Good Boy
"She trained him. Since the day their parents married, she's been molding him—praise when he obeys, punishment when he doesn't. Now he's twenty-five, and he still can't say no to her."
It started with a game.
I was fifteen. She was nineteen. Our parents had been married for three months, and I still didn't know how to act around her—this tall, athletic stranger who'd moved into the room next to mine.
"Let's play a game," she said one night. "I'll tell you to do something, and you do it. If you're good, you get a reward. If you're bad—" She smiled. "—you get a consequence."
I didn't know what she meant. I was fifteen. Naive. Eager to please my new stepsister.
"Okay," I said.
That was my first mistake.
The game never ended.
She started small. "Bring me a glass of water." "Do my laundry." "Tell Mom you broke the vase, not me."
When I obeyed, she rewarded me. A smile. A pat on the head. "Good boy."
When I refused or hesitated, she punished me. Silent treatment. Subtle cruelties. Once, she told my parents I'd been looking at porn—a lie that earned me a month of groundings.
I learned fast.
By the time I was eighteen, obedience was instinct. By the time I was twenty-one, it was need.
And by now—twenty-five, living in my own apartment, working my own job—I'm still hers.
"Come over."
She doesn't text often. When she does, I obey.
I'm at her place in twenty minutes. She opens the door in workout clothes—sports bra, leggings, her athletic body on full display. Five-ten, all lean muscle, a former college volleyball player who still looks like she could spike me into the ground.
"You took too long," she says.
"Traffic was—"
"I don't care." She steps back. "Inside. Strip."
I strip in her living room.
This is part of the ritual. When I enter her space, I leave myself at the door. My clothes, my identity, my autonomy—she takes all of it.
She circles me. Evaluates.
"You've been working out," she observes. "Good. I like my toys in shape."
"Thank you."
"Thank you, what?"
"Thank you, Mia."
She slaps me. Not hard—a warning. "Wrong answer."
"Thank you, Miss."
"Better." She runs a finger down my chest. "Have you touched yourself since last time?"
"No, Miss."
"Good boy."
Those words. Even now, they light something in my chest. Something pathetic and desperate and hopelessly conditioned.
"On your knees."
I kneel.
She pulls down her leggings. No underwear beneath.
"Mouth. Now."
I eat her until my jaw aches.
She doesn't let me stop. Hands in my hair, holding me in place, grinding against my face. She comes twice before she pushes me away.
"Adequate," she says. Not praise. Just assessment. "I've been training a new sub. He's almost as good as you."
Jealousy flares. I crush it down.
"Does that bother you?"
"No, Miss."
"Liar." She sits on the couch. Spreads her legs. "It should bother you. Competition keeps you sharp."
"Yes, Miss."
"Now—" She crooks a finger. "—show me why you're still my favorite."
She lets me fuck her.
Not often. It's a reward, not a right. But tonight she's in a generous mood—guides me inside her, wraps her legs around my waist, lets me feel the tight heat of her.
"Slowly," she orders. "This isn't about you."
I move slowly. Every thrust controlled, measured. She watches my face, reads my desperation, knows exactly how close I am.
"You don't come until I say."
"Yes, Miss."
She uses me for an hour. Comes four times. By the end, I'm shaking—drenched in sweat, muscles trembling, cock aching with the need for release.
"Please—" The word escapes before I can stop it.
"Please what?"
"Please let me come. Miss. Please."
She considers. Tilts her head. That calculating look I know so well.
"Not today."
"But—"
"Did I stutter?" She pushes me off. Stands. "Get dressed. Go home. You can try again next week."
I don't argue.
Arguing doesn't work with Mia. Begging doesn't work. Nothing works except obedience—total, unquestioning obedience.
She trained me too well.
"Same time Saturday?" I ask at the door.
"If I want you." She kisses my cheek. Almost tender. "I'll text."
"Yes, Miss."
"Good boy."
I drive home hard and aching. I don't touch myself. I won't. Not until she says.
Saturday
She texts at noon.
Come over. Bring wine.
I'm there in an hour. She answers the door in a robe.
"Good." She takes the wine. "You remembered the kind I like."
"Yes, Miss."
"Bedroom. Naked. On the bed. Face down."
I obey.
I hear her opening the wine, pouring a glass, taking her time. When she finally enters the bedroom, I'm trembling with anticipation.
"You've been patient," she says. "All week. Not touching yourself. Thinking about me."
"Yes, Miss."
"I checked your browser history." She climbs onto the bed, straddles my back. "Nothing. Not even a peek."
"I wouldn't—"
"I know you wouldn't." Her hand slides down my spine. "You're too well-trained for that."
She slips off me. Rolls me over. Straddles my hips.
"For being such a good boy—" She sinks onto me. "—you get a reward."
She rides me until I can't think.
No commands to hold back. No teasing. Just her body rising and falling, taking her pleasure, giving me mine.
"Come when you're ready," she breathes. "You've earned it."
I last maybe a minute. A week of denial crashes through me—I grab her hips, thrust up, spill inside her with a groan that echoes off the walls.
She comes with me. Squeezes around me, milks every drop, collapses onto my chest with a satisfied sigh.
"Good boy," she murmurs. "Such a good boy."
I hold her. My stepsister. My trainer. My owner.
"How long have we been doing this?" she asks.
"Ten years."
"And you've never told anyone."
"No, Miss."
"Good." She kisses my chest. "Because you're mine. You've always been mine. And you always will be."
"Yes, Miss."
She falls asleep on top of me.
I don't move.
I wouldn't dare.
I'm twenty-five years old.
I have a job, an apartment, a life that looks normal from the outside.
But I'm still her creation. Still the boy she molded at fifteen. Still trained to respond to her voice, her commands, her approval.
I should resent it.
I don't.
She made me what I am. And what I am is hers.
Good boy.
Forever.