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The Sonoran desert, Arizona

She didn’t say a word. Just let me touch. Let me feel.

The quiet was heavier than any moan.

And somehow, that made it even hotter.

“He didn’t bother drying off all the way. The satin would do that for him.”

Steam still clung to the bathroom mirror, his own reflection a ghost in the haze. John padded across the floor, droplets running down his skin, trailing along his hip before catching in the lace of the panties he’d just slipped on.

Not just any panties. Black, high-cut, perfectly wicked, and open. Crotchless, unapologetically so. The cut framed him like it had been made for this moment, for this morning, for him.

In the mirror, he gave himself a slow turn. The heels came next, chunky platforms, six inches of height that changed his whole posture. He fastened each buckle with care, rising vertebra by vertebra until he was standing tall, hips loose, shoulders rolled back.

The house tour began. Bedroom, hallway, living room, every mirror was another audience. Every reflection caught the sway of his hips, the soft bounce of what the lace didn’t hide, the faint bob of something already half-hard and getting harder.

He ended up at the sliding glass door. Sunlight hit just right, showing him in crisp silhouette. His hand found himself without thought, just a gentle drag over skin that was already slick at the tip. He swiped his fingers, slow, and tasted them.

Delicious.

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Laying against my feet. Between my knees. All proud and lifeless.

Like it’s earned the right to exist.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, legs bare, hips hugged by midnight blue lace — the kind that climbs just high enough to feel like you’re all exposed. The matching negligee is bunched around my waist, the fabric soft and sheer where it drapes, but useless now. I’m not cold. I’m just… waiting.

And this thing, this smug little seven inch silicone monument, isn’t helping.

I stare at it. It stares back.

Not even a twitch. No vibration. No hum. Just this matte, smooth silence like it knows I’m the one who has to make the first move. Again.

I shift, ankles flexing under it. It wobbles.

Still nothing. Not even a respectful flop.

Lazy.

I glance sideways, just briefly, my wife is next to me, quiet, maybe amused. I can’t tell. I don’t ask. That would make it real. That would mean I’m actually losing a stare-down with a toy.

So I look back down.

It’s just sitting there like it’s doing me a favor by existing.

God, I wish it was attached to something.

Better yet — someone.

Held tight in a deep plum velour harness. Secure. Intentional. Moving.

Not resting like some overpriced art piece on the tops of my feet.

I exhale. Low and annoyed and maybe a little too turned on for someone being ignored by molded silicone.

“Could at least try,” I mutter.

It doesn’t.

Of course it doesn’t.

Just sits there.

Stupid.

Beautiful.

Useless.

There’s a pause.

Silence, then a voice cuts through it—warm, teasing, just inches away:

“You mad it’s not doing the work, or mad you want it to?”