Poetry corner

He didn’t know at first. Not fully.

We’d been downstairs all evening—my Daddy and his friends, all easy laughter, jackets off, drinks in hand. I was quiet. Sweet. His girl, in the background, letting the men have their time.

Then I excused myself. No fuss.

Upstairs, I stripped—slowly, deliberately. Peeled off the day until I was bare. Warm skin, fast heart.

Because I knew.

I knew what I’d wear.

And what it would do to him.

That soft grey t-shirt, just long enough to tease.

Plays Well With Others, in bold black letters.

No panties.

No bra.

Just me, underneath.

When I came down, he saw me before they did.

He always does.

His eyes rose—slow, sharp. Took in the thighs, the swing of the shirt, the words on my chest. He knew that shirt. Knew how inappropriate it was. Knew what I was doing.

But he didn’t stop me.

Didn’t say a word.

He leaned back and watched with a wry smile.

“I’m off to bed,” I said nervously.

The room paused.

Eyes flicked down. Up. Then down again. One blushed. One froze. All of them noticed.

He didn’t move.

He let them see—me, barefoot, braless, cotton clinging, nothing underneath.

They didn’t know what to do with me.

But he did.

I innocently hugged each of them goodnight, polite kisses on cheeks. Let the shirt shift. Let my body heat press against them. Let skin whisper against theirs. Watched them fluster like teenage boys.

Then I turned back to Daddy—like I’d forgotten something.

Just a sweet, absentminded gesture.

Accidental, if anyone asked.

He was still seated, legs spread casually, drink in hand. That look in his eyes—knowing, waiting.

I stepped between his knees, tilted my head like I didn’t know what I was doing, and leaned in.

Bent at the waist, slow and unhurried.

The hem of the T-shirt climbed. I let it.

First the backs of my thighs, then the soft curve of my ass.

No resistance. No effort to cover myself.

I knew what was showing.

I felt the exposure my pussy—bare, smooth, soft, slick, already tingling with anticipation.

I could feel it glisten.

I could feel their eyes behind me.

Could feel them staring.

At the tight swell of my ass, the way my thighs parted slightly.

At the visible sheen of arousal right there, between my legs.

And still—I bent lower.

Close enough to feel the heat of my fiancé’s body, but not touching yet.

Just letting him feel the weight of it.

The tension of being surrounded by other men, while his girl showed off everything he owned.

Then I kissed him.

Soft lips against his.

A little breathy sigh.

Just enough tongue to make it a promise, just enough tongue to make it a show.

“Goodnight, baby,” I whispered.

And I didn’t pull away.

Not right away.

I let myself hover. Let my breasts hang free beneath the thin shirt, nipples brushing the cotton.

Let him breathe me in.

Let them look.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop it.

Didn’t pull me down onto his lap like I knew he wanted to.

He just sat there, owning the moment with his stillness.

Letting them ache.

When I finally stood, the shirt fell—but not before giving one last, glistening flash between my thighs.

And I walked away, hips swaying with just enough exaggeration to look unintentional.

But we all knew better.

When I disappeared up the stairs, the room cracked.

Laughter—too loud. Too forced. A joke someone didn’t finish. A cough that might have been a groan.

One of them clapped his shoulder and muttered:

“Mate… well played.”

Just sipped his drink, calm and collected, eyes still fixed on the stairs.

Like he was replaying every second, like it was his game all along.

Eventually, a smile.

Not for them.

For me.

Later, when I was naked in his lap, still wet and buzzing, he didn’t praise me.

Not yet.

He gripped my jaw. Bit into my shoulder. Fisted a hand in my hair and pulled until I gasped.

Growled low:

“You bent over like that—knowing they could see your pussy?”

I whimpered.

“Yes.”

“You wanted them to see how wet you were for me?”

“Yes,” I breathed. “I wanted them to look. I wanted you to make me pay for it.”

He did.

Hard.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Fucking me with pride. With possession. With the full weight of knowing exactly how much I’d offered—and that I still belonged only to him.

Because he saw everything.

And still… he let me play.

I do play well with others.

But only because he lets me.

And when he does?

I shine.

For him.

Published: 2025-06-26, viewed 118 times.