My feeder loves when I take control and sit right on top of him. Cowgirl, reverse cowgirl — doesn’t matter, as long as he’s pinned beneath me, completely under my weight. He always acts like he’s struggling, whining about how heavy I am, but I know better. He craves it. Every inch of soft, blubbery pressure, every bounce and grind that pushes the air out of his lungs — he lives for it. I can feel him worshiping me with every breathless moan, every twitch beneath me. Flattened, squashed, and exactly where a good feeder should be.