Enveloped in the silence of the library, a tutor's gentle dominance plays out. 'Stroke for mommy,' she whispers, her eyes never leaving his tenting pants. 'You're so hard, so eager. That's it, good boy.' His hand moves, rubbing, stroking, his breath hitching as she guides him, 'Not too fast, darling. You must last until mommy says so.' Her clothed form remains poised, her voice the only touch, pushing him to the brink of ecstasy, then pulling him back, teasing, torturing, in this clothed, verbal battle of control.