Practice ended and the gym lights went soft. I was still in my college cheerleader uniform, hair ribbon tight, thighs warm from stunts. Alice slipped beside me, glossy smile, the other half of our trouble. We decided to give my boyfriend a private show. He sat on the edge of the couch, trying to act casual. Cute. We both knew he was already hooked.

“Sit there and watch,” I told him. “Hands in your lap until I say.” He nodded. Perfect for a little JOI.

Alice faced me, close enough for my breath to touch her lip gloss. We stretched like we were still on the mat. Slow toe point. Smooth arch. I whispered counts in her ear. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Her hands slid over my hips to correct my posture. Mine traced the satin stripe at her side, just to hear her inhale.

“Take it out,” I said without looking at him. He did. The room changed. I let the moment hang between us, then tipped my chin. “Do what I tell you. No rushing.”

Alice kissed the corner of my mouth. She tasted like cherry and victory. We moved together, mirrors in motion, teasing each other with tiny gasps and deliberate patience. I kept him on a string with simple rules.

“Slow. That pace.”
“Eyes up. Watch the uniforms.”
“Hold. Now touch your thigh.”
“Good. Keep going.”

He tried to steal speed. I smiled. “Normal. Do not get ahead of my count.” Alice grazed my lower lip with her thumb and I let a small sound slip just for him. The kind of sound you feel in your knees.

When his breathing went ragged I pressed two fingers to his wrist. “Not yet.” I kissed Alice again, longer, and she tugged my ribbon loose. We stayed close, cheeks flushed, letting the air thicken with promise.

“One more series,” I said. “My voice. My timing. Earn the finish.”