There’s something thrilling about watching silent resistance crumble—especially when it’s his. The way his breath hitches when I ‘accidentally’ brush against him in the hallway, how his fingers twitch when I lean over his desk to ‘check his work.’ That stubborn little act of his is wearing thin, and I can taste the tension. He thinks he’s so good at hiding it, but I see the way his cock strains against those pathetic sweatpants when I whisper just the right filth in his ear. Maybe tonight I’ll ‘forget’ my robe when I step out of the shower. Let him choke on the sight of my tits glistening with water, my cunt still flushed from the steam. How long until he breaks and crawls to me, begging for relief? Patience is a virtue… but I’ve never been virtuous.