You were caught.

Spoon in hand. Mouth half-full. Cold fridge light illuminating your shame.

She stood there in the doorway—hair in a messy bun, your black long sleeve drowning her frame, hanging just low enough to be dangerous. Her thick thighs pressed together, hips cocked with quiet menace.

“You thought I wouldn’t hear the fridge open?” she said, voice low and unimpressed.

You froze like a bandit mid-heist. Your tail instinctively curled around your waist. A defense mechanism. Or a shield. Mostly shame.

She stepped forward, slow and controlled. Her thighs whispered against each other with every step. “What did I say about the leftovers, baby?”

“…You s-said they were for tomorrow,” you mumbled, eyes on the floor like a scolded pup.

“And yet—” she was behind you now, her hands sliding up your back under your shirt, slow, warm. “Here you are. Disobeying. Again.”

You shivered. Not from cold. From knowing you were done for.

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear. ”Say it.”

You blinked. “S-Say what…?”

She didn’t respond. She just turned around right in front of you, lifting her shirt slightly to expose her ass cheeks a little before wiggling her hips firmly against your front, once, twice, deliberately. Her soft weight pressing, teasing, dominating.

Your tail tightened around your waist like it was praying.

Her voice purred, ”Say it. Now.”

You caved. “...I’m sorry, darling.”

She exhaled sweet victory against your cheek, gave your waist a soft squeeze, then stepped back.

“That’s better.”

She walked to the stairs—bare legs, swaying hips, terrifying grace. At the top, she looked over her shoulder.

“Put the leftovers away. And don’t even think about cuddling tonight.”

Then she disappeared upstairs.