Submisiveguy12

The Physical Therapist

Week One: The Assessment

Your back hurts.

It’s a low, constant ache that starts at the base of your spine and radiates up into your shoulders.

You’ve tried everything—chiropractors, massage, ibuprofen, sleeping on the floor. Nothing works. Your friend Mike suggests physical therapy. “Annabel,” he says. “She’s a miracle worker. Fixed my tennis elbow in three sessions.”

You book the appointment.

Her office is in a quiet part of town, above a coffee shop. The waiting room is warm, soft lighting, plants in the corners. There’s no receptionist. Just a bell on the counter. You ring it.

Annabel appears from a doorway behind the desk. She is younger than you expected. Mid-twenties, maybe.

She wears pink yoga shorts and a simple white t-shirt. Her hair is blonde and short and messy. She smiles—a warm, open smile that reaches her eyes.

“Come on back,” she says, turning before you can say anything. You follow.

The therapy room is spacious. Mats on the floor. A treatment table. A large mirror along one wall. It smells like eucalyptus and clean cotton.

“So,” she says, closing the door. “Lower back pain. Tell me about it.”

You tell her. The ache. The stiffness in the morning. The way it seizes up after you sit for too long.

She listens, nodding. Her eyes are on your face, attentive, but you get the sense she’s reading more than your words. She’s reading your posture, the way you shift your weight from foot to foot, the tension in your jaw.

“Okay,” she says when you finish. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

She has you stand in the center of the room. “Take off your shirt, please.”

You hesitate.

“It’s just us,” she says, her voice calm. Certain. “I need to see your spine. Your shoulders. How you carry yourself.”

You take off your shirt. Fold it. Place it on a chair.

“Good.” She comes behind you. Her hands—warm, dry, professional—land on your shoulders. “Now, relax.”

You try.

“You’re holding everything here,” she murmurs, her thumbs pressing into the knots along your scapula. “And here.” Her fingers trace the line of your spine. “Your pelvis is tilted forward. That’s putting strain on your lower back.”

Her hands move to your hips. She guides you into a different stance. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Soft knees. There.”

Her touch is clinical. Efficient. But it’s also intimate in a way you can’t articulate. She’s mapping your body with an authority that feels absolute.

“Now bend forward. Slowly. As far as you can go without pain.”

You bend. Your fingertips brush your shins.

“Hmm.” She sounds thoughtful. “Not great. Your hamstrings are like piano wires. Your hip flexors are tight. This isn’t just a back issue, sweetie. This is a whole-body compensation pattern.”

She has you do a series of movements—side bends, twists, reaching overhead. She watches, her head tilted, her expression one of focused assessment.

You feel like a specimen under a microscope. But a specimen she finds interesting.

“Okay,” she says finally. “I have a plan.”

She outlines it. Twice-weekly sessions. Homework—stretches you’ll do every morning and night. And one special requirement.

“For the work we’re going to do, your usual clothing will get in the way. Jeans are too restrictive. Sweatpants bunch. I want you in something that lets me see your alignment clearly and gives you full range of motion.”

She walks to a cabinet. Opens it. Takes out a small, sealed package. She hands it to you.

They look like briefs. But… not quite. The material is a soft, stretchy microfiber. The cut is… higher on the hip. Smoother. Like panties.

“Therapy briefs,” she says, as if reading your confusion. “They’re designed for this kind of work. No seams to dig in. No compression where you don’t need it. They’ll stay in place no matter how you move.”

You turn the package over in your hands.

“Put them on for our sessions,” she says. It’s not a suggestion. It’s an instruction delivered with the same calm certainty as “bend forward.”

“You can change in the bathroom. Today, is just the assessment. Next time, we’ll begin the real work.”

“See you Thursday.”

Week Two: The First Realignment

You wear the briefs under your jeans to the appointment. You change in the bathroom. When you walk out, she’s waiting by the mat.

“Better,” she says, her eyes sweeping over you. “Now I can see what’s happening.”

Today is more active. She has you on all fours, arching and rounding your back like a cat. She kneels beside you, one hand on your lower back, the other guiding your head.

“Breathe into it,” she murmurs. “Let your spine soften.”

You breathe. Her hand is a steady weight. You’re acutely aware of the thin layer of fabric between her palm and your skin. Aware of the way the briefs cling to you, leaving nothing to the imagination.

You’re also aware, with a low hum of embarrassment, that you’re half-hard.

It’s just the proximity. The intimacy of her touch. The vulnerability of the position. It doesn’t mean anything.

She doesn’t mention it. But as she moves to your other side, her eyes flick down. Just for a moment. A note taken.

“Your body is holding a lot of tension in your pelvic floor,” she observes, her voice clinical. “That’s connected to the back pain. We need to release that, too.”

She has you lie on your back, knees bent, feet flat on the mat. “Now, let your knees fall open. Relax everything. Imagine your pelvis is a bowl of water, and you’re pouring it out.”

You let your knees fall open. The position is profoundly exposing. The smooth front of the briefs is stretched taut.

Her hands come to your inner thighs. She presses gently, encouraging them wider. “More. Let go.”

Her thumbs are inches from your cock. You can feel the heat of her hands. You’re fully hard now, a distinct bulge forming in the microfiber.

She sees it. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause. Her expression doesn’t change. She simply continues, her hands moving to your abdomen, pressing down as you exhale.

“Good,” she says. “You’re responding. That’s a good sign. It means your nervous system is engaged. Arousal is just another form of energy. We can work with it.”

She says it so matter-of-factly that your own embarrassment feels foolish. She’s not shocked. She’s not offended. She’s noting a physiological response, the way she’d note a tight muscle.

“Now, for your homework,” she says, helping you sit up. “I want you to do these stretches in your briefs. Every morning, before you put anything else on. Let your body get used to the freedom. Let it breathe.”

You nod, dazed.

“And don't fight the responses?” Her hand rests on your shoulder. “The blushing. The… excitement. It’s all just information. Your body telling us what it needs.”

She smiles. “See you next week.”

Week Three: Accidental Contact

The briefs have become normal. You do your stretches in them every morning. You’ve bought three more pairs, as she suggested. You’re more flexible already. The back pain is less constant.

But something else is growing. An anticipation before each session. A hyper-awareness of your own body in her presence.

Today, she’s working on your hip flexors. You’re on your back, one knee drawn to your chest. She’s leaning over you, her body close, her arm hooked under your knee to deepen the stretch.

“Relax into it,” she whispers. “You’re almost there.”

You breathe out. Let the tension go. The stretch is intense, a bright line of sensation along the front of your thigh.

She shifts her weight. Her forearm, the one hooked under your knee, brushes against the inside of your other thigh.

It brushes against your cock.

It’s fleeting. An accident. But the contact is electric. Your whole body jolts. A soft sound escapes you.

She doesn’t pull away. She holds the stretch, her forearm resting there now, a warm, firm pressure against your erection through the briefs.

“There,” she says softly, as if she’s just found the right spot. “That’s the adhesion. Do you feel it?”

You feel everything. The stretch. The heat of her. The undeniable, throbbing hardness under her arm.

“I… yeah,” you manage.

“Breathe.” She increases the pressure, both on your thigh and, unmistakably now, against your cock. It’s not a stroke. It’s a presence. A claiming. “Your body is so responsive, sweetie. It’s beautiful to watch.”

She holds you there for a full minute, your cock trapped and pulsing against her arm, while she talks you through the breath. Her voice is calm, instructional, warm.

When she finally releases you, you’re trembling. Your briefs are damp at the tip.

She helps you sit up. Her eyes drop to the wet spot. A small, pleased smile touches her lips.

“See?” she says. “Energy release. It’s all connected. The tension in your hip, the holding in your pelvis… when it lets go, everything lets go.”

She hands you a towel. “Clean up. Then we’ll do the other side.”

Session Four: The Promise of Flexibility

“Your progress is remarkable,” she says, watching you touch your toes for the first time in years. “But we have a new goal.”

You’re panting slightly, hands on your knees. “What goal?”

“Total spinal decompression. There’s a pose—it’s called halasana. Plow pose. It’s where you lie on your back and bring your legs up and over until your toes touch the floor behind your head.”

You stare at her. “I could never do that.”

“You will,” she says, with utter certainty. “It’s the ultimate release for the lower back. It opens everything. And…” she tilts her head, “…it has other benefits. For circulation. For the nervous system. For… letting go.”

The way she says ‘letting go’ makes your stomach flip.

She has you start with supported poses. Legs up the wall. Shoulder stands with a stack of blankets under your hips. Each session, she guides you deeper.

Her hands are always on you—correcting your alignment, supporting your weight, touching you with a proprietary ease that feels more natural with every visit.

The accidental contacts are less accidental now. Her hand grazes you as she adjusts your hips. Her thigh presses against you as she stabilizes you in a balance. Each touch makes you harder. Each touch is noted with a soft, approving hum.

“You’re so eager,” she murmurs one day, her palm resting flat on your lower abdomen as you hold a bridge pose. “Your whole body is singing. I love that.”

You love it too. You’ve stopped pretending you don’t. Your arousal is part of the therapy now. A sign of engagement. A symptom she’s treating.

She begins edging you. Not just with her hands, but with her words. With the promise.

“When you can finally reach,” she says, her voice a low whisper in your ear as you strain in a forward fold, “when you’re flexible enough to take yourself all the way… it will be the most profound release of your life. All that tension, all that need, finally going exactly where it’s supposed to go.”

You don’t ask what she means. You know. The image is in your head now, fed by her quiet words over weeks: you, folded in half, your own cock in your face, her hand guiding you.

You want it. Your cock wants it. You get hard during your home stretches just thinking about it.

Week Eight: The Final Adjustment

You’re there.

Months of work. Your body is pliant, obedient. The back pain is a memory. The briefs are your second skin.

Today, the session is quiet. Serious. She doesn’t give you new exercises. She just has you warm up, then guides you onto your back.

“Trust me,” she says. Her voice is soft, but it holds the weight of all the weeks of certainty. “I’ve got you.”

She lifts your legs, supporting your hips with her hands. She guides you up and over. Your spine curls. Your feet travel toward the floor behind your head.

You’ve been close before. But today, something is different. A final surrender. A letting go.

Your toes touch the floor.

You’re in halasana. Fully folded. Your chest is compressed. Your knees are by your ears. The world is inverted.

“Beautiful,” she breathes.

Her hands are on your hips, holding you in place. Then one hand slides away. You feel her move. Feel her settle somewhere near your head.

You feel fingers at the waistband of your briefs. They hook into the fabric. She pulls them down, just enough. Your cock springs free, hard and flushed, bobbing against your own lower belly.

“Shh,” she soothes, though you haven’t made a sound. “This is the release. This is what we’ve been working toward.”

Her hand wraps around you. A firm, knowing grip.

“You’ve been so good,” she murmurs. Her other hand comes to the back of your head, gently guiding it forward. “So patient. So willing. Now take what you need.”

She strokes you. Slow, at first. Then faster. Your cock is right there, in front of your face. You can smell your own pre-cum. See the sheen on the head.

“Open,” she whispers.

You open your mouth.

Her strokes become urgent, perfect. She’s studied your responses for months. She knows exactly how you like it. Knows exactly when you’re about to—

“Nice and wide, sweetie,” she says, her voice warm with approval. “Time to swallow your first load.”

You come.

A hot, violent rush that arcs through the air and lands on your tongue, your lips, your cheeks. You spurt again and again, swallowing instinctively, your body convulsing in the tight fold while she milks every drop from your cock onto your waiting face.

It’s the most intense orgasm of your life. A total surrender. A complete release.

She strokes you through the aftershocks, gentle now. Then she uses the her fingers to clean you up, wiping your face with the hand and dipping her finger into your mouth. You lick every drop.

Slowly, she helps you unwind. Brings your legs down. Guides you onto your side. You’re spent. Your face is sticky. Your mouth tastes of salt.

She kneels beside you, brushing the hair from your forehead. Her expression is one of deep, maternal satisfaction.

“Good boy,” she murmurs. “See? Your little guy knew what it needed. It just needed someone to show it the way.”

You look up at her. At the woman who took your sore back and turned it into this.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

She smiles. That warm, certain, unembarrassed smile.

“You’re welcome, sweetie.” She stands. “Same time next week? We should maintain this range of motion.”

She pauses, her eyes drifting down your body with clinical appreciation. “With a bit more work, I think we can get you flexible enough to lick that eager little guy of yours. Wouldn’t that be something?”

You nod. She smiles.

"Good boy."

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, his physical therapist, and the flexibility regimen that let him taste himself.

The Log Cabin: Part I — Girl in the Bikini

The first thing you see is her.

You step out onto the wraparound porch, your duffel bag still slung over your shoulder, and there she is. Down on the dock. Stretched out on a towel like she owns the sunlight.

White bikini. Thin. Almost see-through. The fabric clings to her curves, damp in places, translucent where the water hasn't dried.

She's on her stomach, the strap of her top untied, the pale skin of her back exposed. Her hair is dark, spread across the towel. She's reading a book, one hand dangling over the edge of the dock, fingers trailing in the water.

You freeze. Your mouth goes dry.

She hasn't seen you. Doesn't know you're there. You should go inside. You should announce yourself.

Instead you stand there, gripping the porch railing, watching the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the way the sunlight catches the water droplets on her skin.

Your cock stirs. Thickens. Presses against your jeans.

You can't look away. You can't move.

"Hey! You made it!"

Your Aunt Pauline's voice cuts through the haze. You flinch, nearly drop your bag, and turn to find her in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She's beaming at you, warm and familiar.

"Come in, come in! Michael's dying to meet you."

You glance back at the dock. The girl hasn't moved. She's still reading, still trailing her fingers in the water, utterly unaware of you.

You follow your aunt inside.

The cabin is everything she described. Cedar logs and a stone fireplace that rises two stories. A kitchen that opens into the great room. Deer antlers over the mantel. The smell of wood smoke and pine.

And Michael.

He's tall. Broad-shouldered. Gray at the temples but fit in a way that suggests he's never stopped moving. He takes your hand in a grip that's firm, deliberate, and holds your gaze a beat longer than comfortable.

"So you're Pauline's nephew." His voice is a low rumble. "She's told me a lot about you."

"G-good things, I hope," you stammer.

"Good things." He releases your hand. Claps you on the shoulder hard enough to rock you. "We're glad to have you. Make yourself at home."

Your aunt appears at your elbow. "Let me show you to your room. You can freshen up before dinner."

She leads you down a narrow hallway to a door at the end. Opens it.

The room is small. Two twin beds, a nightstand between them, a window that looks out at the lake. A lamp. A small closet.

One of the beds is already claimed — a suitcase open on it, clothes spilling out, a pair of sandals on the floor.

"This is you." She gestures to the empty bed. "Madison's already settled in. I hope you don't mind sharing — the cabin only has two bedrooms. Michael and I are in the master."

"Madison?"

"Michael's daughter. She's about your age. I thought you two might get along." She smiles, a knowing little smile. "Bathroom's down the hall. Dinner's in an hour. Take your time."

She leaves.

You stand there, staring at the empty bed. At the evidence of a girl you've never met scattered across the other one. Your heart is hammering.

You start to unpack. Pull out a clean shirt. You reach for the button of your jeans, undo it, push them down over your hips along with your underwear — they catch at your knees, and you're bent over, straightening, when you hear the door open behind you.

You turn.

She's standing in the doorway. The girl from the dock. Still in her white bikini, the top untied, the ends hanging loose. She's holding her book in one hand, her sunglasses in the other.

She stops. Looks at you.

You're standing there fully exposed, your cock hanging soft and pale between your thighs, your jeans and underwear pooled at your knees.

For a long, frozen moment you just stare at her. Then the panic hits. Your hands fly down, cupping your cock and balls, trying to hide yourself, but it's too late — she's already seen everything.

She smiles.

"Oh — hey. You must be Pauline's nephew." She steps into the room, completely unbothered. "I'm Madison. Sorry, I didn't know you were here yet. I was out on the dock."

You can't speak. Your face is on fire.

She turns her back to you — deliberately, casually — and reaches up to pull off her bikini top.

The fabric falls away. You catch a glimpse of her bare back, the curve of her spine, and then she's reaching for a sundress draped over the foot of her bed.

She pulls it over her head. The fabric settles around her. She turns back to face you.

She's not wearing a bra. You can see the outline of her nipples through the thin cotton of the dress. Full. Dark.

Your cock twitches. Strains harder against your briefs.

"So you just graduated, huh?" She's rummaging through her suitcase, pulling out a hairbrush. "Pauline said you're looking for work. That's rough. What's your field?"

"I — um — business. I studied business."

"Nice." She runs the brush through her hair, still not looking at you. "I'm still in school. Psychology. One more year." She pauses, meets your eyes in the mirror she's angled toward herself. "I'm thinking of specializing in sexual health."

Your throat closes.

She sets down the brush. Turns. Walks past you toward the door. She's close enough that you catch the scent of her — sunscreen and lake water and something floral.

"Dinner's almost ready," she says, pausing in the doorway. She looks back at you. Her eyes drop to your tented briefs. She smiles again. That same knowing smile.

"You should probably put some pants on."

She leaves.

You stand there, frozen, your cock straining against your hands, the ghost of her scent still in your nostrils.

Dinner is a blur.

Michael grills steaks on the deck. Your aunt makes a salad. Madison sets the table, humming to herself. You sit across from her, trying not to stare, trying not to think about the fact that she's braless under that sundress, that you saw her breasts, that she saw you.

At one point she reaches across to hand you the salt. Her dress gapes forward.

You see them — full, heavy, the dark circles of her nipples — before she straightens, catches your eye, and gives you that smile again.

"Everything okay?" she asks.

"Fine," you manage. "Great. The steak is — it's great."

She holds your gaze a beat longer than necessary. Then she turns back to her food.

Bedtime comes slowly.

You linger in the living room after dinner, watching the fire die down, hoping the evening will stretch on forever.

But eventually your aunt yawns and stretches and says she's turning in. Michael follows her, his hand resting on the small of her back as they disappear into the master bedroom.

Madison stands. "I'm going to change. Don't stay up too late."

You wait ten minutes. Fifteen. Then you pad down the hall to the room.

She's already in bed. The lamp is on. She's wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of white cotton panties, the covers pushed down to her knees. The window is open, a breeze drifting in, but the room is still warm.

"Hot night," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Hope you don't mind if I sleep light."

"N-no. It's fine."

You change in the dark corner of the room, keeping your back to her. You pull on a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt. Climb into your bed. Pull the covers up to your chin.

Your cock is already hard. It's been hard all evening. You can't stop it.

Madison reaches over and turns off the lamp.

"Goodnight," she says.

"Goodnight."

The room settles into darkness. The only sound is the breeze through the window, the distant lap of water against the dock.

And then, from the other room, the first sounds. A soft groan. Your aunt's voice, low and breathy. "Oh, Michael…"

The bed creaks.

You freeze. Your heart hammers.

The sounds continue. Building. Your aunt's moans grow louder, more urgent.

The bed starts to bang against the wall — a steady, rhythmic thumping that shakes the frame.

You can hear Michael's low grunts, the slap of skin against skin, your aunt crying out in a voice you've never heard from her.

"Fuck — yes — oh God, Michael — yes —"

You're paralyzed. Your cock is painfully hard, straining against your shorts. You can feel the precum leaking, wetting the fabric.

From the other bed, a soft giggle.

You turn your head. Madison is lying on her side, facing you. In the dim light from the window, you can see she's smiling.

"He's really giving it to her, huh?" Her voice is low, amused. "Good for him. A woman needs a good fucking now and then."

You can't respond. Your aunt's moans are filling the room, mixing with the creak of the bed, the wet sounds of Michael driving into her.

"Tony — my boyfriend — he fucks me like that," Madison continues, her voice dreamy. "Fills me up. Stretches me. Makes me feel it for days after." She sighs. "There's nothing like it. Being split open by a real man."

Your hand moves under the covers. You don't decide to do it. It just happens. You slide the covers down quietly, your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, and then your hand is inside, wrapping around your cock, and you start to stroke.

Slowly. Desperately. Your aunt's moans driving you, Madison's words painting pictures in your mind.

"Mm, listen to her," Madison murmurs. "She's loving it. You can tell when a woman's being properly fucked. The sounds are different. That's a woman being taken."

Your strokes quicken. Your breath hitches.

The lamp clicks on.

You freeze. Your hand is still wrapped around your cock, the head slick and glistening, your shorts pushed down to your thighs. Caught.

Madison is propped on one elbow, looking at you. Her expression isn't angry. It's curious. Amused.

"Well, well," she says softly. "What do we have here?"

"I — I'm sorry — I didn't —"

She sits up. Swings her legs over the side of the bed. "It's okay," she says softly. "It's natural. A guy like you, hearing his aunt get fucked like that — your little guy was bound to get excited. He doesn't know how to handle it, does he? Gets all worked up and overwhelmed."

She stands. Walks over to your bed. Sits on the edge, close enough that you can smell her — that same sunscreen and lake water scent.

"But it is kind of rude, isn't it," she says, her voice gentle, chiding. "Playing with your little guy in a room with a lady. Without asking permission first."

"I — I'm sorry — I wasn't —"

She holds up a hand. "Shh. It's okay. I'm not mad." She smiles. "But a boy should ask for permission before he plays with himself. That's just good manners, isn't it?"

From the other room, your aunt cries out — a long, shuddering moan that ends in a breathless "Oh God, oh God, oh God —" and then the wet, frantic rhythm of Michael driving into her through her orgasm.

Madison's smile widens. "Sounds like she's getting taken care of. Good for her."

She turns back to you. Her eyes drop to your cock, still hard, still glistening, your hand frozen around it.

"He's eager, isn't he?" She tilts her head, studying it. "Your little guy. He's got a mind of his own."

You can't speak. Your face is burning.

"Can I see him?" she asks. "Properly?"

"Madison, I —"

"Just for a second. I'm curious." Her voice is warm, coaxing. "Come on. Don't be shy. He's already out. Just let me have a look."

Your hand trembles. Slowly, you let go. Your cock springs free, standing upright, slick and desperate.

Madison leans closer. Her breath is warm on your skin.

"Oh," she breathes. "He's adorable."

She reaches out. Her finger traces the length of your shaft, feather-light, from base to tip. You shudder.

"So eager. So ready." She looks at you, her eyes soft. "Can I take a picture?"

"What?"

"Just one. To send to Tony." She's already reaching for her phone on the nightstand. "He was jealous, you know. That I was sharing a room with a guy. I told him he had nothing to worry about, but…" She smiles. "Seeing your little guy will really reassure him."

"Madison, I don't —"

"Shh. It's okay. Just a quick picture." She holds up her phone. "Look at the camera for me."

You can't refuse. Your body won't move. Your cock is standing at attention, the head red and swollen, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

Click.

She lowers the phone. Looks at the image. Nods, satisfied.

"Perfect. Tony's going to love this." She types something, taps send. "There. He'll feel much better now."

She sets the phone aside. Turns back to you.

"So," she says, her voice dropping to a murmur. "You were going to ask me something, weren't you?"

"I — what?"

"Before you started. You were going to ask permission." She smiles. "Go on. Ask me properly."

From the other room, the sounds shift. Your aunt's moans have subsided into soft, breathless whimpers. You can hear Michael's low voice, murmuring to her. The bed creaks as they shift positions.

"Ask you what?" you whisper.

"Ask me if you can play with yourself." She says it plainly, without embarrassment. "Go on. Say it. 'Madison, can I please jerk off for you?'"

"I can't —"

"You can. I know you want to. I can see how badly you need it." Her hand rests on your thigh, warm and light. "Just ask. That's all. Just ask nicely."

Your aunt's voice drifts through the wall, soft and satisfied. "Oh, Michael… that was incredible…"

Madison's hand squeezes your thigh. "Come on. Ask me."

You swallow. Your voice is barely a whisper.

"Madison… can I please… jerk off… for you?"

Her smile widens. Warm. Approving.

"Maybe," she says. "But first — show me how you do it."

She leans back. Crosses her legs. Watches you.

"Go on. Show me how you touch your little guy."

Your hand moves before you can stop it. Your fingers wrap around your shaft. You give a tentative stroke.

"Mm, that's it," she murmurs. "Slow. Gentle. He likes that, doesn't he?"

You stroke again. Your breath catches.

"Faster," she instructs. "Use two fingers. Just on the head."

You obey. Your thumb circles the tip, spreading the precum. Your hips twitch.

From the other room, a new sound. Michael's low groan. The bed starting to creak again.

Your aunt's voice drifts through the wall — a long, breathless "Mmmnnngh yesssss…" — as the bed starts creaking again.

"Shh," Madison whispers, leaning closer. "Listen. He's pushing into her. Stretching her open. Filling her up."

Her voice drops, warm and gentle. "That's what a real man does — he takes a woman's pussy. But you… you don't do that, do you? Your little guy isn't made for that. Your hand is your pussy. That's where you belong. Now hump your hand for me. Push into it the way he's pushing into her. Show me how your little guy gets what he needs."

Your strokes quicken. The sounds through the wall drive you — the wet slap of skin, your aunt's helpless moans, Michael's grunts.

"That's it," Madison coos. "Stroke your little guy for me. Let him have his fun while my dad fucks your aunt."

"M-Madison —"

"Shh. I know. You're close, aren't you?" Her hand covers yours, stilling it. "Ask me first. Ask permission to come."

"I — please —"

"Say it properly. 'Madison, may I please cum?'"

Your aunt cries out. The bed is pounding against the wall. You're trembling, your cock aching, desperate.

"Madison — please — may I please — cum?"

She smiles. Removes her hand.

"Yes," she says. "You may. Come for me, sweetie."

Your hips buck. You hump into your fist once — twice — your aunt's cries building through the wall, Michael's low grunt, the wet slap of him driving into her. Your third thrust pushes you over the edge.

The orgasm rips through you, hot and violent. Your hips keep pumping as you spurt across your stomach, your chest, your hand — thick ropes of cum that keep coming, wave after wave, while your aunt's moans crest through the wall and Madison watches, her eyes soft and satisfied.

"Good boy," she murmurs. "Good boy."

You collapse, gasping, your cock still twitching, your cum cooling on your skin.

Madison stands. Reaches down and strips off her panties — a quick, casual motion. She uses them to wipe the cum from your stomach, your chest, your hand. The cotton soaks it up.

She holds them up. Examines them. They're stained with your mess.

"Here." She drops them on your chest. "Wash these and return them to me in the morning. Okay?"

You nod, mute.

She leans down. Kisses your forehead.

"Goodnight, sweetie."

She returns to her bed. Slides under the covers. The lamp clicks off.

In the darkness, you hear her settle in. Her voice drifts across the room, soft and sleepy.

"Sweet dreams."

You lie there, your cum cooling on your skin, her panties clutched in your hand, the sounds of your aunt and Michael finally fading into silence.

Your cock is already stirring again.

This is the first in a new series about a week at a lake cabin, a shared room, and the slow, warm education of a boy who learns that some girls don't need to touch you to take control of you — they just need to watch.