Yes, Sir pt. 3 (MF)

For the longest time, I wanted someone to just return my shy glances and flash me a smile. That would’ve been enough. And for a while, I wanted that someone to be him. I first saw him the night a friend went off with a guy at the bar, taking his wingman with them. I decided to finish my wine alone and head home early. Then he walked in.

I didn’t see him until he bumped into me. He had been with a large group, crowding the small bar, and he accidentally brushed against me. I barely noticed it but then he turned to me and touched my arm in apology.

He had his hood up, his face partially hidden under his baseball cap. The smell of nicotine clung to him and his touch lingered just a bit too long. When I looked up to meet his eyes, he stared me down in the way that a gathering storm makes you feel small and insignificant. The moment stopped and I swear so did my lungs. I wish I could say he undressed me with that gaze, stared into my soul and uncovered all my secrets.

No. He watched me like he was going to devour me alive.

Then time resumed and life went on as usual. Until he arrived at the bar again. And again. And again.

I found myself looking for him every time, my eyes wandering from whichever wingman my friends wanted me to entertain. He started coming alone, always sitting in the same spot with his hoodie and hat, a drink in hand. He never looked my way and I often feared what I would do if he did. If he caught me. The way he did that first time made the hairs on the back of my neck stand.

But I was drawn to him.

What started out as curiosity spiraled into a small obsession. I watched, took note of what drink he ordered (scotch), how he drank it (neat). The way he pulled his hood down when it was warm, the way he pulled up his sleeves to reveal arms covered in tattoos. The way he lifted his chin when people spoke to him. The way he rubbed the back of his neck before he got up to leave.

Part of me knew I needed to stop. This is creepy and sad. Another part wanted him to look up and watch me. To catch me.

And tonight, I regret that a bit.

My breath comes out in pained little sighs as I lower myself onto his cock, I strain to keep myself from shoving him all the way up in me. I feel full, too full, but it’s too late to pull away. The weight of his hand on my waist, neutral but unmoving, keeps my descent steady. I bite down a whimper when I take all of him in me. My breath hitches when he slides his other hand down from my neck, down to my shoulder, down further until he cups my breast. He squeezes and I keen.

He brings his hand to headboard behind him, lazily hangs head back, and fixes me a look. An expectant and demanding one. I feel glazed, unfocused. He’d ordered me to keep my hands behind me and I’m too afraid to move them. The consequences too uncertain. The position pushes out my chest, spreads my legs wider. I’m left exposed, raw. I squeeze my eyes shut, I can’t look. It’s too much. I wanted to watch but not like this.

His hand finds my jaw and forces me to look at him. “Move.”

This time, it isn’t fear that spurs me. It’s his voice. It’s the gruff and mean undertone to it that makes me pull up and draw him out of me with just the head of his cock pressed against my cunt. It’s his hand on my breast that makes me slip against the sheets and shove his cock inside me in a wet slick that makes me squeeze around him. It’s that tilt of his head, the hungry grin that makes me do it again and again until I’m bouncing on his dick, biting my lip, holding back with every ounce of will to keep my hands from covering myself. The sound of me sliding up and down his cock, wet with his cum and my juices from earlier makes me blush even more.

Fuck. I want him to fill me up again. And again. Until I can’t open my legs without his cum dripping out of me. Maybe he’ll be a gentleman and shoot his load on my face later. Maybe he’ll let me open my mouth and catch some of it on my tongue. Maybe he’ll shove his cock down my throat until he’s hard again, turn me over, and shove—

I throw my head back and rock my hips. The burn inside me rises from between my legs, to my tits, up my neck. The quiet humiliation of leaving myself exposed, of fucking myself on his hard cock in open desperation—of wanting to use his hard dick for my own pleasure—makes me flush.

He barely makes a sound and all I can hear is the slap of skin, something faltering rising from my throat.

I’m losing my balance. My bouncing becomes erratic but I want this even more now. I’m close and when he twitches inside me, I nearly sob. The sweat on my legs starts to make things difficult, the burn of spreading on top of him is starting to hurt bad. I lose myself and my hand snaps to my front to catch myself from falling on him.

Oh. Shit.

He shifts, and there is a split second when I think he’s going to wrap both hands around my neck and just wring. Instead he gets on top of me in one easy move, reaches for my hand between us, and pins it above my head.

Without warning he shoves his cock in me again and pounds me in a punishing pace. There is little comfort in the fact the he’s no longer looking at me, instead he’s taken purchase of my neck with his lips, tongue. Then teeth. When he bites down, I yelp in surprise and he chuckles against my skin, thrusts into me so hard he nearly pushes me across the bed.

See, I don’t get what I ask for often. And when I do, I don’t know what to do with myself. Anything I thought I might have done if I did get what I want—in this case, set the pace myself, ride him at my leisure, angle myself to the most flattering light—goes out the window. It’s replaced with something less graceful. I’m sprawled here, my face twisted in pain and pleasure, my keening pathetic.

Something simpler. I want something simple.

“Please,” my voice breaks and he slows down just a bit. “Fill me up.”

John rises and the look on his face gives me pause. It’s dark, like the triumph of a predator. With a force that makes my joints scream, he grabs the back of my knees and forces my legs apart, and says, clear as day:

“Oh, I plan to.”

He fucks me hard. My clit throbs with every thrust, even with my legs spread like this I can’t help but squeeze around him. I grasp at the sheets. My back arches and it only makes him go deeper. Faster. I grit my teeth so hard I worry I’ll crack something. I can barely breathe.

“Did you,” he says between grunts, his thrusts almost an angry shove, “really think I couldn’t tell?”

My stomach sinks. It’s even more unpleasant when you’re getting fucked. He looms on top me with a mean glint in his eyes.

I moan, shaking my head. The threat of real pain makes me squirm under him, makes my cunt tighter around him, sucking him deep into me. He pins me down harder, his pace slowing to an agonizing pace. I can feel every inch of him sliding in and out of me, the sounds of it a wet sloppy mess. I turn away in embarrassment.

“You don’t think I see you giving me that sad look every night,” he growls against my ear, “like you want me to have my way with you?”

He thrusts even harder, the base of his cock rubbing against my clit. His hand finds my neck, my windpipe nestled snuggly, expertly, in the crook of his hold. I don’t know how I can take all of it but he pushes in without hesitation.

“Like you want to get hurt?”

Something dark instantly unfurls inside me and I push myself against him, unhinged in my own want. I crave every inch inside. Every time he pulls halfway out, I push against the bed to fill myself back up. Incoherent begging tumbles out of my mouth in broken hiccups. I sound pathetic but I want him to empty himself inside me so many times that I can’t touch myself without remembering his cock stuffed in my cunt, in my mouth, in my ass. My voice edges on pain, and the pleasure builds up until my insides spasm around him.

My eyes roll back, I’m running out of air. He squeezes a little too tightly until his thrusts lose rhythm and he comes in a low growl.

He fills me up, warmth spilling out of my slit and he releases me. When he pulls out, I try to wrap my legs around him, but my limbs give out, my skin is burning up. I struggle to sit up to catch my breath and he doesn’t take his eyes off me as he languidly strokes his cock, a red and angry, slippery thing slowly coming back to life. He gives me a half-lidded expression, like he had just finally warmed up.

“I’m not done with you.”

Oh, I sure hope not.

I lean down, nuzzle the head of his cock, smear his cum on my cheek, on my lips.

I’m not nearly full yet.

“Yes, sir.”

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/uxtb0d/yes_sir_pt_3_mf