Lounging beneath a wide parasol in the garden, I recline like a spoiled goddess at play, sheltered from the sun’s wrath by generous shade and the sheer indulgence of my own authority. I’m clad in a bikini so scandalously minimal it feels like a provocation in itself—a defiant tease. The top is little more than a glint of turquoise silk: two dainty triangles straining across my breasts, held in place by the barest suggestion of strings. They seem to exist more for the thrill of being untied than for any pretense of modesty. Below, an equally insubstantial scrap of matching fabric barely conceals my sex, the delicate ties at my hips begging to be tugged loose with trembling fingers or teeth.

My skin is bronzed and smooth, still warm from the sun before the heat chased me here. A glass of lemonade sweats beside me on the wrought-iron table, its cold tang sharp against my lips when I drink, citrus biting and wet, a contrast to the languid heaviness of the afternoon. Beads of condensation trickle slowly down the glass—lazy, sensual—mimicking the pace of the day.

My sunglasses are oversized and obscuring, and I adore them precisely for that reason: behind them, I am untouchable, unreadable. I can watch without giving anything away.

And I do watch.

Just beyond the circle of my parasol, placed deliberately in full sun, sits the baby playpen I positioned earlier on the grass. It’s quaint, really—a sturdy wooden cage repurposed with such delicious irony. There, inside, is my beta. Caught. Contained. Collared not with leather or steel, but by circumstance and need. He stands naked, utterly exposed, his pale skin flushing and slick with sweat. There’s no tanning lotion to ease the burn, no shade to hide in, no purpose beyond the one I’ve given him: to suffer, and to be seen.

He shifts uncomfortably, his limbs twitching in search of dignity that doesn't exist here. The sun has made a mess of him—he glistens, glows, wilts. His cock hangs between his thighs, vulnerable, useless. Every inch of him is on display for me, and only me, a living sculpture of surrender and discomfort. I can see the way he glances my way through the bars, unsure if he wants my attention or fears it. His eyes plead, though he doesn’t dare speak. He knows better. He knows his place.

And so I sip, and smile, and watch him burn.
“Beta,” I say coolly, swirling the ice in my lemonade, watching droplets trace slow paths down the glass. “If you insist on standing there like some forlorn little statue, pleading with those pathetic eyes, I’ll keep you there even longer than I planned.”

The words are light, almost lazy, but laced with the sting of finality. I sip, unhurried, relishing the tart chill on my tongue. The contrast between my comfort and his discomfort only sharpens my pleasure.

“Seriously,” I continue, my tone shifting just slightly, becoming that coaxing, indulgent thing I know affects him more than cruelty ever could, “if you want that pale little English skin to tan, all you have to do is lie flat on your back like a good boy. Fifteen minutes. That’s all Mommy’s asking.” Another sip. Another bead of condensation falls from the glass and lands on my thigh, cold and sudden. I don’t flinch.

“But instead,” I go on, voice tightening just a touch, “you choose to stand there, trembling and helpless, as if that will move me. As if pitiful eyes and an aching little cock will earn you anything.” I glance toward him, the edge of my sunglasses catching the light. “It won’t.”

He’s sweating, flushed, and now I see it—his cock, stiff and aching, straining from the sheer cocktail of sunstroke and shame. His humiliation is vivid, alive. A heat no breeze will cool. He’s trapped in that little sunlit cell, nothing but skin and submission, and I am his weather. His sky.

I rise from my chaise with lazy, languid grace, and with one casual motion, I untie the bikini top and let it fall away. No ceremony—just the ease of power, of being entirely unbothered by exposure. I am beauty weaponized, and he’s not a man in my eyes. Not even close. He is there to witness. To ache.

As I approach the playpen, I laugh softly, the sound rich and mocking. His eyes dart up, wide and hungry, and I can see the electric agony of it—the constant emotional whiplash, the chaos of being turned on by what degrades him. He can’t settle. Can’t think. He’s drowning in me.

“Hey, hey,” I scold gently, wagging a finger at him as his gaze locks shamelessly onto my bare breasts. “Don’t stare, baby. That’s not for you.”

His mouth opens slightly, as if to speak, but then—tires on gravel. The soft crunch. Jose.

I freeze for half a breath, then glance down at my watch. 1:30. Of course.

I retreat quickly, not with panic, but efficiency—sliding the top back over my breasts, tying it behind my neck with quick fingers, adjusting the triangles just so. I settle back under the parasol, legs crossed, glass in hand, as if nothing had happened at all. Just a woman enjoying the shade.

Jose isn’t part of this world. He’s not meant to see it. He is the kind of man I might let touch me. The kind who doesn’t beg or burn for my attention.

And beta? He stays caged in the heat, red-faced and throbbing, his little rebellion punished, his lesson quietly reinforced.

It seems Jose has a gift for arriving at the worst possible moments—or perhaps the best, depending on one’s appetite for spectacle. Then again, with beta, every moment is a slow-burning humiliation, a study in degradation so complete that it’s practically art.

“Hey, hey!” Jose calls out, lugging three heavy boxes up the walk and setting them at my front door with a grunt. Then, like always, he starts sauntering toward me under the parasol, his confident stride hinting at a man who thinks he might be welcome.

“How are you, my beautiful lady?” he greets, warm, too casual.

I lift my chin slightly, peering through the tinted lenses of my oversized sunglasses—my veil, my armor, my favorite form of detachment. “Not so good, actually,” I reply coolly, sipping what’s left of my lemonade, the ice now clinking against the glass like a fading echo.

“Oh?” he asks, his curiosity genuine. “Why not good?”

“Why?” I echo, with a breathy sigh. “Because I fear I’ll soon lack the funds to enjoy your delightful services.”

He chuckles, bemused. “Seriously? I thought you were a writer. You sell books, no?”

Just then, his eyes flick past me—to the yard.

He spots the playpen. Sees beta, curled up like a shamed little creature, limbs awkwardly tucked, his body glistening with sweat, his cock still stiff, twitching hopelessly in the sunlight. He looks like he’s trying to melt into the grass. Jose freezes, breath caught.

“Goodness…” he breathes, and I feel the change in the air, thickening with erotic tension. His arousal is immediate. Raw. Undeniable.

“Doesn’t that beat anything?” he says, transfixed.

“What?” I ask, feigning innocence, tilting my head in mock confusion.

“What?” he echoes, his voice low, distracted. “The way you strip this guy of all dignity… there’s just nothing left.”

I grin, lips curling with slow, wicked amusement. He’s entranced, and I know it. I sense the seed of submission in him too—a different flavor than beta’s, but just as ripe for harvesting.

“Mmmm…” I murmur, slowly crossing my legs, giving him a deliberate glance over my sunglasses. “Well… I’d say a shred of dignity lingers. But only just.”

Jose stares, his face a portrait of disbelief and growing arousal. “Goodness,” he mutters again. “You are something else.”

“And so are you, Jose,” I say with a sultry smile. “There’s a reason he’s out there basking in the sun like a naughty little lizard.”

“Oh yeah?” He arches a brow. “There’s a reason?”

“Mm-hmm.” I let the hum dance from my lips. “It’s a… medical condition. Poor beta has a delicate little problem.”

“What kind of problem?” he presses, edging closer, as if daring to enter the world I command.

“I don’t think I should share his medical records with you,” I reply sweetly. “Though I do have them… tucked away.”

Jose laughs, shaking his head, still trying to keep his composure. “You always leave me hanging in suspense.”

“Yes,” I smirk. “That’s why I’m an author. And you, darling, are just a vegetable errand boy.”

“That was insulting,” he protests with a wounded grin.

“Awww, don’t pout now.” I toy with him like a cat with a slightly cocky mouse. “In fact… I suspect beta’s not the only one with this affliction.”

“Oh yeah? What affliction is that?” he challenges, though I already see him bracing.

“Erectile dysfunction,” I say flatly, watching his face tighten, just a fraction.

He snorts, laughing, “Well, let’s just say I’m not complaining.”

“And your wife?” I ask, all sweetness and poison.

His laughter falters. “I'd rather not discuss that.”

“Of course not.” I smile with mock sympathy. “All my readers are like this, Jose. Living with wives... but fantasizing about me.”

I lean forward, my voice dropping an octave, rich with command. “Now. Go inside and arrange my refrigerator.”

He hesitates—caught between ego and submission, between confusion and desire—but I see it. The twitch of obedience. The hunger. The hesitation that turns to a bow. A small one, but enough to amuse me.

I smile, slow and indulgent.

He notices.

I lower my sunglasses, locking eyes with him. No more shadows. No more veils.

“I said go.”

He turns like a man possessed and disappears into the house, scurrying off to rearrange groceries like a trained servant—even though he came here only to deliver them. Even though that is not his job.

Out in the yard, beta doesn’t move. He wouldn’t dare.

The sun continues its cruel caress, and I sit again, my body relaxed, my power absolute.