click. jackie's on the floor before the sound fades, knees hitting shag carpet. “you’re such a ,” she mutters.

“heel,” you say, and she whines, actual goddamn puppy noise, but scoots closer till her tits press your shins. the clicker dangles between your fingers like a car key, and she tracks it like it’s the last cig in the pack.

“sit.”

she flops back on her haunches, arms crossed, but her hips shift like she’s got ants in her panties. her fingers pluck at the carpet, that i’m-bored act she’s been pulling since middle school slumber parties, but her pupils are blown wide.

click.

“roll over.”

“seriously?” she screeches, but she’s already halfway there, flopping onto her back like a flipped turtle. her skirt rides up—no panties, shocker—and she kicks her legs like she’s throwing a tantrum, but her ’s glistening. “happy now, asshole?” she snaps, and her breath’s coming quick, chest rising under that crop top she stole from your closet.

you step over her, work boot hovering above her ribs. she holds still, finally, but her tongue darts out to wet her lips. the clicker brushes her collarbone, and she shivers like it’s a cold spoon on sunburn.

“good girl,” you murmur, and she hates how her hips jerk at that. the zipper’s already halfway down when she starts begging properly, all please and i’ll-be-good, but you let the denim hiss slow, just to watch her squirm.

click.

“stay.”