Futanari's Delicate Domination.

**"Open for Business"** The club was packed—bodies grinding, sweat glistening under neon lights—but she spotted *him* instantly. Too pretty for this place. Too clean-cut. Blue button-down half-untucked, nervous fingers tapping his drink. A deer in headlights. She sauntered over, hips swaying, the outline of her thick cock pressing against her tight leather pants. "First time here?" she purred, leaning in close enough for him to catch the dark spice of her perfume. He swallowed hard, eyes flicking down—then jerking back up, cheeks flushing. "I, uh—" "Don’t worry, sweetheart." She slid a finger under his chin, tilting his face up. "I know exactly what you need." Her other hand palmed his thigh, squeezing just above the knee. "You ever been with a girl like me?" He shook his head, breath hitching. "Good." Her thumb traced his lower lip. "Because tonight, you’re not leaving until you’re dripping with me." His pulse jumped under her touch. Perfect.

The club thrummed with a heavy bassline, the air thick with the mingled scents of spilled liquor, body heat, and leather. Strobe lights cut through the haze, illuminating flashes of skin—tight skirts riding up thighs, collars glinting around flushed necks, the occasional glint of a harness under unbuttoned shirts. Her corner booth was semi-private, tucked just far enough from the dance floor to feel intimate. The black vinyl seat was cool under her palm as she guided him down, his body stiff but pliant. She could feel the weight of stares from the regulars—curious, envious—but she ignored them. A glassy-eyed bartender slid two shots toward them without being asked, amber liquid sloshing over the rims. She licked the spill off her fingers, slow, deliberate, watching his pupils dilate. His hands trembled around his untouched drink. The music dipped into something slower, darker, and she leaned in, whispering over the beat: “Still nervous?” Her knee pressed between his thighs, just shy of where she knew he’d tense. “Or are you starting to like this?” He exhaled shakily, fingers curling into the edge of the seat. The answer was written in the way his hips twitched forward, desperate and unschooled. She grinned. Perfect.

She dragged her nails lightly down his chest, stopping just above his belt buckle. “You wanna get out of here?” Her voice was a low hum, barely audible over the music. His throat bobbed as he nodded, his grip tightening on the seat. “Good boy.” She stood, pulling him up with her, her fingers lacing with his. The heat of his palm was damp against hers—nerves, excitement, she didn’t care which. The crowd parted as she led him toward the exit, his steps unsteady but eager. Outside, the night air clung to them, thick with humidity. She pressed him against the brick wall beside the club’s door, her knee sliding between his legs again, firmer this time. “Tell me you want it,” she murmured, lips grazing his jaw. “I—I want it,” he choked out, his hips bucking involuntarily against her thigh. She nipped his earlobe. “Then let’s go.” Her apartment was only a block away. She didn’t let go of his hand the whole walk.

The sidewalk pulsed with the echo of the club’s bass, distant but relentless, as she guided him down dimly lit streets. His fingers twitched against hers—too tight, then loose, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold on or brace himself. She smirked, tightening her grip just enough to make him gasp. Her heel caught in a crack; she stumbled, and he jerked forward instinctively to steady her. The movement pressed his chest flush against her back, his breath hot on her neck. She could *feel* him, hard already, trapped between the seam of his jeans and the curve of her ass. “Careful,” she purred, not moving away. “Or I’ll start thinking you’re impatient.” He made a sound—half groan, half laugh—as she finally stepped forward, tugging him along. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across his throat, his collarbones, the nervous swallow she didn’t miss. His free hand kept fisting at his side, then smoothing over his thigh, like he was rehearsing where to touch her. She slowed at the corner, turning to face him. “Still with me?” His eyes flicked down to her mouth. “Yeah.” The last stretch of sidewalk was the longest. Every step forward made his breathing heavier.

They reached her building—a narrow walk-up with chipped paint and a flickering overhead light. She shoved the door open with her hip, pulling him inside. The stairwell smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, the air thick and close. His eyes raked over her as she turned to face him—the way her dress clung to her sweat-damp skin, the way her chest rose with each breath, the dark smudge of her mascara from the heat. She caught him staring and let her lips curl, slow and knowing. “Like what you see?” She backed up the first step, dragging him with her by his belt loops, forcing him to follow. The hem of her dress rode up, revealing the lace edge of her panties—black, sheer, just enough to make his throat go dry. “Yeah,” he breathed, voice rough. She laughed low in her throat and climbed another step, her hips swaying with deliberate slowness. The strap of her dress slipped off one shoulder, baring the soft curve of her breast, the peak of her nipple just visible beneath the fabric. He reached for her, but she caught his wrist, pressing his palm flat against the wall. “Not yet.” The sound of his ragged exhale followed her all the way up the stairs.