For the next two days, I stalk Alex all around the mall.
I try not to. I want him to like me, to be comfortable with me, to be attracted to me. I want him to enjoy everything I want to do with him. If he notices I am following his every move, it’s not exactly going to build his trust to the point where he’ll let me tie him up.
I work hard to reason with myself. He could be married. He could be gay. He could just be completely uninterested, which is absolutely fine and he is allowed to not be interested, although I will probably have to voluntarily commit myself to a mental institution.
Which is also absolutely fine, if that’s what I need to get through whatever the hell this is. Everything is absolutely fine. Oh God. I wanked off at work again today. I need professional help.
On the third day, I run into him at Winco’s. I am on my way home and, for once, thinking about what I need to make salmon teriyaki rather than tying up my colleagues, when I round the corner and see him staring at the cornflakes. My stomach drops like I’m on a rollercoaster and before I can think about it too much I walk over. He’s wearing a grey leather biker jacket and jeans which fit his (perfect) ass like a dream.
“Hi,” I say. “Alex, right?”
He looks up. I’m close enough to smell him. He smells like cinnamon and cigarettes.
“Hello, Abby,” he says, and goes back to studying the cornflakes.
“There’s too many brands,” he says. “Which one do I want?”
He looks genuinely confused and upset. I run my eyes over the boxes, pick one which is fairly healthy and doesn’t have a cartoon on the front, and give it to him.
“Thanks,“ he says, and puts it in his trolley.
Did he seriously just let me pick his cornflakes for him? I’m so wet I can feel my pussy dripping down the inside of my thighs. I know if I put my hand down and touch myself, I’ll start coming as soon as I stroke my clit. Christ. I need to calm down and get a fucking grip. I don’t even know if he’s interested.
“There’s a bar across the way. Can I buy you a drink?” I say. There. It’s clunky; but it’s out.
He looks astonished. “You want to buy me a beer?” he says, and then smiles, slowly. “Are you even old enough to drink?”
“You’re not on duty now, Mr Security Guard.”
“Can I see some ID?” He’s joking, but I decide to play it seriously.
“You can see anything you like,” I say. “Driver’s licence?” I hand it to him, but he doesn’t look at it; he looks at me, smiling, turning the laminated card over and over in his fingers. Later, I’m going to sit in my car clutching that card, trying to absorb any molecules of Alex still on it. Trying to smell the cinnamon.
We sit in a booth, an old-fashioned one, with leather seats so high you can’t see over the top. I watch him take his jacket off and fold it neatly, placing it on the seat next to him. He’s wearing a t-shirt, and his arms are incredible. I have a sudden urge to lick him – from the bones of the wrist, over the defined muscles in his forearm, up to the tattoo on his right bicep. It’s all I can do to restrain myself.
I look more closely at the tattoo.
“You were a Marine,” I say. “Brent said you were Army.”
He looks surprised. “Yes.” He pauses. “I don’t think Brent actually listens to people.”
This makes me laugh.
“Where were you?” I ask.
“Afghanistan,” he says.
His face has tightened and he looks down at the tattoo. I can tell he forgot it was there. He didn’t mean anyone to see it. Should have worn long sleeves today, Alex.
Your loss, my gain. Get used to it.
Maybe all he did was back-room stuff; organising supplies. But I think it was more. I can imagine him as a sniper, one blue eye to the sights, disciplining himself, waiting for exactly the right moment. It would suit that strange quality of calm stillness. After that, my imagination fails me. I don’t know much about the military, except what I’ve seen on TV, and my uncle and his buddies and their stories.
The one thing that is clear is that the man in front of me absolutely does not want to talk about this. This is at odds with what I do know; that most veterans tend to be proud of their service. I would imagine this goes double for US Marines, venerated by gun nuts and macho assholes everywhere.
I could ask him some questions. But I suspect the reason he is currently a mall rent-a-cop, in a small town in Middle America where he is completely unknown, is because he doesn’t want to answer them.
So, instead, I say what’s been on my mind since the first time I saw him.
“Want to fuck?”
He takes it very well. A minor choke on the beer, and then he manages to control his face. I’m going to have to work hard to crack him. I am really, really looking forward to it.
“I’m too old for you,” he says.
“Thanks, but I decide who’s too old for me,” I say. “Am I too young for you?” I cross and recross my legs under the table as I ask. I’m so turned on it hurts, while simultaneously terrified he’s going to turn me down. The combination is starting to make me feel a bit faint.
He considers.
“Haven’t you got something going with Brent?” he says. “He sure thinks you have. He says you’re his girl.”
Fucking Brent.
“I’ve never dated Brent,” I say. “And I am never, ever going to. Hard pass.”
He laughs. Looks at his drink.
“It’s strange. A lot of these guys back here in the States, they say they hate the Taliban; but they want to live exactly the same way and just call it something different. Says you’re ‘his girl’, might as well piss in a circle around you to warn me off. If he had half a chance, he’d confine you to his apartment and force you to wear a burqa.”
This hits a little too close to home, when I consider some of the potential ideas I have about his future. I change the subject.
“You guys talked about me?” I say, and he blushes. “You asked!” I’m delighted.
The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile.
“This isn’t about the military, is it?” he says.
“How do you mean?”
“Some girls -” He doesn’t finish.
“Relax,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I would have been desperate to fuck you if you’d spent your entire life doing the icing at Cinnabon.”
His place looks like a hotel room. It’s like he’s wiped it clean of his personality. It’s very tidy. Everything hung up, everything in its place.
Only a few things give me clues: a plain white china bowl, drying on the rack by the sink. A half-empty bottle of vodka by the stove. A statuette on one of the shelves, a kneeling woman the size of my hand. Her face is hidden; when I run my finger over her curves, the satiny wood is warm.
In the bedroom, he slowly raises his T-shirt and I realise he’s stripping for me. He slides it over his shoulder. He wants me to look.
I can feel his eyes on my face as I take his body in. All that toned, golden skin. The tattoo on his bicep. The white scar on his abs. I can see the hard bulge in his jeans, the outline of his cock down his right thigh. There’s a faint dusting of fair hair on his chest. I want to slide my hand down and touch myself while I’m looking at him, but I don’t.
I want, I need him to be unsure. I need the vulnerability in his eyes as he’s wondering whether I like what I see; oh, I do, Alex. I do. I would cut off my own little finger if that was the price to run my tongue once along the perfect line of your collarbone. I have never in my life seen a man I want more.
And I break. I want to dom him so badly I can’t help myself. I stand. I look him in the eye. My voice cracks out: “Kneel.” Just giving the order makes my groin ache.
Alex’s head snaps up and his eyes meet mine. His pupils are wide, as dilated as if he’s on drugs. His lips part. I wait for him to reject me, to laugh, to walk away.
Instead he drops to his knees and begins licking my pussy.
The shock of being obeyed, mingled with the touch of his warm, wet tongue on my clit, nearly make me pass out from pleasure. He laps me, the tip of his tongue hitting my swollen clit exactly right. My legs are shaking and I brace myself against the wall.
I look down and I see his jeans are open and he’s rubbing his cock expertly with his right hand. I can tell he’s done it a lot. He knows exactly how to get himself off. It’s one of the hottest things I have ever seen. I can feel the first tingling ripples and I know I’m very close. The way he’s groaning into my pussy tells me he’s nearly there too, and I grit my teeth and put the brakes on my orgasm. I want to see him cum. I want to see it. I have to see it. I need it.
His hand’s moving faster now and the head of his cock is dripping. God, he smells good and his tongue is so warm. I want to cum so badly. But I have to wait. He’s licking me like an icecream, smooth sweeps of his tongue, small moans of pleasure.
And finally, I feel him shudder. There it is, a warm white gush over his hand, and seeing it tips me over the edge. I let go, moaning as it crests inside me and explodes.
It’s so fucking good. He is so fucking good. He’s everything I have ever dreamed of and I don’t care who knows about me any more. I have to have this.
EDIT: part 1 is [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/p4zx8m/breaking_the_boy_mf_ds/)
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/p6r0k0/breaking_the_boy_part_2_the_cornflake_incident