Sexism

He always thought he was in control.
The kind of man who believed women should listen, obey, and never question his authority. In the office, his voice dominated meetings; at the bar, his opinions drowned out everyone else’s.

But she wasn’t like the others. She smiled when he dismissed her, not because she accepted it, but because she knew something he didn’t—that power could shift in the most unexpected ways.

That night, when the after-work drinks led them back to his apartment, he thought it was just another conquest. Another woman falling for his charm.

She let him believe it, even as she stepped into his space, heels clicking like a countdown. She let him kiss her, rough and greedy, until she pushed him back into his own chair and straddled him, pinning him down with nothing but her weight and her gaze.

“Funny,” she whispered, grinding against him, “how men think control is theirs by default.”

His breath hitched. He tried to grab her hips, but she caught his wrists, holding them down with surprising strength. Her lips brushed his ear as her body rolled against him, slow and deliberate.

“You call it sexism,” she said, her voice like silk over steel, “but I call it weakness. You hide behind power because you’re terrified of losing it.”

His arrogance cracked under the rhythm of her movement, the teasing press that had him begging without words. Every moan that escaped him was a confession, every tremble a surrender.

When she finally let him go, he was breathless, undone, and humbled. She stood, smoothing her dress like nothing had happened, while he sat there—shaken, trembling, needing her more than his pride could bear.

“Now,” she smirked at the door, “tell me again who’s really in control.”

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