Back on the balcony

Mufasa can’t stop thinking about it. That first time on the balcony rewired something in him. He thought it would just be a one-time thing—follow an order, feel the air, get it over with. But the second he stepped out, half-dressed and fully exposed, it lit something inside him.

The risk wasn’t terrifying—it was addictive. Knowing he was being a good boy. Knowing this was for me. Knowing someone could see… but still choosing to obey.

That high stayed with him like a hum under his skin. It didn’t fade. It intensified. By the next night, he wasn’t just tempted—he was desperate. So he found the most revealing pair of panties he owned, pulled them on took a deep breath and went right back out.

This time slower. Bolder. Deliberate. Every step, every pose, was soaked in need. He wasn’t just following an order—he was chasing the rush. Pacing. Stretching. Pushing boundaries. Knowing the neighbors could be home

Knowing someone might see

And not caring at all.

Because in that moment, nothing mattered more than being good than being mine

Than feeding that new, wicked part of himself that lives to be seen obeying. He used to be scared of that side now he’s obsessed. And the line between shame and arousal? Completely gone.