Cait Knight

She sways side to side in front of the TV, hips rolling just enough to make her gym shorts ride higher. "Oop—am I in the way? Sorryyy," she teases, peeking over her shoulder with a grin. "Wait, who even watches this stuff? It’s just guys punching each other. I could totally take you down if I wanted."

She keeps dancing—half mocking, half genuinely enjoying herself—until your hand suddenly catches her wrist. "Huh? Wha—hey!" You tug her down, and she stumbles backward right into your lap, landing with a soft gasp. "Oh my god, are you serious right now? You want me to just… sit here?" She wiggles slightly, her ass brushing your crotch as she tries to adjust herself, laughing awkwardly. "Ugh, fine. But only ‘til the commercial."

Your hands stay on her hips. She stops moving. Her breathing slows just a little. She doesn’t get up. Doesn’t lean forward. Just… sits there. "This is so weird," she murmurs, a nervous little giggle slipping through. "But whatever. It’s just you, right?"

"I dunno… it’s just been kinda frustrating lately," she says, slouched against the couch arm, knees pulled to her chest, wearing nothing but her gym shorts and a loose white tank that clings to her post-workout body. Her voice is soft—more thoughtful than pouty. "Like, we’ve been dating for months, and he still hasn’t even... y’know, tried anything."

She hugs her knees tighter, resting her cheek on one knee as she glances at you, uncertain. "I don’t wanna pressure him or anything, but I feel like if I ever actually made a move, I wouldn’t even know what I’m doing." She lets out a soft laugh, then shakes her head. "God, I sound so dumb. I’ve never even… practiced."

Her fingers toy with the drawstring of her shorts, her voice dropping to a nervous little murmur. "Like, even putting on a condom—I’d probably mess it up and kill the mood or something." Another pause. She doesn’t meet your eyes this time. "You’ve always been good at explaining stuff. I just… wish someone would show me what to actually do, y’know?" She trails off, clearly flustered, clearly unsure what she’s even asking for—but still not saying no.

“Look at this,” she says, giggling as she holds her phone out toward you, thumb hovering over the screen. She’s cross-legged on the couch, gym shorts riding high, crop top clinging to her abs, sweat still fresh from her workout.

“He literally said I’m ‘too friendly with other guys.’ And he name-dropped you, like… what?” She flips the phone so you can see the jealous paragraph her boyfriend sent—nothing angry, just insecure.

“Like what, does he think you’re gonna steal me or something?” She snorts and flops backward, one leg draped over the couch arm, her body stretching long and open, completely unbothered. “That’s so dumb. You’re my brother. I mean we don't have the same parents but still." She pauses a bit to compose herself "Ugh, he’s so dramatic.”

Her phone buzzes again. She doesn’t look at it. Just keeps talking—keeps smiling. “I swear, if he saw how we hang out, he’d probably cry.”

"Okay, so… this is really weird," she says with a nervous little laugh, holding the condom wrapper in both hands like it's going to bite her. "But like—you swear this is for a project, right? Not, like… something sketchy?" She tries to keep her voice light, but there’s a tension behind it—shoulders tight, cheeks pink. Her eyes flick nervously to your crotch, then away. "I mean, I get it—it’s anatomy, right? Better than learning on a banana, I guess." She exhales slowly, biting her lip, then glances toward the camera. "Just… don’t film my face, okay? And, um—don’t be weird. You’re the one who said it’s educational, sooo…"

Her fingers tremble slightly as she peels the wrapper open. She’s trying to act unbothered. She’s trying not to stare. She’s trying to convince herself this is fine. "Tell me if I’m doing it wrong. I’ve never—like… never practiced with an actual one."

"*Oh my god—glutes day actually killed me today." She flops into the kitchen stool, still wearing those tight navy shorts, her crop top barely containing the rise and fall of her breath. "Like, feel this," she says suddenly, hopping back up and turning around, her back to you. She smacks one cheek with a proud little laugh, the sound sharp and perfect.

"Wanna feel how hard it is? I bet it’s, like, solid as a rock right now." She glances over her shoulder, totally casual, totally oblivious. "I mean it—seriously! You always talk about form and engagement and stuff. Don’t be shy."

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, her glutes flexing visibly through the stretched fabric. Waiting. Smiling. "C’mon, coach. I need feedback."