feels right.

You move to pick up another cup, half-heartedly continuing the act of cleaning, but it’s no use. The fantasy has swallowed you whole. Your mind is a feverish blur of Olivia’s smirk, her touch, the way she knew you’d say yes.

Your hands shake as you set down the cup. Cleaning is pointless now. There’s only one way to get this out of your system.

You stand, your legs unsteady as you make your way to the PC. The screen lights up, casting a glow over your still-naked body as you open the browser.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, your breath shallow. You shouldn’t need this—not after everything that’s happened. But the ache in your body, the frustration she left you with, is unbearable.

You hit enter. The video loads. The half-done cleaning, all but forgotten. The screen flickers, moans and whispers filling the empty space around you. Your body reacts instantly, eager for the release that’s been denied for too long.

But something is off.

You stroke yourself, chasing the edge, but the pleasure is hollow—mechanical. It doesn’t feel good the way you expected it to. Not the way she made you feel. Frustration bubbles up again, and your pace slows.

Without thinking, you open a new search. Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard before curiosity takes over, and you start typing words—things you felt last night but don’t quite know how to name.

Teasing woman in control.

The results are different from what you expected. Thumbnails show women looking directly at the camera, eyes locked in a way that feels intimate—direct. The descriptions use words that make your stomach twist, unfamiliar yet intriguing.

Obedience.
Power.
Control.

You hesitate, hovering over one of the videos, before finally clicking. The screen shifts. A woman appears, her gaze unwavering, her voice smooth and commanding. The way she speaks is different from the usual videos you’ve seen. She isn’t just performing. She’s speaking to you.

You don’t even know why you do it. Maybe it’s the way Olivia carried herself last night, the way she commanded the space without trying. Maybe it’s the memory of Jessica’s playful teasing or the way Olivia so effortlessly took control. Whatever it is, the search results pull you in. The thumbnails, the descriptions—women in control, their voices smooth and commanding, their eyes locked onto the camera as if speaking directly to you.

Your hand moves again, gripping yourself, the frustration still heavy, still throbbing. But this time, you don’t rush. You don’t try to end it. Instead, you let the feeling simmer, let it grow, let it coil tighter inside you. Not chasing an orgasm, just... feeding the fire. The perspective shifts on the screen—a woman’s gaze, looking directly into the camera, her voice low and commanding. It feels like she’s speaking to you, instructing, teasing, controlling.

Your breath catches as you watch, the slow, deliberate way she asserts control, her words dripping with authority, her teasing tone making your skin prickle. It feels too real, too close to what you’ve been feeling since last night. It stirs something deeper than just arousal, something unsettling and thrilling all at once.

You watch, breathing unevenly, your body still aching, still painfully ****. Your fingers twitch against yourself, the need still gnawing at you, still impossible to ignore. And yet, you don’t chase it—not like before. Not like when you thought you could just get rid of this feeling and move on. This is different. Slower. Deeper. And as the videos play, something deep inside you shifts.