I used to be the girl next door. Soft Smiles, sundresses, the one who waved at the mailman and baked cookies for all the neighbours. Boys thought I was sweet and harmless. The kind of girl you’d bring home to Mom. I played the part so well even I almost believed it. Then something flipped. It started small. Teasing, a little edge in my voice, watching the way a man twitched when I told him to stay still.

The rush was immediate. Power looked better on me than innocence ever did. I stopped apologizing for wanting it. I stopped pretending I only liked soft lights and gentle hands. I wanted control. I wanted to decide when he got hard, how long he stayed that way, and rather or not he got to cum. There’s nothing like the look in a man’s eyes when he realizes a girl next door just ordered him to his knees. The polite smile is gone, and in it’s places something sharper and hungrier. I like taking that cock in my hand and feeling it jump under my fingers, knowing every twitch belongs to me. I like to edge him until his thighs shake and he’s begging in that broken voice to let him cum. I like making him wait. Making him earn it. Making him understand that his pleasure is on my schedule, not his.

People still call me sweet to my face, But they don’t know What’s going on behind closed doors. They don’t know how much I enjoy the moment a cock throbs helplessly in my grip. How much I love the sound of a man losing his composure because I told him he couldn’t cum yet and to get on his knees. The contrast is everything. The soft girl they wave to in the morning is the same one who keeps their dick aching and denied all night long. I didn’t turn deviant overnight. Although it was a fast process. Once I tasted control, I never wanted to go back. Now that you made it to the end of this I know exactly what you’re thinking… You want to give up complete control don’t you? Good boy.