30 [M4F] Meeting the girl who [deleted] me on Reddit, Part 2

I sat alone in the café, at the same table as before. It had been five minutes since you had left. You had wanted to know more about what I had in store for you before our lunch date — you had pleaded to know, even — but I was coy. Partly because I wasn’t yet sure how I would best be able to have fun with you while you were at work.

My phone lay face up on the table. I had told you to turn off all notifications on your phone except for texts or calls from me. You had dutifully obliged, as I had expected you to. I couldn’t shake the thought of the last look you had flashed me before getting up and walking out — the way you had bit your lip, the hunger in your eyes, the primal desire that I could practically smell emanating from your body. An incredible body that I had watched move elegantly as you walked away. Despite your natural elegance, I wanted nothing more than to rip the clothes from your body and be inside you, to have my hands on your flesh, to leave my mark on you — to have you, completely, totally.

I picked my phone up and sent a quick message to my girlfriend, letting her know that I’d be working from a café and that I had a deadline to hit. In a way, it was true, I suppose. Lying didn’t bother me. I wondered if this made me a bad person, but I didn’t think twice about it.

My fingers moved quickly across the screen and brought up your number. I tapped it and stared at the blank screen for a second, before I went to work.

“Do you feel naughty?” I smiled mischievously to myself and hit sent before standing up and walking to the counter to order another coffee, this time a cappuccino. As I stood up, I felt a bulge in my pants. I glanced downwards quickly, and saw that it was at least somewhat noticeable. It was impossible to make any effort to rearrange it in my pants to mask it, though, so I strode quickly to the counter, hoping that nobody would take note. For the first time in my life, though, I discovered that there was something thrilling about that — about doing something that was ostensibly forbidden by societal norms — and getting away with it. Yes, I thought, I have a semi-hard cock in my pants and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. It was an intoxicating realization. As I made my way back to the table, cappuccino in hand, I grabbed a carafe of water and a glass.

I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket as I sat down again. I took a slow sip from my coffee and slid my fingers into my pocket, withdrawing the phone. Looking at the screen, the phone unlocked, revealing your reply.

“So naughty… I wish you were here.”

I smiled again, and quickly tapped out a response.

“I know you do, but we have to keep up appearances. Nobody else can know just how much of a little slut you are… you have to seem like a good, hardworking girl.”

As soon as I hit send, I saw that you had read the message. You weren’t focusing on work, it seemed. It was ten past ten. We had a couple of hours before we were due to meet up, though I supposed that could always change. Maybe you’d come to your senses; perhaps I would feel guilty; maybe you’d get dragged into a meeting; or maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be able to resist you any longer and I’d have you duck out of work early before spending the afternoon discovering your body and doing all of the things we’d fantasized about over the last few weeks.

“You’re the only one who knows I’m a slut,” you wrote, “and I want it to stay that way.”

I took a few seconds to compose my next text, thinking about you sitting there, without any panties and with my name written across your pubic bone in lipstick — marked as mine, even though we were the only two to know. We were the only two who *needed* to know. Again, the thought made my bulge throb.

“Tell me about where you are… are you alone in your office? In a meeting? Open space? Is your door open? Closed? Can you lock it? Give me the details.”

I took another sip of my coffee, watching the little grey bubble with three dots in it as you typed away. I poured myself a glass of water and drank it in one go, refilling the glass and leaving it on the table this time. I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.

I opened them when I felt my phone buzz twice in quick succession, both texts from you.

The first was long.

“I’m in my office but the door is open, I can see into the hall from my desk, but nobody can see me unless they walk by. I have a meeting in ten minutes that should last half an hour.”

The second was a single question.

“Should I close the door until then?”

I answered swiftly.

“No.”

Immediately, I began typing again, focused exclusively on my phone — on you — and not on the world around me. Someone could’ve robbed the café and I wouldn’t have noticed.

“Spread your legs.” I fired the texts off in quick succession, not giving you time to respond.

“Good girl,” I wrote, trusting that you had done as I said. “So fucking risky with the door open, but nobody can see under your desk.”

“If they could, they’d see how fucking wet you are, wouldn’t they?”

“But I’m the only one who gets to see that.”

“Slide your hand along your thigh, let your nails scratch your skin.”

“Can you feel that lipstick burning into your flesh?” I took another sip of water while waiting for a response this time.

The response came quickly. “Fuck. Yes, I can. I’m your good girl, sir.”

I smiled and crossed my legs under the table, using my thighs to hug the stiffening shaft in the crotch of my pants.

“You want to feel how wet you are, don’t you?”

“You want to feel how fucking warm you are.”

“And so do I,” I type, “I want to feel my fingers sliding inside you.”

The texts are flowing freely, quickly and I’m conscious of the fact that there are only eight minutes until your meeting is supposed to start.

“I want you to slide your index finger inside that tight little slit, all the way in.” I hit send. I feel a knot in my throat. It’s intoxicating. I look around quickly, sure that someone has noticed me hunching over my phone ever so slightly, making an effort to shield my screen from prying eyes, but everybody seems blissfully unaware.

“Just like that, that’s my good little slut.”

I take a beat before sending the next message.

“Now I want you to bring that finger to your lips and lick yourself clean. I want you to taste yourself. I want you to swirl your tongue around that finger, lapping up your fucking wetness the same way you’d lick it off my shaft.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

To say that your response surprised me would be an understatement. When my phone buzzed, I expected a terse answer. After all, you were supposed to have a finger in your mouth. And you did it turned out. Any doubts I had that you were merely entertaining me and playing along, texting back with both hands on your desk, literally and figuratively above board, as it were, were quelled when I saw what you sent in response: a video of you bringing your index finger, glistening ever so slightly with your juices, to your lips. You stared into the camera, but it was like you were staring into my soul. I watched as you placed your finger on your tongue. As you closed your mouth around your fingers, sucking on it passionately. Despite the fact your mouth was closed, I could see your muscles contorting as you swirled your tongue around it. I imagined my own members and digits in your mouth, greeted by that warm, hungry tongue, eager to taste yourself on my fingers and on my shaft.

My mind was racing. I wanted to walk into your office, close the door behind me, lock it, and bend you over that desk right this second, but I also knew that you wanted that. You wanted me to tell you to take the afternoon off. To take the rest of the morning off. But that would be too easy, this was meant to be hard — we were never meant to meet and I wanted us to enjoy this, to work for it, to make the most of it.

“You really are the perfect little slut,” I typed out and hit send.

You responded quickly, “Please, sir, I want to cum before my meeting, please, let me rub my clit.”

I smiled and shook my head, even though you couldn’t see.

“No, you’re going to be a patient girl, is that clear?”

“Yes,” you responded, tersely.

An idea came to me, suddenly.

“Good,” I wrote, “When you’re in your meeting, I want you to sit with your phone nestled between your legs, pressed against your pussy and your clit, that way you’ll be able to feel when I message you.”

“I won’t be able to message you back during the meeting.”

I smiled wryly. “Oh, I know, you won’t even be allowed to read the messages.” I hit send.

“You’ll just feel me teasing your clit through your phone, not knowing what I’m saying, but knowing that it’s something that would make you fucking drip.”

I saw you start to type a response and quickly cut you off — if that were even possible over text — “Now, go to your little meeting and I’ll talk to you later.”

I put my phone down on the table, face down, and waited a few minutes. My mind was racing. Where had I come up with this idea, I wondered? Even by my standards, it was debaucherous and — I’ll humbly admit — incredibly creative. Maybe this is why you were drawn to me.

For a second, I thought about my girlfriend — I thought about doing this kind of thing with her. I wondered if I would find it more thrilling or less thrilling. Whether she would enjoy it or whether she would be disturbed by it. Sitting there, finishing my cappuccino and staring out the big window at the pedestrians walking by and the cars whizzing along, I came to a realization: I liked that I was exploring this with someone other than my girlfriend. I had flirted with people on Reddit before, swapped some pictures and some raunchy stories, but you were different. There was an innate understanding between us, it seemed. The things we didn’t know aroused us we discovered together and that amplified how turned on they made us. We were each other’s secret. I downed my glass of water and slowly poured myself some more.

Picking up my phone, I checked the time, 10:32. I imagined that you were sitting down in a conference room, as the last stragglers made their way to their seats. I didn’t know how many people would be in your meeting. I realized that I didn’t know if it was *your* meeting, whether you’d be talking or leading it, which would complicate things. I was blinded by the idea of teasing you erotically for the next half hour. Unbeknownst to anybody else in the room or in the café, we were reenacting those lurid Pornhub videos where a woman is bound and a man can have his way with her, using his fingers and vibrators to torture her as she lays there helplessly.

And we were doing it while being separate, being fully-clothed — well, almost fully-clothed in your case — and without any restraints besides your desire to please me, impress me and be totally, completely mine.

I stared at the screen and began typing, firing off a series of texts.

“You’re probably thinking it’s not working.”

I pictured you sitting there, squirming slightly and readjusting yourself as your phone buzzed for the first time.

“Thinking that I would have messaged you already,”

“like”

“right”

“away”

“That I’d be over eager to tease your swollen little clit. And I am eager to tease your clit, you’re quite right about that. But I also like making you wait.”

“Maybe you even have a little knot in your stomach. A bit nervous.”

“Knowing you have absolutely no control over when you feel a little vibration on your clit.”

“Knowing it’s me.”

“I get to control it.”

“I get to to control everything.”

“And you’re trying to focus…”

“Half an hour probably seems like a long time right now.”

“A really long time.”

I was enjoying this, genuinely. Each time I pressed the little blue arrow, sending a text message to you, it was like I was rubbing your clit or flicking my tongue against it. I could feel my swollen head leaking precum against my boxers. The bulge in my crotch felt like it wanted to burst out. If I were in private, I’d be stroking myself right now, to the thought of you at my mercy.

“Fuck.”

“How are you gonna do that?”

I wait thirty seconds before sending the next text.

“Maybe you’ll try and let yourself cum first…. Quietly”

Then another minute.

“Maybe that’ll make it easier to focus afterwards.”

Then fifteen seconds between the next few.

“So you picture me sitting next to you.”

“Bringing my index finger to your clit.”

“Brushing over it ever so slightly.”

And then I unleash a series of quick fire, one word texts. A barrage of frustrating pleasure, I hope.

“Then”

“running”

“it”

“down”

“your”

“pussy”

“So wet.”

“But then I take my hand away and make you wait a bit.”

I put my phone down on the table, again, feeling satisfied with myself. I take another sip of water, glancing around the café as I put the glass back down next to my phone, certain that someone has taken notice of me. But nobody has.

I pick the phone back up.

“Worried it stopped?

“Don’t.”

I type out another message but wait before hitting send. The seconds tick bad painfully slowly for me and I can’t imagine what it’s like for you, sitting there without any panties on, your phone nestled against your clit. I wonder if you can even feel it. I wonder whether you’re succeeding in keeping a straight face or whether you have to bite your lip, whether you’re blushing ever so slightly at the thought of having your pussy played with while you’re surrounded by coworkers. Can they hear the faint buzz every time I send you a message, I wonder, before sending another one.

“I like making you wait a little bit.”

“Make you wonder when you’re going to get to feel daddy’s touch on your pussy.”

Again, I put my phone down. I can feel my pulse pounding in my neck. After two minutes that feel like an hour, I pick the phone up again. It feels hot, but perhaps that’s just the sun shining through the window.

“Miss me?”

“Just a reminder.”

“I wonder,”

“If you’re managing to get any work done”

“Or if you’re just sitting there”

“waiting for me to touch you”

“Is it impossible to focus? To talk? I hope you don’t have to talk.”

“While you let me take control of your pleasure”

“of your pussy”

“I bet you wish you were wearing panties, but you’d have a little wet spot showing.

”I pictured your bare pussy, imagining that it must be glistening with wetness now.

“I bet you wish you were spreading your legs”

For the first time, I typed out a long message, before hitting send. It took a few minutes to pick the right words. To get the timing right to make you wait just enough for it. To make you yearn for it.

“Running my fingers along your pussy. Feeling how wet you are. Bringing them to your mouth. Taste yourself on my fingers. Suck them clean. Then, covered with your saliva and your juices I slide them back down to your pussy. My index and middle finger sliding inside you. You’re so fucking tight. I can feel it. I start slowly. Just up to the first knuckle. In and out ever so slightly. Pushing them upwards against your tight, warm walls. Then a bit further inside you. Laying them one on top of the other, crossing them slightly to make it easier to slide deeper in you. Then uncrossing them. Stretching you out a bit. Pulling them out. Then back in, all the way to my second knuckle. Pulling out while dragging the tip against your walls. Feeling you twitch a bit. Is that your sensitive spot?”

I hit send and bit my lip, before starting to type again, sending a string of messages increasingly far apart, first five seconds, then ten, then fifteen.

“Do you like that?”

“Oh you do….”

“Let me rub it slowly.”

“Small little circles around your G spot”

“While looking you in the eyes.”

“Smirking a bit.”

“Do you like it when daddy rubs your G spot?”

“When I fuck you with my fingers?”

“I pull them out.”

“Watching you suck them clean like a good little slut.”

“While I stand up and get undressed.”

And I do stand up, making no effort to conceal the bulge in my crotch. I leave my coffee cup and the carafe of water at the table, making my way towards the bathroom. It’s automatism driving me and guiding me, even though this is something I have never done before. My hand grips the doorknob and twists it open purposefully, locking it behind me as I close it. I turn on the lights. There’s a full-length mirror along the wall. I loosen my belt and unfasten the waistband of my grey trousers, letting them fall to the middle of my thighs. Sure enough there’s a wet spot on my tight grey boxers where the swollen head of my manhood has been for the last half hour. I spread my legs slightly, flexing my toned stomach and my muscular quads ever so slightly so as to accentuate them. I lower my phone a bit and snap a quick picture in the mirror. Without even thinking twice, I send it to you.

“Here’s a little reward for being a good girl,” reads the accompanying text message.

It’s thrilling to me. To be doing this in a public bathroom, while someone is possibly waiting the other side of a two-inch thick piece of wood. While my girlfriend is at work, telling her coworkers about how amazing I am. While you’re in a meeting, your clit throbbing because your phone has just buzzed with a picture of my swollen, aching member. It’s intoxicating, really.

Before I know it, I’m sitting down on the toilet, my T-shirt in my mouth, held between my teeth. My legs are spread and, with my right hand, I’m filming myself slowly stroking the shaft of my cock using my left hand. The angle makes it look even more engorged than it is. I groan slightly — loud enough for the video to pick it up, but not too loud for anybody outside to hear. I rewatch the video a few times before selecting it and sending it to you.

“When you’re done your meeting I want you to go to the bathroom, read these messages while rubbing your clit and watch this video. In that order.”

I stand up, pull my boxers back up, do up my trousers, pull my belt tight and wash my hands. I walk back to the table and sit down, basking in the sunlight.

And I wait.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/11s5cqq/30_m4f_meeting_the_girl_who_deleted_me_on_reddit